Living Statue Boyfriend: Pothos (complete)

There is a statue that hangs out over the corner of the building, just above your apartment window. Sometimes, in the evenings, you sit out on your tiny porch that hangs over the street and turn your chair so you can look up and face the old statue. It looks worn to hell and back. Parts of it are crumbling, it’s missing an arm, and you can’t tell if the statue has a beard or if it’s a bird’s nest. Its wings are folded in, but the posture suggests the wings should be extended in flight. 

There has been many a night that you’ve sat on your porch, gazing up at this old statue, and having one-sided conversations with him.

“Yeah, I know they say vaping is probably going to kill you faster than anything else, but maybe that’s the point, ya know?” you scoff. “Maybe if I think things are going to go faster I’ll get off my ass and do something worthwhile.” You huff, slouching in your leaned back seat. “Not like it matters. Artists don’t even make money or get fame unless they’re made already, or they die in some horribly tragic way.” You scratch under your armpit. “Which,” you snort with a laugh, “if you think about it, dying young with vape juice drowning your brain would be pretty tragic.” You look up at the statue. His silence is both a comfort and a disappointment.

“You know, you raise a really good argument there, withering marble,” you sigh to him. “I should just do my work to be happy. Who cares about money?” You take a drag from your vape pen and blow out a green apple-scented fog of death. “Except for everybody.” You gaze further up into the sky. “And shouldn’t I want to be recognized and congratulated for my work?” You shove your hands up into the air. “I work hard, dammit! I deserve a pat on the back! I deserve to have those fucking fifteen minutes of fame that Warhol was talking about!” You sit erect, placing your elbows on your knees. “Art is such a vicious cycle. You know? I’m getting so sick of making all these molds for these stupid mystery toys for kids.  I don’t wanna work on my own things. I just-” You stretch your arms out before you, gazing through the window at your latest project sitting in the center of the room on dusty tarps. “I’m just sick that nothing seems to sit still.” You stand up. “Not even statues these days.”

You crane your neck up to look at the statue above. “At least you’re here.” You take your phone from your pocket, seeing only emails from work. “At least someone is.” You shuffle back inside, where you stand before your project. The half-formed mass was supposed to be Hermaphroditus rendered out of various materials, both conventional and unique. It was to express the multifaceted and strange proportions of life, represented by the god. You spent a small fortune on supplies, which is why you’d taken on extra work making models for toy companies. You lost your spark for it not even halfway through. 

You sigh heavily and trudge off to bed, where you lay staring up at the ceiling, a heavy feeling in your chest keeping you from falling asleep too quickly. It’s not until your alarm goes off that you’re aware you even slept at all. As you get up, you see your door to the porch was left open. You grumble as you go towards it, shutting and locking it. Then you head to the kitchen, plug in the coffee maker and wait for it to come to life so you can.

As you stand there, you notice there is a vase full of daffodils on the counter. You sigh, shrugging your shoulders. You quickly look back, recalling very clearly that you’ve never had a bouquet of flowers in your apartment, ever. The vase isn’t yours, either. You look around, nearly snapping your neck as you try to find any sort of clue or giveaway. You pick up the vase, turning it over and nearly spilling out the flowers. You set it back down, taking a step back and gazing at it in bewilderment. 

The coffee pot dings, and you nearly scream. Clutching your chest as if reaching for invisible pearls, you step aside, pouring a cup of coffee without taking your eyes off of the daffodils. 

You reach for your phone, and in a moment of complete uncertainty, you do an internet search. “What,” you grumble as you type, “do. Daaaa-ffffoooo-dilllssssss mean.” You hit search. The first result is a Wikipedia description of the flowers, which tells you they are also called jonquils. Another website says that jonquils, in the language of flowers, means desire.

“Desire?” you grimace. “Oh no.” You shake your finger at the flowers. “I don’t like that word at all! You keep that nonsense away from me.” You grab up the vase and cart it outside, setting it on the tiny patio table and leaving it at that.

