#learning marble statues were painted changed me forever i think

[dottiechan]

Tempest (Pt. 5)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Read on AO3

Pairing: Ava Du Mortain x f!Detective

Wordcount: 4048

Warnings: mourning, mentions of death and torture, smoking

Summary: The private detective must work through the sudden and unexpected disappearance of Ava - quite literally, as she embarks on solving her greatest mystery yet. But she is not the only one who's been busy...

A/N: This chapter is a rather long one as there's much to unpack at this point of the story, and there is much to explain. Sorry for the long wait, and thanks for being so patient and supportive of me!

The Private Detective’s Office, London, 1898

5 months after Ava’s disappearance

The key turns in the lock with ease. The door creaks as it gives way to the dark office. The lights flicker in the corridor outside, and the entrance gapes like a mouth ready to swallow her whole.

She steps inside, unaware of her fingers skittering across the glass pane that has the name of her detective agency painted on it. Some have great bloodlines to look back on, and nobles and kings to proudly call their ancestors. Her legacy is this stuffy little office, her sigil is a hand painted business logo. But her ancestor - her father - was a warrior too, noble of heart, even if not of blood.

She hangs her coat and hat, and proceeds to smooth down her hair before locking the door and switching on the lights. The old pieces of furniture that would have been regarded fashionable 20 years ago are dimly illuminated, and the sight of them makes her heart ache. They belonged to her late father, and in a way he lives on through them. The dent in the cushion of his chair where he always used to sit, the scuff marks on his desk he carelessly carved into the polished surface with books and folders, the medical and law tomes he hoarded lining the bookshelves that hug the dark green walls... As a child, she was afraid of coming here in the evenings - something they often did after her mother passed away and her father tried his best to raise her alone. The heavy nailhead leather armchairs looked like hunched monsters in the dark, the looming mahogany desk with its long curving legs resembled a giant spider, and the serious wallpaper enveloped this macabre scene like some sinister forest. “The real monsters are in here, my darling,” her father would ruffle her hair affectionately, pointing at the files he came to pick up.

It is late, but the office no longer feels scary. Her rational mind knows she should have gone home to her empty bed and her unread books and the cold supper awaiting her. And yet she’s here because hardly anything matters anymore. Because no place ever really feels like home ever since her father left. Well, her small house felt like home for a while when she was still here. But she left as well, and with her she took the last tattered shreds of joy the detective had somehow managed to cling to. She is submerged in saturnine reticence now, and ironically it helps her stay focused, even though it makes her more and more like the person she tried to thaw out. More and more like Ava.

One should only embrace the iciness of a statue if they’re willing to risk turning into marble themselves.

The Commissioner would be lucky to have a detective such as myself, she thinks bitterly as she glances down at the neatly kept files piled on her desk. Most are petty cases, even she has to admit - cheating husbands, unanswered invitations and letters, and the likes. But she takes all the work she can, and she prides herself on her ability to solve them with the proficiency of a man. Ava used to praise her for that. Now she whispers praises to herself even if the words turn sour in her mouth, because she will not let anyone ruin her. She will not. (Even though Ava has, because the world feels different without her in it.)

Her sudden disappearance left her on the precipice of panic at first. Ava, along with her partner Nate, simply vanished into thin air as if they never even existed at all, as if they were a pleasant reverie she used to lull herself to sleep at night. No trace, no item that belonged to them was left behind. If not for the spare key to her house being gone - the one she gave to Ava - she wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference between reality and her mad suspicions. But oh, she was here. She was. Missing her is a malady burrowed in her heart, but it is also the testament of her existence.

She opens the file on top, and hums in bitter satisfaction. Right. The aching of her heart isn’t the only testament anymore. It took her months, but she’s finally one step closer to the solution, planting her foot firmly and holding her crumbling sanity together with a determination she didn’t know she had. Ava was probably never meant to be in the background of a photograph taken during the opening night of the National Gallery of British Art.

But she was. And it really only takes one mistake.

The private detective picks up the photograph gingerly, giving herself one second to lose herself in the whirlwind of emotions Ava’s angular silhouette awakens in her.

One step closer.

She leans back in her chair, her gaze gliding over the photograph and landing on her personal little project. The blackboard is filled with dates, locations and places with a map pinned to the middle of it - by now, it is practically a blueprint of Ava’s and Nate’s every activity over the past two years. The deeper she digs, the more unknowns she unearths about the people she once thought she knew.

But there’s still time to get to know them - first impressions are overrated anyway.

Train station, Wayhaven, 1899

7 months after Ava’s disappearance

January quickly set to work and changed the countryside. It swooped down from the heavens and gently buried the forests and the hills under a heavy blanket of snow, concealing the detective’s childhood home from her as she exits the train, the handle of her heavy bag already digging into her gloved fingers. The shapes are still visible though underneath all the snow and ice - she sees the old station with the crumbling roof, the road leading into town, the bell tower of the small church peeking out just above the treeline. She recognises them all, though she sorely wishes she didn’t.

Because with the recognition comes the inevitable sting of her memories. Faces emerge in her conscious she hasn’t seen in years. The kindness of her mother’s eyes and the curve of his father’s lips, both lost forever now, never to be seen again, cutting deeper than a knife ever could.

An old woman is prating about her insufferable nephew, a business man is constantly checking his pocket watch with a disdainful look from across the station, three young women gossip, a man is rubbing his hands together in an effort to stimulate his circulation in the cold weather. The detective tunes out the comfortable commotion of the small town station, imagining she is still in London and not here. Anywhere but here. People brush past her, the train whistles and whirs to motion, and before she knows it, she is alone, paralysed in one spot, snowflakes catching softly on her fetching ensemble of a royal blue travelling dress and matching hat.

She takes a shaky breath, almost already on the verge of tears.

“Are you alright, Miss?”

No.

“Of course,” she turns with a slight smile. “Just admiring the view. I used to live here.”

“Ah, then the gossip about you was true,” the man nods, his eyes glinting intelligently under his bushy brows. There’s an apologetic smile sitting on his lips, and a twinge of regret spoiling the beauty of his otherwise handsome square jaw and bold features. “I apologise, I couldn’t help but overhear some women on the train talking about your father. About you.”

“I didn’t know our name carried such weight,” the detective admits cautiously, one hand reaching up to fix her hat self-consciously. The man seems to notice the way her fingers linger over the hat pin, and he almost cracks a grin. It would be a highly inappropriate moment to joke, and besides, he’d rather befriend this interesting person than anger her to a point where he’d end up being skewered by the hat pin in question. After all, her friendship and assistance is why he’s here.

“Your father served in India with Sir Edward Bardford, the current Police Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police,” he adds gently. “You were betrothed to Montagu Edward Bradford.”

“How do you know about that?” the woman asks, her eyes widened by shock as she takes a step closer to him.

“Who didn’t Montagu tell?”