You leave for a work meeting, where you find out the designs you sculpted aren’t going to be used at all. Instead your employers have a new batch of designs, more than before and much smaller. You feel almost spited. You told them smaller sculpts were not your cup of tea. This time it isn’t just six figures, but at least two dozen. Two dozen miniscule designs they expect you to have done by the end of the month.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” you seethe though clenched teeth as you storm into your apartment. You quickly toss everything aside and go to the porch. You stand on the chair, reaching for a magnetic box you keep hidden behind the drainpipe. In it is a pack of cigarettes you keep for emergencies. You hate smoking, but sometimes it’s just needed as the massive exclamation point to your day.

As you take your first toxic breath you exhale a cloud of smoke. “Man, I wish I’d been a pothead.” You tap ash into an old work boot with a hole in the toe. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin getting shit now.” You glance towards the daffodils, still sitting happily in the weird vase on the tiny table.

You take one of the bright blossoms and look it over. It smells sweet, reminding you of childhood days when you wandered around the park, picking these same blossoms and dandelions and fashioning them into a small bouquet for your mother. You also recall the many times your stepbrother knocked them from your hands and stomped on them.

You huff and toss the daffodil in your hand off the porch. You glance up at the statue. and you have to stop and rub your eyes. You look him over again, almost certain you’re going crazy. His wings are extended! They were never extended, were they? No. They weren’t. You remember how much that pissed you off as a sculptor - he was posed for it, but his wings were… That’s not the point, the point is that the fucking statue has changed.

“Hey.” You point up at him. “Hey you!” you shout at the statue. “You alive up there or something?” You hesitate, realizing how crazy you must sound. “I am in no mood for this! I have had a shit day, hell, a fucking shit year! I don’t need this.” You grimace, chewing on the side of your tongue as you try to decide whether you’re crazy or not.

“If you’re alive or something-” you gulp, “make it known. Don’t mess around or some shit.” You storm inside, making sure to close the door behind you this time. You go into your room and hang your head in your hands. “I’m just-” you reach into your bedside drawer and pull out some nighttime cold medicine. “I’m just going to end this day, as is.” 

You lay down in bed, draping your arm over your eyes. You take in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. “Maybe I’m asleep already.”

There is a sweet smell in the air as you wake up. As you rise from bed and sluggishly make your way to the door, you open up to see your flat is filled with daffodils. They come up to just above your ankles, and you wade through the lake of sunshine that has become your floor. 

“What the fuck?” you whisper. You gasp when you see a figure standing near your unfinished project.  It has wings, and one of its arms is gone. It takes you a moment to get through the bewilderment, but you see it is the statue from outside. The wings of the statue fold in, and the head turns.

“No!” You throw the first thing you can get your hands on at the statue. Your purse bounces off his head, then plops to the floor. 

“You said to make myself known.” His voice is like the dark echoes of a storm in a cave. He moves his remaining hand towards his chest. “So, I have.”

You look around, too afraid to focus on him. “You’re going to clean this up right?”

The statue tilts his head. “Do you not like it?”

“It’s weird!” You finally look up at him, seeing a strange look on his face, both sharp and gentle. You frown, swallowing back the lump in your throat. “What the hell are you?”

He bows his head. “I am Pothos, an Erote.”

“Erote-” you murmur under your breath. You shake your head. “How is this possible? You were just on the roof! You’re made of stone, you are-” You shake your head again. “That cold medicine must have been expired. I must be delusional.”

“No delusions,” Pothos quickly counters. “No more than usual, anyway.” He takes a step through the flowers. “I’ve been watching you, growing fond of you. As of late I cannot let my feelings go-”

You hold up your hand, stopping him. “Wait a minute, now!” You motion towards the daffodils. “Jonquils mean desire. Jonquils are another word for daffodils.” You frown at him. “You desire me?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, but the short answer would be yes.” Pothos tilts his chin up. “I intend to make my motives known.”