The strained grin the stranger allows himself seems to put her momentarily at ease. Montagu did tell everyone, God rest his soul. In a way, she could never really begrudge him for the betrothal - it was their fathers’ scheming, even if Montagu really didn’t seem to mind. She always wanted a way out, but she never wished for his death. He was in India when it had happened, and she was in London. In a way, even 9 years after, it feels surreal. She never saw the body. For years afterwards, she sincerely thought he would turn up one day unexpectedly as if nothing had happened.

He never did.

“How awfully rude of me to not even introduce myself!” he exclaims suddenly, sheepishly sticking out his hand. “Dr Van Helsing. Abraham Van Helsing.”

“I believe Mont had spoken about you,” she nods as she shakes his hand, deliberately squeezing his fingers with more force than a mere handshake would warrant. Yet another trick she learned from Ava.

“I hope so. We were... we were quite close. I know it’s been a while since he...” Van Helsing pauses as he withdraws his hand and waves it in the air before drawing it up to his ginger curls. “Please accept deepest my condolences.”

“Thank you, Dr Van Helsing.”

Her tone signals the end of the conversation, and she nods her head stiffly before turning. She knew coming back here would unearth the loss of her parents, but she is not ready to speak of Montagu yet. She bared her soul once regarding the matter, and only to one person, but she will not repeat the experience again. As liberating as it had been to tell Ava everything, she wishes to leave this heartache and guilt where it belongs - in the past.

“Please wait. We got off on the wrong foot! I didn’t come here to ask you personal questions - in fact, it is a disappearance that I was hoping to discuss with you.”

“You are a physician, not an inspector, correct?” she asks over her shoulder, not bothering to slow down her steps as she strides towards an unclaimed hansom.

“Yes, but-”

“Are you here to hire me?”

“No-”

“Then we have nothing to talk about, Dr Van Helsing. Good day.”

The driver, smelling a wealthy client who’s just arrived from London, clambers down from his seat quickly to open the door for her to get in. Just before she could disappear inside, the physician speaks again.

“I’m trying to find Miss Ava Du Mortain and Mr Nathaniel Sewell. I was hoping we could help each other out, but more importantly, I was hoping to warn you.”

“Warn me?” the detective pauses, looking back at Van Helsing with genuine shock on her prepossessing features.

“They’re not who you think they are - what you think they are.”

There’s a stretch of silence between them as her eyes assess the tall, lanky man as he stands just before the hansom, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, his breath fogging in the chill air as he looks back at her expectantly. The nerve on this man alone is making the private detective want to leave him high and dry in the snow, but her insides twist and her pulse quickens at the mention of Ava’s name. She’s all but given up hope - for months now, she could find nothing regarding the woman and her partner, or the Agency they claimed to work for. She knows virtually nothing about this man, but her need to find Ava outweighs her better judgement.

“Are you hungry, Dr Van Helsing?” she asks, scooting further down the seat to make room for the man.

“Is eating and working on disappearance cases simultaneously a habit of yours, Miss?” the physician asks as he climbs in next to her.

“And here I was trying to be nice. I suppose I will not offer to pay for your lunch then.”

“I take it all back! I am positively famished.”

Meanwhile, across the train station

Lucille Licht twirls her cane, lips pressed into a disdainful frown. Cities at least have crowds upon crowds of people to distract her, but small towns such as Wayhaven hold no entertainment value whatsoever. She isn’t here on pleasant business anyway, she thinks to herself as she sighs, pulling her fur coat tighter around the expensive suit she’s wearing. No, she is here on ghastly business indeed, even by demon standards. But the prophecy was clear - though irritatingly vague too, no doubt to account for the rather large margin of error witches have these days in their prophecies. They’re more lawyers than soothsayers by now, their profession diluted by those who hunger for nothing but profit and security, and who are willing to sacrifice quality for those two aforementioned gains. Lucille finds sordid business such as this distasteful, even in her line of work. Falling from grace is one thing, but living in the Agency’s ever growing shadow is no excuse not to have honour among thieves. Or rogues. Or both, when it comes to the social circles she frequents.

A small voice in the back of her head whispers sadly, poisoning the faux assuredness she’s lulled herself into on the train. She’s just like I was, in a strange way. Before it all happened. And now I’m about to do the same horrible things to her that were done to me.

But the private detective is the one she’s been waiting for. She has to be. It all fits - the dead father, the career, the place where she was born. Lucille can’t smell anything strange about her blood yet, but she is sure she can bring about the power that was promised to reside in her veins. She has her ways, and her old magic, and her knife. And most importantly, her determination.

It was centuries ago, when she was stripped and bound and the curse was carved into her flesh. Strange, how vividly one can remember a single terrible moment, even centuries later. Even though the ancient magic rendered her undead, she can still feel the searing pain all over her body, red lines raging like fire in the form of symbols and Echolian text. It made her immortal, but it also bound her to her creator. He is the reason why she’s on the hunt. Why she is desperate to gain power beyond what she could achieve alone. Even as a human, as a meagre farmer’s child, she was roaming the fields of her father as she pleased. She was free. It was so long ago that she can’t even remember the name her parents gave her, but her freedom she remembers.

And nobody enslaves Lucille Licht and gets away with it.

Her slow burn vendetta must be coming to an end soon. There’s only so much of the supernatural underworld she can bring under her control - what she has will have to suffice. She already runs a widespread rogue organisation, with its key leadership positions held by her loyal Daughters, as she eloquently calls the women she’s bound to her service over the centuries the same way she was bound once. A necessary evil. Pawns in the game she plays with the Ancient One. There is nothing she wouldn’t do to ensure her victory in the coming battle. I will not be outwitted again by that Echolian bastard, she thinks, whacking away at a nearby bush with her cane. Specks of snow and ice glitter where her hits land. And yet she always finds herself hesitating before turning another human.

The abhorred feeling of helplessness always comes creeping back. As well as the pain, and the panic of thinking your life is about to end. She has to push it all down. Grit her teeth and get it over with. Months of preparation leading up to the final act that barely lasts ten minutes. And then you wait, and 3 days later their pain and mortality will be but a distant memory.

But she’s slipping. She no longer only hesitates before, now the intrusive self-doubt catches up to her after the rituals too. The Ancient One is still the centre of her nightmares, but the dream has changed. She is no longer the helpless little lamb brought to the slaughter. She is one with the Ancient One, his hand is hers too as it raises the knife, their voices merging together as they chant the same curse together.

She knew this victory would cost her everything. But she never imagined the real price to pay would be stepping up to fill the void the Ancient One’s death will create.

Lucille never wanted to be like him. She only ever wanted to kill him. But it seems those two things are one and the same.

She awakens from her thoughts when the man joins the private detective in the hansom. An annoying little man, that Dr Van Helsing is, though harmless in the grand scheme of things. It doesn’t matter that he’s taken care of a Transylvanian rogue vampire with his entourage, it would take far more to stop her plans now. Lucille focuses on the woman instead, letting her will force itself into her mind. All too easy, she raises her eyebrows in an unimpressed fashion as she flicks through her thoughts as if she were reading the latest issue of The Times. She thought she would be more difficult to read. To control. But alas, she is just like everyone else, aside from the love that seems to seep out of her every thought for none other than Agent Du Mortain.

She grins, remembering her failed attempt at getting to the private detective earlier. She’s learned several invaluable lessons in those two years. One, you can’t trust dark elf mercenaries, no matter how much you pay them. Two, it’s better to divert the attention of the Agency first before you try to kidnap someone who has important connections in the London Metropolitan Police. Three, love makes people do really, really stupid things.

Thankfully, Lucille Licht is a smart woman, and an even better strategist - not to mention a quite powerful demon with telepathic abilities and her boot firmly planted on the supernatural underground’s neck - and this time, she has learned from all three of her mistakes. This time, there will be no Agent Du Mortain rushing to the rescue. (But that doesn’t mean she can’t use her name as bait, yes?)

Cemetery, Wayhaven, 1900

1 year and 8 months after Ava’s disappearance

He doesn’t appreciate being jerked around the way he has been lately, but he isn’t a man to grumble too much either. He was closest to the backwater little town, he gets to check out the possible supernatural case. Everyone draws the short straw sometimes, and he’s learned to cope with it. He has certainly lived long enough to do so.

The wind shifts, and suddenly Agent Fuller’s nostrils are invaded by the stench of magic. Things finally start looking up for him, and that thought alone is enough to make him pick up his pace, excitement coursing through his body. He lights a cigarette to conceal the smirk threatening to overtake his lips when he sees the pallid looks of the constables as they pass him by. One stops him to ask what his business is out here, but the Agency has already notified the meagre Wayhaven police force, and he is soon on his way again to the centre of the commotion. Cemetery of the commotion would be a more accurate description though - the little town was as dead in the mid-February frost as a place could get, and aside from the bored stationmaster who gave him directions, these men are the first living beings he’s encountered since his arrival.

“Name’s Agent Fuller. What can you tell me about the crime scene, constable?” Fuller asks as he exhales a lungful of smoke, turning to the least disturbed looking man surveying the scene.

“Welcome to the middle of nowhere, sir. Why don’t you come see for yourself?”

A handshake and a suppressed grin later Fuller follows the young man down a row of tombs. They take a sharp turn to the left, and immediately it is clear why he was called here. The sight is confirmation enough, but the smell of potent and ancient magic is the real giveaway.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a walker,” Fuller snorts as he crouches down, picking up a piece of the crumbled marble.

“The poor woman was buried only 3 days ago,” the constable mutters, rubbing his hands together before bringing them to his lips and blowing hot air onto them, desperately attempting to revitalise his frozen fingers. “Who could do such a monstrous thing?”

“Indeed, who could...” the agent mutters, too focused to really pay attention to the human on his right. The tomb was torn open, the coffin deserted, the body missing. It coincides with many reports made over the centuries - it’s unfortunately not rare for the dead to be taken and repurposed again for magic, but this particular pattern is characteristic of demonic rogues having too much time on their necromantic little hands. He will need to consult a few colleagues to confirm it, but the 3 days and the apparent magic hanging in the air is all the evidence he needs right now.

He stands, the lapels of his dark coat flapping in the chilly wind ominously. There’s a page typed up about the busy life of his missing body in his pocket, crumpled around the edges from being handled carelessly, but he takes it out to skim over it again. That’s when he spots the little detail about the private detective’s history with the Agency that he seemed to have missed the first time around.

‘1896-1898: under Agency protection

Threat: classified

Agents on the case: A. Du Mortain, N. Sewell’

The Agency gossips like there’s no tomorrow, and ever since Lady Ashbury’s return to the main facility, the gossip about the ‘Ice Queen’ and her pet detective have been the most fashionable thing to blabber on about. And since Fuller has been to the scene, it will be him who will have to provide all the answers when Du Mortain comes with her demanding questions, no doubt breaking down doors in the process as it is in her nature. Fuller is by no means a man who shies away from conflict or hard work, but he’s never been particularly good with emotions. Explaining to a lovesick elder vampire that her alleged lover is now very dead, and also quite probably the plaything of a very bored and elusive demon who likes to play with necromancy is not a task he would gladly carry out.

“Well, shit.”

Fuller shoves the page back into his pocket and sighs. He should retire and buy a house in the wilderness. Get a cat. Maybe try some cocaine - he once saw Heinrich Quincke use it for spinal anaesthesia before one of his surgeries, and have been meaning to try it out ever since. But he does none of those things - he never does.

He walks back the way he came, trying to prepare himself for the most awkward conversation of the century.

Needless to say, he couldn’t prepare himself for what was to come. But for once, he couldn’t feel mad about a messy situations. He just felt a little more hollow afterwards. And then he got another case as this one was closed and the woman was declared dead once more. And he moved on.

But, like with all his cases ending in death, he never forgot.

[phoenix-downer]

Brought to Life

Roxas/Naminé. Alternate Universe. Romance. Based off of the Greek myth Pygmalion. ~3000 words. For @scoobysnack1107​. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was nothing Naminé liked more than art.

She started out by drawing on spare scraps of paper her father left around his workshop. Little scrawls and scribbles with pencil stubs as she watched him sculpt works for his many clients. He was the most respected sculptor in the city, and he always had a long list of commissions to work on. 

When Naminé wasn’t helping her mother with chores around the house, she spent every spare moment watching her father at work. Once she was old enough, he enlisted her help and then formally signed her on as an apprentice. From then on, every spare moment she spent in his workshop honing her craft. She learned to work with a variety of mediums—wood, stone, clay, metal—but marble was her favorite. It was easy to mold and yet resistant to shattering, and she loved the feel of its texture beneath her fingers and its slight translucence that mimicked human skin. 

As the years passed, Naminé developed a reputation as something of a prodigy. People began to ask her to craft special orders under her own name and not her father’s. And when she wasn’t working in her father’s workshop, she worked with a master painter in the city and learned his secrets, too. By the time her twentieth birthday had arrived, she had quite the following of her own and was set for a life of steady work and happy clients for both sculpture and painting. 

There was just one catch. She had no one with which to live her life, and her parents were not getting any younger. They worried about who would take care of her once they were gone and urged her to find someone to marry.

“The two of you are still young,” she told them as she added the finishing touches to a painting of their splendid city during its summer festival for the goddess Aphrodite. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I have clients enough to last me for the rest of my days.” 

“Naminé, we’re not worried about your ability to provide for yourself,” her mother said as she took a seat on one of the workbenches. Her blond hair cascaded down her shoulders, and her blue eyes were filled with worry for her daughter. “Ever since you were little, we’ve known you’re talented, and your hard work has ensured you’ll be able to take care of yourself for the rest of your days.” 

“What we’re worried about is that you’ll be lonely,” her father said. His dark hair had a few streaks of gray in it now, but his blue eyes were as intense as ever, and Naminé knew he had many years of life ahead of him yet.

“Lonely?” Naminé set her paintbrush down. Why should she be lonely with such a happy family and so many happy clients? Her parents’ friends were wonderful too, and she never lacked for company if she so desired it.

“Don’t you want someone to spend the rest of your days with?” her mother said. 

“Oh, like a husband?” 