You step cautiously towards him, wading through the daffodils. You reach up, touching his face and making sure he is real. He feels like stone, like worn marble covered in debris. Stepping away, you go out to the balcony and look up. There is no statue there.

“Do you believe me now?” Pothos asks.

You turn and frown at him. “Yeah believe,” you scoff at him. “How the hell am I supposed to take this? Statues don’t come alive! They don’t-” You huff and bite down on your cheek. “I don’t know how to take any of this. Not you. Not the flowers. Nothing.”

Pothos looks around. “I thought grand would be the way to go. More romantic.”

“Romantic,” you grumble under your breath.

“If it helps, your conversations in the evening have been a comfort to me. It’s been so long since I have talked with someone at length, let alone felt this stirring again.” He moves towards the door. “But if what you want is peace, I can give you that.”

“You enjoyed me talking?” you ask him quietly. You look up at his face, covered by moss and faded with decay. “Like… the stupid rants I do?”

“I’ve been quite alone in this world,” Pothos murmurs. “Surely you can understand that.”

You watch him as he steps out onto the porch. Opening your mouth, you intend to say something but have no idea what. Pothos extends his wings and twists them to fly up.

“Now wait a second!” you spit out.

Pothos stops and glances back at you, and for a moment you forget what you were going to say. You look back into your apartment, then turn on Pothos again.

“You need to clean out this mess!” you laugh. “Yeah, uhm-” You kick at the daffodils that have spilled out of the door. “All these things. You have to deal with them.”

Pothos bends down and a bit of his waist crumbles. You grimace, wondering what sort of condition he is in. It can’t be good at all. Pothos rises back up and places a flower in your hair. 

“It’s a start.” He comes back into your apartment, scooping up a load of daffodils in his one arm. He goes out onto the porch and dumps them over the edge.

“No!” you squeal, trying to stop him, but it’s too late. “You can’t do that! You’re going to get me into so much trouble!” You pull him away from the balcony. “I’ll get trash bags, okay?”

Pothos nods. “Okay.”

“After that, you can return to your little perch,” you huff.

Only thing is, he doesn’t. After cleaning up all the daffodils, you have him stay in your apartment, where you make him stand over tarps. You’re not the best at restoring, but you have studied it and have watched quite a few YouTube videos. You set to work getting some of the worst bits off of him and cleaning him so that later, once you get the proper supplies, you can repair the worst of the decay.

“I’m only doing this because I appreciate fine craftsmanship and works of art,” you grumble to him. “So don’t go getting any ideas.”

“Far from it,” Pothos grumbles back.

One afternoon, as you’re sanding down a patch of what looks like barnacles on him, your phone chimes. To your shock, it’s a text from your stepbrother. Your expression changes suddenly, and your gut starts to churn.

“What’s the matter?” Pothos asks gently.

You frown and throw your head back, trying to keep the tears from spilling. “It’s nothing. It’s-” You set your phone aside. 

“I can tell from the way you look it’s not.” Pothos places his hand on your shoulder and you find it an actual comfort.

Turning around, you look up at him. Half his face is dulled, but the other half is handsome and striking. His features were once sharp and strong. Perhaps at one point he’d been a true beauty.

“It’s not,” you grumble. “But I don’t feel like dealing with it. Get back into position.”

Pothos reaches up, rubbing away a tear that has escaped. “If you say so.”

A few weeks go by, and you’ve been working on small pieces to repair Pothos. Every so often you get a text from your brother that you ignore. As you work on Pothos, you grow closer to him, finding you enjoy his company, and having him actually respond to your words.

“My stepdad taught me all this stuff,” you tell him. “He’s the one who got me into art and everything. He quit everything to be a sculptor,” you murmur dreamily. The power has gone out due to a storm, so Pothos is inside, away from the harsh weather. You are nestled in candlelight, sitting on the floor, painting your nails, as the rain pours outside.