Her parents both nodded, and she glanced outside. She often saw young men pass by their shop when she worked into the twilight hours; it was on the way to a rather seedy part of the city, and she was less than impressed by the effects of alcohol, gambling, and prostitutes on the young men. Didn’t they have any respect for their wives and families?

Naminé sniffed. She had no use for a husband who would drink himself into a stupor, gamble her hard-earned money away, and then spend the night using the body of some poor woman whose name he couldn’t even be bothered to remember, all while his wife waited lonely and unsatisfied at home for him to come home at the crack of dawn to pass out and sleep the morning away while she did the chores. She would rather be alone forever than be miserably married to such a man. 

“I’m not interested in any of the men I’ve met,” she said. “I’m not interested in marriage at all.”

Let her parents think what they would about her words, but she would not be persuaded to chain herself to a miserable marriage. She had never met a man she would be interested in marrying, and she doubted that would change. There were plenty of good men in the world, but the ones she knew were all already married, and she had no taste for adultery or affairs. 

Her parents dropped the subject for now, but every now and then it would come up in conversation. One breezy autumn day, as they ate lunch on the terrace of their home, it came up again, and with a vengeance.

“Naminé,” her father said, not even trying to hide the exasperation in his voice, “if you don’t ever meet any young men, how would you know you’re not interested in marriage?” 

“It’s true. You spend so much time in the workshop and hardly any time at all meeting people your age,” her mother said as she sipped her goblet of wine. 

“I have a lot of work to do,” Naminé replied. “If I work hard now, I can build a good reputation for myself and have more flexibility when I’m older. Then I can think about marriage.” 

There was no point in rushing. Right now, her career took center stage. Marriage could come much later… if at all. 

Her mother daintily patted her mouth with her napkin. “Do you even know what you want in a husband?” 

Naminé thought for a moment. “Someone kind and caring, someone loyal and true. A man who would defend me from harm and never betray my trust. A man who would love me and want to be with me always.” 

Her father brightened. “Those are all good qualities. Why don’t I inquire with a matchmaker about—”

She shook her head. “It’s okay, father. I don’t think such a man exists. Or if he does, he’s already happily married to someone else.”

Her parents dropped the subject once more, but their conversation haunted her. She had little faith her dream man existed, but her life as an artist had taught her that she could create things out of nothing. She could make things a reality that had only existed in her head before.  

She stayed in the workshop after she’d finished the day’s work. A big hunk of marble had been delivered yesterday, and she had let it sit there, unsure of what to do with it. It was far too big to make a bust out of, and no one had commissioned her to make any full-body sculptures lately. 

But tonight, she had just the idea. Grabbing some wire, her fingers worked swiftly and deftly to craft a basic human figure. Then she took a large lump of clay and shaped it around the frame to get an overall idea of what she wanted the sculpture to look like. 

Content with what she had so far, she went to bed, physically tired but mentally alert. The next few weeks she spent building a full scale model and then added tacks at key points. Once she was happy with their locations, she transferred the tacks to the block of marble to get a sense of scale. 

This next part was what she’d been looking forward to the most. Mallet and chisel in hand, she went to work bringing out the man trapped inside the marble. A dynamic pose to emphasize his movement, to make him seem real. A broad chest and wide shoulders, strong enough to wield a sword and protect her from harm. A resolute expression on his face, because he was passionate and driven. And yet his eyes needed to look at her just right; had to be both both determined and gentle. 

This process took months, especially because Naminé still had her clients’ commissions to work on. She usually only had time to work on the sculpture of the man during the evening after her other duties were fulfilled, and she spent many a late night working on him. But as he became more and more lifelike with each passing day, she was more determined than ever to finish her work. Now she was using a more specific set of tools; tooth chisels and claw chisels and rasps and rifflers. 

When at last the sculpture before her matched the image in her head and the models she’d made, it was time to sand the uneven parts down with a special rough stone called emery. The color of the marble shone through in this process as a thin patina developed over its surface, and she also added a sealing compound to make the marble practically glow. 

Now for the reason she’d studied painting: so she could paint her own statues. She gave the man blond hair and blue eyes with Naples yellow and Egyptian blue. His hair was brighter gold than her own, so bright it was like the daffodils that grew in her family’s garden. And his eyes were darker blue than her own, as blue as the water in the fountain reflecting the color of the tiles beneath it. She painted his skin and clothes with a variety of other fine pigments. Dragon’s blood, lead white, and lamp black contrasted nicely with his hair and were what she largely used for his clothes. 

At long last, after over a year’s worth of work, she was finished. She set her paintbrushes down and stared at her creation. This was what she had worked so hard on, what she had poured hundreds of hours of sweat and tears and the occasional drop of blood into. Her ideal man. His golden hair swept up towards the sky, and his blue eyes gazed down at her. The robes draped from his arms and legs were so realistic they almost seemed like actual clothes, and his striking pose made him look like a warrior or messenger coming down from the heavens to protect her.

She brought her hand to her cheek, and it was hot. Was she really… blushing? Just from looking at a statue she’d made? How was this even…

She ducked her head and then looked back at the statue, mesmerized by her own creation. He was handsome and dashing, tall and strong and true. Loyal and faithful because he knew only her, knew only her touch which had spent hours bringing him into being. 

It was a good thing he wasn’t real. Otherwise he would be disloyal, just like the others. Just like her first love who had—

She cleared her throat and looked away. She wouldn’t think about that man and how he’d broken her heart, finding shelter in the arms of another woman instead of her arms. Because now she had a man that would never leave her, never abandon her, never betray her. 

Maybe he wasn’t real, but she couldn’t risk her heart on a real man again. 

Right?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Though the statue was, by her father’s estimation, her greatest work yet, Naminé refused to sell it. She didn’t even want other people seeing it lest they get any ideas. Very rarely did she keep any of her works for herself, but this one was an exception. She was keeping it for the rest of her days.

She found her eyes drawn to it often as she worked, and her blush returned when she glanced at it. It was so lifelike, so realistic, that she couldn’t help but be drawn to it. No, to him. Referring to him as an it felt wrong. The more she looked at him, the more she felt he had a soul trapped in the rock, much like his form had once been trapped in the rock.

Late at night, after her father had gone to bed and the other workers had gone home, she’d taken to lingering in the workshop to spend a few more moments with him. As she gazed into his eyes one summer night, the moonlight shining on his face, a thought occurred to her.

“I haven’t given you a name yet.” 

She pressed her fingers together as she thought. He needed a name, a fitting name…  

“You were hewn out of marble, out of rock…” She smiled. “Roxas. Your name is Roxas.”

He gazed at her steadily, and her blush spread up her cheeks. The name was perfect, just like he was perfect. She reached for his hand and wrapped her fingers around it. Her hand fit perfectly in his, and she sighed. 

“Roxas, I think I love you.” 

Her breath caught in her throat. Had she really just said those words out loud? Was she really in love with a statue? How awful, how could she have let this happen—

Ashamed, she fled from the workshop and retreated to her room and buried herself under her blankets. This had gone on for too long. Roxas had bewitched her, heart and body and soul, and a statue so powerful must be cursed with evil magic. She had to get rid of him as soon as possible before some disastrous fate fell upon her and her family. 

But the thought of losing him, the thought of losing her beloved Roxas, made her heart sink. Could she so easily throw him out when she had made him? Cast him aside like her first love had cast her aside? 

Still, this obsession wasn’t healthy. She needed to do something about it. Tomorrow was the first day of the festival for Aphrodite. Maybe, if she went to the goddess’s temple and prayed, Aphrodite would send her a real man that would make her forget all about her infatuation with a statue. 

Yes, that was what she would do. Satisfied now that she had a plan, she was able to go to sleep. But as she slipped from consciousness, it was Roxas’s chiseled marble face that lingered in her mind.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Naminé rose early the next morning for the festival so she could carefully select some choice flowers from her family’s garden to offer as a gift to Aphrodite. It wouldn’t do to approach the goddess empty-handed, and so Naminé made sure she had an offering worthy of the city’s deity.

The flowers selected, she made her way to the sanctuary of Aphrodite, where the altar of Aphrodite rested. Throngs of people surrounded her, as the festival was already underway, and it took quite some time before she made it inside the sanctuary, let alone to where the altar was. But at last it was her turn to offer a gift to the goddess, and as she did, she made a wish, her voice barely above a whisper.

“If it so pleases you, Aphrodite, I would like to wish for a husband in the likeness of my Roxas.” 

In her heart of hearts, she knew the wish was not entirely true. She didn’t just want a husband in the likeness of Roxas, she wanted Roxas to be her husband. But she was still too ashamed to admit her true desire, so she went home and returned to the workshop. A particularly wealthy patron had requested a bust of him and his wife, and she wanted to get at least a little work done for his request today. 

But when she entered the studio, Roxas was there waiting for her. He looked even more handsome and lifelike than ever, and a strange urge came over her. Her feet carried her to him, as if she was being carried along by the breeze. She cupped his cheek, and she could’ve sworn his skin felt soft beneath her touch. 

“Roxas,” she said, her voice breaking. “My dear Roxas. How badly do I wish you were real.” 

His blue eyes steadily gazed back at her as she stroked his face. Standing on her tiptoes, she pressed her mouth against his in a sweet kiss, her eyes fluttering shut as she indulged the fantasy that had taken root in her heart from the moment she’d named him. To her surprise, his lips felt warm. She leaned back a little, her lips parting and her eyes widening, then kissed him again.

This time, she didn’t stop kissing him, even when his lips grew warmer and his skin grew ever softer against her touch. And then his arms went around her and he was kissing her back. A soft cry caught in her throat as he did. This was real. He was real, and he was holding her in his arms like she’d dreamed he would.

She remembered. She remembered everything. Why no man she’d ever met could satisfy her. No man in this life, anyway. Why her heart was so drawn to a statue of him, to this man she loved with all her heart. Her Roxas was in her arms, and all was right in the World again. 

When they finally broke apart, she was breathless. She would’ve fallen if he hadn’t caught her and gently pulled her up.

“Naminé,” he said, his voice breaking as he looked into her eyes and caressed her cheek. 

She hugged him again. “Roxas—”

He held her and comforted her as she cried, reassuring her that their long separation was over, that he was here and they were together again. 

“We promised, remember? ‘We’ll meet again,’” he said, smiling as he repeated the words she’d told him so long ago. “So here I am. It wasn’t the way I was expecting, exactly, but what matters is that I’m here and we’re together.” 

“Yes.” She found his hand and held it. Even when her mind had forgotten him, her heart hadn’t. Her body hadn’t either; it had guided her through the long process it had taken to bring him back to life, and it was responding so wonderfully to his touch. 

He scooped her up in his arms. “Shall we?” he said as she laughed lightly. 

“Yes, we shall.” 

As he carried her out of the workshop and to the house, she couldn’t take her eyes off of his face. They were together again at long last, and she wanted to make the most of every moment.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: This fic was written for @scoobysnack1107​! Rokunami is dear to her heart, and she’s poured so much love and effort into the Rokunami fandom. I wanted to write something for her to thank her for that, as well as to thank her for supporting me :) 

This guide was really helpful in terms of how to make a marble sculpture, and I drew heavily on it when I wrote the descriptions of Naminé making the sculpture of Roxas. Also, thank you to @rapis-razuri​ for looking over things for me and providing suggestions and feedback!

Hope you all enjoyed! 

[astudyingreer]

Annabelle and Henrik Reunite

Warnings: Slightly suggestive but nothing too crazy. You know me haha

--

Henrik put his glass on the tray of a passing server, his sharp eyes darting around the party. It had been a few hours since the exhibition began, and the buzz and active rotation of viewers walking by the art being displayed had now simmered down to sparse groups and hushed conversation. Half the guests had already left--they had probably come to purchase art without really looking--but there were a few who were still appreciating the paintings in depth. Henrik was one of those people.

The exhibition was for a small collection of early 20th century Italian painters, depicting rolling fields and stone farmhouses in dulled tones of green and yellow. It was one of Henrik’s favorite types of art: a little piece of someone’s life, ordinary but meaningful, immortalized forever.

He had just approached another piece and was beginning to examine it when a figure gliding across the room caught his peripheral. He turned his head, just slightly, his dark eyes falling on a woman looking at a piece a couple paintings down. She moved like water in a slim dress that matched her ivory hair. A heavy breath audibly escaped his nose as he watched the way she squinted at the painting, swirling a half empty glass of champagne. She was like a living marble statue.

Maybe he would have looked back at his painting and ignored her. Maybe he would have shrugged off every itch to go over and introduce himself, to put a hand on her arm and lean in close and ask her how she was enjoying the exhibition…

Maybe he would’ve. It would’ve been smart. After all, he didn’t need to go ask for her name; he already knew it. Part of him had known she would be here, when he had seen the list of paintings and contributors. Maybe that was the real reason he came, as much as he told himself it wasn’t.

God, nothing had changed about her. She was still impossibly, angelically beautiful. She still carried herself with a confidence he had envied his whole life. He looked at her face, and that was the end of any cohesive thought for him; all he could see was the girl that would never notice him in high school, that he had dreamed about every night. Annabelle Wagner.

What would he even say? “It’s been so long, how are you doing?” “Do you remember when I’d write your papers for you and then you’d pretend I didn’t exist?”

He should’ve just looked back at his painting, but it was already too late. She had looked up at him now, and their eyes were locked.

What was she thinking? Did she even recognize him? God, that dress.

Annabelle glided over to him, and he offered a small smile as he turned to face her. She didn’t say anything for a moment after closing the distance between them, just long enough for him to smell her perfume before she asked, “Do you like it?”

Henrik glanced back up at the painting on the wall. “Yes. I do.”

She nodded slowly, taking a small sip of her now-flat champagne. “Maybe it will ruin the beauty for you,” she murmured, gesturing to the right side of the canvas with her pinky, “but there used to be a big tear, right there. Someone dropped it when they were moving it.”

Henrik squinted at where she was gesturing. “Amazing. The repair work is completely invisible.”