“Everything?” Pothos asks cautiously. “Even-”

“No,” you gasp. “No,” you smile. “He didn’t leave us or anything. Far from it. My mom supported his dream. I mean, things were hard, really hard.” You grimace at your toenails, wondering if they’d look any good in the daylight. “Money was tight, so in high school I got a job to help out. I almost flunked out, but I managed to graduate. Saved up money, got a car. All that miraculous teenager crap.”

Pothos tilts his head. “What about your brother?”

You grimace. “What about him?”

Pothos points. “That,” he says. “That expression. Anytime you get a message from him or it is brought up, you make that horrible face.”

You rub your cheek. “It’s not horrible.”

“It isn’t your best,” Pothos answers. “So tell me, what is going on?”

You huff and slouch. “We’re oil and water,” you reply cooly. “We never mixed or got along really. James was likable, outgoing, everyone was instantly drawn to him. Meanwhile I’m sullen, lachrymose, Wednesday Addams without the charm.” You give up painting your toes for a moment. “We fought a lot. It was normal bickering, nothing ever really bad. Not until he was close to graduating.” You glance up at Pothos with a pout. “He was getting into a bad crowd, got influenced, went down the wrong path. Basically every after-school special ever made.” You lean back against the wall. “We had the worst fight ever one night. It was…” You shake your head slowly. “It caused a big rift in the family.”

“I see,” Pothos murmures gently. He takes up the nail polish and continues to paint your toenails. “Is that why you won’t answer his messages?”

You lean back, closing your eyes as a few tears slip out. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?” Pothos asks gently.

You look up at him and slowly inch forward. You place a soft kiss on his lips, easing in closer. Pothos places his hand on your cheek, leaning into the tender kiss. You pull away with a chuckle and hold his wrist.

“S,o uhm-” you murmur. “That’s what it’s like to kiss stone.”

Pothos brushes your hair aside and kisses your cheek. “It is. Did you like it?”

You nod. “I did.”  You then settle back, touching your fingers against your lips. “I really don’t like talking about my brother.”

“And so that’s why you kissed me?” Pothos teases.

“Oh, no,” you gasp. “It’s not-” Your cheeks turn hot. “I kissed you because I wanted to, not because of anything else.” You look up at him. “And I’ve not seen my brother in so long. But when he visits home I heard stories and he just… I don’t know.”

“Maybe you just need to talk with him. What does he want?” Pothos asks.

You frown. “Needs some cash, maybe a place to crash.”

“Maybe if you talk to him, you can get through things.” He then takes hold of your hand and places it on his chest. “And I’ll be here for you.”

You look at Pothos, feeling your heart quake. You then look down, taking your phone. “It wouldn’t hurt to just talk to him, would it?”

“It might sting, but it might work out in your favor.” Pothos places his hand on your back as you send a message to your brother. 

A few days later, your brother shows up at the door. He’s not exactly how you remember him, he was always handsome and lit from within, but now he looks tired and hollow. His hair has gotten long and he has dark circles under his eyes.

The greeting is, well, awkward. You hug, which is weird, and for the most part the pleasantries are a ‘yeah’ and a ‘so'. You invite him in, make coffee, and even have some snacks set aside until you figure you’ll order pizza.

“It’s just been rough, you know?” James huffs, slouching down in his seat with his elbows on his knees. “I’ve managed to find odd jobs here and there, but doing anything else is just-” He takes a drag from his cigarette like he’s trying to devour it before blowing smoke almost in your face. “I just wanna have fun. I don’t wanna be tied down or anything. I just wanna-” he chuckles. “We never got to really have fun as kids.”

You frown and pinch your brows together inquisitively. “What do you mean?” You lean towards him. “Mom and Dad did all sorts of stuff for us.”

James scoffs. “Like what? Dad only wanted to do his stupid sculptures and your mom never gave a shit about me.”

This was a punch in the gut. Your mom had always gone out of her way to let James know she loved him. You were so jealous of James for so long because you thought your mom liked him more! Even when money was tight she would find a way to get James, and even you and your sister, the things you wanted.