Annabelle smiled. “Thank you. I conserved this one, and two others… all from the same collector. I guess they like my work. I always like to come back and look at them when they’re on display.” Her voice got a little quiet, and that pensive softness returned to her eyes as they darted over the canvas. “You spend so much time with them, they feel like friends,” she murmured. “I sometimes miss them.”

Henrik nodded. “It is so rare that someone appreciates art that way,” he told her. “People come by, and glance at it, or just buy it because it looks expensive, but very few people just… look at paintings. And even fewer have enough love for them to learn conservation.”

“Do you do conservation work?” she asked him.

“No. I paint.”

“Ah,” she mused. “The greatest love of all.”

A palpable silence fell between them, and a few seconds was all that Henrik could take. 

He extended his hand to shake, pointedly catching her gaze. “It’s good to meet you,” he said. “Henrik.”

“I know.” She accepted his hand, shaking it gently and then tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve heard your name a few times in the art community. You’re quite the socialite now.”

“And you like to be in the background,” he pointed out. “It seems like we switched roles, doesn’t it?”

Annabelle laughed, almost to herself, and he noticed the slight flush in her cheeks. “We’ve both had a long time to change. I knew you’d become a doctor at least, but a painter too?”

“And a scientist. And a psychologist, if we’re being specific,” Henrik told her dryly. His piercing eyes were still fixed on her, and she could feel it.

She chuckled, eyes widening dramatically. “Of course. You know, just for fun.”

“Just for fun,” Henrik repeated, as a ghost of a smirk crossed his expression. “I didn’t know you thought about me in school.”

She scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. I thought about you a lot.”

That phrase seemed to freeze the conversation and a few more seconds passed as both their laughter turned to silence again, until Annabelle sighed. 

“I thought maybe I’d be lucky enough that you’d forgotten about me,” she murmured, her icy eyes flickered to the floor. “Or at least the way I used to be. Part of me wanted for us to meet for the first time again.”

Henrik’s heart skipped as he watched her. Everything she did was elegant, even the way she tugged and adjusted her dress. Heat filled his chest in a way he couldn’t explain… being here, with her, when they were both so different. And yet, nothing had changed somehow. 

He could feel it from her too. She was thinking the same thing.

“Maybe we can,” he told her. His voice had dropped a little, eyes darkening. “But… somewhere else.”

His heart was beating out of his chest, and he watched as she looked up at him with eyes that reflected what he was feeling himself. Nothing could explain the feeling of it. Maybe it was the champagne.

“Okay,” she murmured, and the tone of her voice made the blood roar in his ears. “I’m staying in an Airbnb a couple blocks from here.”

“I think there’s a broom closet.”

“Okay.”

[a-crown-of-glass]

Sins of the Father Summary: What is the price of living forever? Spencer learns that his partner of five years lives with a burden only a parent can understand, and the wounds run back centuries. Warning: Murder, death, brief mentions of suicide, war, Notes: I slapped this together on the spur of the moment. The premise loosely focuses on an RP between me and @dontshootmespence and the relationship between Spencer and my OC (well... more like a sci-fi/fantasy adaptation of the historical figure for an upcoming original series) Yeon Namsaeng  Hope you enjoy! It hasn’t been edited or betad again it just came to me in the heat of the moment. @lureofthesiren Namsaeng sat on his leather couch in his large luxurious living-room. His gaze was transfixed on the small wooden box that sat on the glass coffee table before him. It’s old wooden shell weathered with time mirroring the age of the contents within. His long slender fingers ran along its smooth frame as he opened it and looked at the ancient jewelry held within. All he had were these mementos of a dynasty now marked in the pages of history. A soft knock wrapped at the door. Namsaeng’s ears perked as he heard the familiar footsteps against his marble floor. “Hey, I would’ve come sooner when I got your message, but, I was tied up in this case. Everything okay?” Spencer’s calm but nervous voice broke the pensive silence that hung in the air. As much as he tried, he couldn’t fully turn off the profiling part of his mind. When Namsaeng didn’t answer right away, the gears whirred deep within- imprinting every detail to his memory. The way Namsaeng’s short hair caressed his high-set cheekbones and framed his effeminate warm-toned oval face. How his round almond eyes were focused on an old wooden box he held. His thin wiry body was relaxed- even in the tight black leather he was wearing from the band’s photo shoot earlier. Spencer could only guess what his boyfriend of five years was thinking. All the profiling skills he had couldn’t fully unravel the layers of Namsaeng’s psyche. Only when he learned his boyfriend was 1300 years old did it make sense why. His walls were fortified with over a millennium of mental conditioning, and the horrors of immortality and changing history only made him stronger. “You wanted to talk about my past,” Namsaeng’s voice broke the silence. He looked up, his cat-like lips pressing into a calm smile- dimpling his soft angular cheeks. He patted the leather seat next to him, “I thought I’d show you something first.” Spencer’s brows furrowed, and he idly licked his lips. He expected a few reactions from Namsaeng after their talk the previous night; Namsaeng’s usual rock ‘n roll diva attitude, the aggressive – now- ex-politician image he’d take on when he felt threatened or cornered, or even his dismissive closed off demeanor when he couldn’t think of any comeback. This was none of those and for a half a second, Spencer thought San Ho- Namsaeng’s other boyfriend who’s shared centuries-old past still baffled him- bribed him with alcohol and sex in exchange for this talk. “What?” Namsaeng’s warm smile fell, “San Ho was nagging me like an old hag all morning to talk to you today, but, if you don’t want to—” “No no, I do…” Spencer took off his shoes and approached the couch. “I- I just didn’t expect you to want to discuss Goguryeo is all.” Spencer sat beside him and focused on the box. Since he came to Seoul, Spencer’s new job dealt with more than just the criminally insane, he joined an organization known as UMBRA, that had dealt with extraterrestrials and international crime organizations that used or sold alien tech on the black market. He never thought that the former U.N. representative- turned Rockstar after resigning- that he’d been dating for five years was an immortal from the Three Kingdom’s dynasty. Spencer barely grasped the reality that this was all real, but, being in love with a thirteen-hundred-year-old former military leader wasn’t easy to process. He still asked himself how he ended up with a borderline narcissist with psychopathic tendencies and sadistic streak. Maybe it was his charm and charisma, his profound knowledge of East-Asian history- which now he knew why- or his confidence and interest in music. Spencer loved intelligent and passionate people, and Namsaeng was all those things despite his flaws. Namsaeng pulled out an ornate gold and silver hairpin. Its designs were customary to Goguryeo and its detail reflected the social status Namsaeng had back then. “I don’t remember a lot, but, I think my mother gave this to me.” It was worn down now, the gold dull and designs worn. Spencer took it from him and admired it. Some of the gems that were in it had gone missing, despite that, it was still elegant. "what was your mother like?” Spencer asked as he passed the hairpiece back to him. His mind spiraled with questions, what was Yeon Gaesomun really like? Was he truly the military dictator that history made him out to be? What kind of life did he lead all this time? Did he have other families or just his son? How did he become immortal? Spencer knew if he asked all these questions Namsaeng would close up on him and withdraw. He had to be mindful of his words and questions. “She was quiet and gentle. My father didn’t like outspoken women, but, he did admire women who were intelligent- especially in the arts and literature.” He smiled a little, “she used to write a lot. When my father was away, she would read to me and my brothers… and when I had Eun San, she’d read to him too.” Namsaeng’s expression grew nostalgic, his smile wasn’t his usual cocky one, rather, genuine and tender. “Eun San loved reading and music. Mother thought he’d become a scholar.” “Maybe he got the musical talent from you?” Spencer teased, then bit his lip when Namsaeng rolled his eyes. “My father wanted all of us to make our country strong and to focus our attention on stopping Tang’s invasion.” Namsaeng’s warm voice hardened and became withdrawn as he pulled out a gold ring. “I don’t remember where I got this, but, I always liked it.” He said and passed it over to Spencer. “Eun San would constantly beg me to let him wear this thing when he was five.” He mused. “Why didn’t you give it to him?” Spencer said as he took the ring and looked it over. His lips quirked a little, “were you a diva back then too?” His tone came light and playful. He chuckled when Namsaeng glared at him. “No, he had a habit of taking off and losing them or getting ink on them when he’d paint.” Namsaeng took back the gold ring and placed it on his index finger. His eyes lingered on his hand, the weight of the metal was foreign to him now. He used to wear it all the time- and still would if he could- but, having not worn for centuries, it felt strange on his fingers compared to the occasional jewelry he wore now. It was no surprise that he was holding back. Even though they were talking, and he was showing him his jewelry, they weren’t really talking. How much does he remember about that era? It was normal to forget over time, and if he actively tried to forget it because of the emotional impact, it would make sense. His brows knit together upon seeing a small metal vile in the bottom of the box. At this rate, the only way he’d truly get answers about his past is if he pried a bit. “What’s this?” He boldly reached into the box and grabbed it. “Hey!” Namsaeng’s hand shot out and ripped it from his hand. “Don’t touch that!” His demeanor hardened as his mental and emotional barriers shot up. Silence hung in the air and Namsaeng realized this was a mistake. Taking off the ring, he put his belongings back and closed the box, “forget it, this was a bad idea.” He got up and walked to his room to put it away. “What’s wrong?” Spencer rose to his feet and went after him, “Hey I’m sorry I didn’t mean to upset you.” What was significant about that bottle that warranted such a reaction? Spencer’s mind raced trying to think of the answer. Namsaeng was thirteen-hundred-years old, no doubt in that time he’d seen many loved ones die… what if that bottle was his way out? Spencer’s chest tightened, and his stomach knotted at the thought. “Wait, wait, let's talk about this please.” He pressed on. He didn’t show signs akin to suicidal tendencies, but, then again profiling someone like him was near impossible. He knew him, but, Spencer realized that he didn’t truly know anything about him. Everything he knew about his lover was- in a way- a projection of himself- much akin to the Rockstar persona he wore when he’d put on his leather and makeup and become “Kumiho” for his fans. Namsaeng sighed, taking a moment to calm his thoughts and frustration. This wasn’t what he’d hoped for, all he wanted was to reminisce about the good memories surrounding Goguryeo before its fall and talk about his family. But all it did was agitate old scars and remind him that… “Would you resent your father if you had to protect him?” His hands gripped the sealed box as he stood in the middle of his bedroom. His anger melted into dejection as his downcast gaze focused on it. He couldn’t look at Spencer even though he saw him standing in the doorway from out of the corner of his eye. Spencer tilted his head slightly and licked his lips. “I wouldn’t know. I try not to think of him too much.” What was there to say about a man that abandoned his son and mentally ill mother? Nothing. “I took care of my mother since my father left us, but I don’t resent her for it. Why?” This wasn’t entirely a fair comparison, but, then there wasn’t much in his life that could compare to what Namsaeng had experienced. What did he expect him to say? Of course, he’d have no way of understanding something like this. This was different. Throughout his life, Namsaeng regretted many things, things he did and didn’t do. Perhaps living indefinitely was his punishment for his sins. “Never mind. It’s…” He sucked in a deep breath and tried to dodge this whole conversation. “Forget I said anything.” “Namsaeng, please, talk to me.” He wasn’t about to let it go. If he did, he’d likely never get this chance again with him. “Please, for once talk to me.” “What is there to say? History speaks for itself. My father was a warlord, I was framed for treason and fled to Tang with the help of Eun San. I used my influence to get a high ranking military position among the very nation who plotted to invade us. My brothers tried to assassinate me because they thought my new military position and connections would be their undoing.” He scoffed bitterly. “Eun San was only fifteen...” He began, “when I came back to Pyongyang and found him on the floor suffocating and choking up blood.” Namsaeng pulled the bottle out faced Spencer holding the bottle in his hand. “I keep this, so I never forget the price of a reputation. My son was killed because he warned me and insisted I flee to Tang for safety.” Resentment boiled within him, as much as he tried to bury the past, the guilt still ate at him. “I failed my country and my family.” What bothered him most, wasn’t just the murder and the betrayal- it went deeper than that. Spencer took a couple of steps forward and reached out to Namsaeng only to stop himself when Namsaeng withdrew. “It wasn’t your fault. Eun San loved you and tried to protect you—” “I’m forgetting him! What kind of father forgets their child!” His hand clenched the metal bottle causing his knuckles to pale. “I look at these things and can hardly remember anything from that time. I loved him- I still do- and I can’t remember what his laughter sounds like or his smile… I can barely remember his face. Am I going to forget him completely one day?” The hand that clenched the bottle trembled from how hard he squeezed. “The only vivid memory I have of him was how he died.” The anger in his voice shook with sorrow and guilt. His desperate eyes searched Spencer’s for any sign of understanding or answers. That’s what he was best at, explaining things like this- finding solutions. “It’s normal to forget. The only real memory of my father was when he left.” What was he supposed to say? It wasn’t Namsaeng’s fault that he couldn’t remember, nor was he to blame for his son’s murder. “Your brain can only retain so much information and over time the details fade.” He pressed his lips together as he added,  “Namsaeng, you’re not responsible for what they did to him. I’m sure he knew what he was risking when he told you.” Spencer reached out and rested his hand over the hand that gripped the bottle and gently squeezed it in reassurance. As Namsaeng started to calm down, a thought occurred to Spencer. “I don’t know if this will work but, we have a way to help victims recall certain details and events when they witness something traumatic.” Thought in Namsaeng’s case it might not work given how long ago it was. “We could see if it’ll help you remember Eun San, but, there’s a chance—” “All right.” Namsaeng murmured. Even if it didn’t work, he wanted to try anyway. He had to hold onto his memory for as long as he could. To Namsaeng, the greatest sin was... ... to forget his son.

[bionic-bat-archive]

Sins of the Father

Summary:

What is the price of living forever?

Spencer learns that his partner of five years lives with a burden only a parent can understand, and the wounds run back centuries.