James scratches at his temple. “I mean, you get it, right? It was always about money with them. Always about what we didn’t have or couldn’t have, all because they were so selfish and thought the art shit would happen.” He chuckles and takes another drag on his cigarette, this time for sure huffing the smoke cloud in your direction. “You got any more?” He asks as he stubs out the cigarette on the table top.

“No,” you huff. “And I am still confused. Mom and Dad worked their asses off so we could go to school, have all the things we needed-”

“Bare minimum,” James sneers. “Do you know how embarrassing it was to go to school in thrift store clothes? Do you know how much my friends made fun of me?”

You scowl at him and James starts to chuckle.

“Oh, that’s right,” he smirks. “You never really had a group of friends. You were always hiding somewhere. Seriously, no other cigarettes?” 

“I wasn’t hiding,” you grumble. “I was working. I was helping mom and dad, unlike some people.”

James turns, his eyes narrowing. “Because I was actually doing something.”

“Oh, bullshit, James!” you snap. “You had friends? So what! They were horrible people! They’re the reason you’re in the situation you are right now! And you can’t grow up because of them. You wanna have fun? You wanna escape responsibilities? Guess what? So does everyone in the world, but you’re an adult now, James! You can’t just keep mooching off Mom and Dad-”

“They owe me!” James snaps. “I never had a childhood because of them.”

This sets you off, you jump to your feet and glare down at him. “How dare you? Are you really going to blame all your problems on them? Just because you didn’t get the spoiled child experience you wanted? What sort of fucking fantasy are you living in? I really wanna know, James!”

James stands up. “You think I’m living in a fantasy?” James points inside. “Look at you! Still trying to live out Dad’s dream?” He scoffs and sneers down at you. “Can’t make any friends, can’t keep a partner, so you make things that can’t run away!” He steps closer to you, making you step back until you touch the balcony wall. “I bet if those statues could come alive, they would run away from you too. Because you wanna know something?” He leans down in your face, his arms on either side of you, caging you in. “No one wants to be around you. You force everyone away with your cocky attitude. You think you’re better than everyone else.”

“I’m not-” your voice chokes.

“Lording it over me,” he snarls. “Mom and Dad tricked you into working. You didn’t have to! You wanted to so you could hold it over our heads like a martyr.” He pulls away and you finally take in a breath. “No one will ever love you.” He jabs his finger in your face. “And I don’t need your fucking pity.” He storms out, leaving the apartment and slamming the door behind him.

You stand there, stunned into a numbness that begins to slip away. It all comes bubbling up at once, boiling over until you’re sobbing.

Pothos comes out, putting his arm comfortingly around you. “What he said isn’t true,” he whispers. “I can move, and I for sure don’t want to leave you.”

You stare up teary-eyed at him. “I’ve always thought those things-” you sob. “He’s horrible, but he’s right.”

Pothos glares. “How dare you say that about the woman I love?”

You gasp in shock, sobbing harder.

Pothos grabs you up with one arm, tossing you over his shoulder. He carries you back inside where he lays you down in bed. The candles you have scattered about suddenly flicker on. Pothos kisses your cheeks where your tears have fallen. 

“Pothos,” you whimper. “Pothos, wait-” You moan softly as his lips brush down your neck. You press your palms to his chest, meeting his eager kiss desperately. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer. His one hand smoothes down your middle, then pushes up under your shirt. His stone hand feels cool. His fingers are gentle as they glide across your bare skin.

“Let me show you how wrong that asshole is,” Pothos snarls into your ear. “Let me drive it into you.”

His words send a shiver down your back. “How?” you mewl softly, wanting him to speak more.

Pothos pushes up your shirt and bra. His lips press to your breasts, and then your feel the sharp edge of his teeth. “I’m made of stone,” he growls. “I can make love to you as long as you want me without stopping.”

You cry out loud as he tugs at your nipple. “Pothos!” 

His teeth drag down your skin to your belly, where he nips at your sides. “I’m going to make you scream my name over and over until it is the only word on your lips.” He tugs down your leggings and panties, then breathes for a moment. His fingers press your mound, going through the dark curls until they sink between the plump folds. “This, from now on, will be my garden.”

You bite your tongue as his fingertips rubs against you, finding your clit, and slowly, easily torturing you.

“What do you say?” Pothos growls. “Will you allow it?”

You sit up, capturing his mouth in a kiss as his fingers slip inside. You moan into his mouth, nodding your head. “Please, do it now,” you beg.

Pothos lays you back, pressing his palm on your chest. You lift your legs, spreading your thighs as he moves into place. You feel the heavy stone on your belly, his cock exposed and ready. He pulls back, then you feel him at your slit.

“Command me as you see fit,” Pothos snarls. He presses his tip inside and you arch your back at the sensation. “I am yours.” He eases deeper and you feel the curve of him.

You’re not sure what to ask for or even command. As it stands he feels good already. It’s been so long you almost want everything. When his hips sway you let out a soft gasp. He goes slow and gentle, watching you intently. His wings shudder, opening and then closing.

“Harder,” you mewl. “I want to feel more.”

Pothos does as you wish. He pushes in all at once, then pulls out. He slips his hand to the small of your back, raising your hips so there is nothing to hinder him as he drives in. You writhe on the bed, moaning loudly as he shakes the bed. You squeeze around him, wanting to feel everything he is giving you. 

“Cum for me,” Pothos snarls. “Cum for me and call out my name.”

You shudder. You’ve never cum because of someone else before. But Pothos’ deep, raspy voice pulls something from inside you. You whimper as the growing heat inside you starts to overflow. You throw your head back, crying out as Pothos urges something powerful from hiding.

“Pothos!” you cry out again and again, your eyes rolling back as his drive continues to make you surge.

Pothos laugh is dark and dangerous. “You’re so beautiful,” he moans. “How can I ever stop myself?”

He keeps his promise. Throughout the night he makes love to you. Sometimes he’s rough, other times he’s tender, and all the while he breathes how much he loves you. You command him to cum too, with you, and it is that final time that rocks you to your core. His seed spills inside, trickling down your thigh. You collapse, going into a delirious sleep.

When you wake, you hear sounds coming from the kitchen. Rubbing your eyes, you smell bacon and coffee. You get up, putting on an old t-shirt. As you step out of your room, you see Pothos in the kitchen, only something is different. For one, he has two arms, and for another, he looks pristine and new.

“Pothos?” you gasp in surprise.

He turns, looking at you with a face free of decay and age. While his features are still sharp, he’s so very lovely. “You’re finally awake.” He steps away from the stove and approaches you. “I was worried I had done too much.” He puts both arms around you. “Did you sleep well at least?”

You cup his face in your hands, running them down as you touched his smooth chest, your fingers rippling on the fine details of his muscle. “How did you…” you gasp in awe. 

Pothos kisses you. “Erotes were made from love in its many forms,” he whispers. “It took love to repair me, and I have been without it for so long.” He smirks, pressing your back against the wall. “How about a little more before breakfast?”

You giggle nervously. “I have a feeling you’re never going to turn off, are you?”

Pothos kisses you. “As long as I am around you.” 

“Nothing is going to burn on the stove, right?” you whisper. You have a feeling you’re not going to turn off around him either. “I mean… if we make it quick.” You yelp as Pothos hoists you up. You wrap your legs around his waist as he holds you in place.

“I turned everything off,” he growls. “So if you don’t mind things a bit cold-” You kiss him, pulling him close. 

“I love you,” he whispers.

You gasp softly and nod. “I love you too, Pothos.”

Poths smirks. “You feel bad now that you rejected my daffodils?”

You chuckle. “You literally filled my apartment with them. That was overkill.” You kiss him again. “But I’m glad you did it.”