Warning: Murder, death, brief mentions of suicide, war,

Notes: I slapped this together on the spur of the moment. The premise loosely focuses on an RP between me and @dontshootmespence and the relationship between Spencer and my OC (well... more like a sci-fi/fantasy adaptation of the historical figure for an upcoming original series) Yeon Namsaeng

 Hope you enjoy! It hasn’t been edited or betad again it just came to me in the heat of the moment.

@g-liveblogs

Namsaeng sat on his leather couch in his large luxurious living-room. His gaze was transfixed on the small wooden box that sat on the glass coffee table before him. It’s old wooden shell weathered with time mirroring the age of the contents within.

His long slender fingers ran along its smooth frame as he opened it and looked at the ancient jewelry held within. All he had were these mementos of a dynasty now marked in the pages of history.

A soft knock wrapped at the door. Namsaeng’s ears perked as he heard the familiar footsteps against his marble floor.

“Hey, I would’ve come sooner when I got your message, but, I was tied up in this case. Everything okay?” Spencer’s calm but nervous voice broke the pensive silence that hung in the air. As much as he tried, he couldn’t fully turn off the profiling part of his mind. When Namsaeng didn’t answer right away, the gears whirred deep within- imprinting every detail to his memory. The way Namsaeng’s short hair caressed his high-set cheekbones and framed his effeminate warm-toned oval face. How his round almond eyes were focused on an old wooden box he held. His thin wiry body was relaxed- even in the tight black leather he was wearing from the band’s photo shoot earlier.

Spencer could only guess what his boyfriend of five years was thinking. All the profiling skills he had couldn’t fully unravel the layers of Namsaeng’s psyche. Only when he learned his boyfriend was 1300 years old did it make sense why. His walls were fortified with over a millennium of mental conditioning, and the horrors of immortality and changing history only made him stronger.

“You wanted to talk about my past,” Namsaeng’s voice broke the silence. He looked up, his cat-like lips pressing into a calm smile- dimpling his soft angular cheeks. He patted the leather seat next to him, “I thought I’d show you something first.”

Spencer’s brows furrowed, and he idly licked his lips. He expected a few reactions from Namsaeng after their talk the previous night; Namsaeng’s usual rock ‘n roll diva attitude, the aggressive – now- ex-politician image he’d take on when he felt threatened or cornered, or even his dismissive closed off demeanor when he couldn’t think of any comeback. This was none of those and for a half a second, Spencer thought San Ho- Namsaeng’s other boyfriend who’s shared centuries-old past still baffled him- bribed him with alcohol and sex in exchange for this talk.

“What?” Namsaeng’s warm smile fell, “San Ho was nagging me like an old hag all morning to talk to you today, but, if you don’t want to—”

“No no, I do…” Spencer took off his shoes and approached the couch. “I- I just didn’t expect you to want to discuss Goguryeo is all.” Spencer sat beside him and focused on the box. Since he came to Seoul, Spencer’s new job dealt with more than just the criminally insane, he joined an organization known as UMBRA, that had dealt with extraterrestrials and international crime organizations that used or sold alien tech on the black market.

He never thought that the former U.N. representative- turned Rockstar after resigning- that he’d been dating for five years was an immortal from the Three Kingdom’s dynasty. Spencer barely grasped the reality that this was all real, but, being in love with a thirteen-hundred-year-old former military leader wasn’t easy to process. He still asked himself how he ended up with a borderline narcissist with psychopathic tendencies and sadistic streak. Maybe it was his charm and charisma, his profound knowledge of East-Asian history- which now he knew why- or his confidence and interest in music. Spencer loved intelligent and passionate people, and Namsaeng was all those things despite his flaws.

Namsaeng pulled out an ornate gold and silver hairpin. Its designs were customary to Goguryeo and its detail reflected the social status Namsaeng had back then. “I don’t remember a lot, but, I think my mother gave this to me.” It was worn down now, the gold dull and designs worn.

Spencer took it from him and admired it. Some of the gems that were in it had gone missing, despite that, it was still elegant. “what was your mother like?” Spencer asked as he passed the hairpiece back to him. His mind spiraled with questions, what was Yeon Gaesomun really like? Was he truly the military dictator that history made him out to be? What kind of life did he lead all this time? Did he have other families or just his son? How did he become immortal? Spencer knew if he asked all these questions Namsaeng would close up on him and withdraw. He had to be mindful of his words and questions.

“She was quiet and gentle. My father didn’t like outspoken women, but, he did admire women who were intelligent- especially in the arts and literature.” He smiled a little, “she used to write a lot. When my father was away, she would read to me and my brothers… and when I had Eun San, she’d read to him too.”

Namsaeng’s expression grew nostalgic, his smile wasn’t his usual cocky one, rather, genuine and tender. “Eun San loved reading and music. Mother thought he’d become a scholar.”

“Maybe he got the musical talent from you?” Spencer teased, then bit his lip when Namsaeng rolled his eyes.

“My father wanted all of us to make our country strong and to focus our attention on stopping Tang’s invasion.” Namsaeng’s warm voice hardened and became withdrawn as he pulled out a gold ring. “I don’t remember where I got this, but, I always liked it.” He said and passed it over to Spencer. “Eun San would constantly beg me to let him wear this thing when he was five.” He mused.

“Why didn’t you give it to him?” Spencer said as he took the ring and looked it over. His lips quirked a little, “were you a diva back then too?” His tone came light and playful. He chuckled when Namsaeng glared at him.

“No, he had a habit of taking off and losing them or getting ink on them when he’d paint.” Namsaeng took back the gold ring and placed it on his index finger. His eyes lingered on his hand, the weight of the metal was foreign to him now. He used to wear it all the time- and still would if he could- but, having not worn for centuries, it felt strange on his fingers compared to the occasional jewelry he wore now.

It was no surprise that he was holding back. Even though they were talking, and he was showing him his jewelry, they weren’t really talking. How much does he remember about that era? It was normal to forget over time, and if he actively tried to forget it because of the emotional impact, it would make sense. His brows knit together upon seeing a small metal vile in the bottom of the box. At this rate, the only way he’d truly get answers about his past is if he pried a bit. “What’s this?” He boldly reached into the box and grabbed it.

“Hey!” Namsaeng’s hand shot out and ripped it from his hand. “Don’t touch that!” His demeanor hardened as his mental and emotional barriers shot up. Silence hung in the air and Namsaeng realized this was a mistake. Taking off the ring, he put his belongings back and closed the box, “forget it, this was a bad idea.” He got up and walked to his room to put it away.

“What’s wrong?” Spencer rose to his feet and went after him, “Hey I’m sorry I didn’t mean to upset you.” What was significant about that bottle that warranted such a reaction? Spencer’s mind raced trying to think of the answer.

Namsaeng was thirteen-hundred-years old, no doubt in that time he’d seen many loved ones die… what if that bottle was his way out? Spencer’s chest tightened, and his stomach knotted at the thought. “Wait, wait, let's talk about this please.” He pressed on. He didn’t show signs akin to suicidal tendencies, but, then again profiling someone like him was near impossible. He knew him, but, Spencer realized that he didn’t truly know anything about him. Everything he knew about his lover was- in a way- a projection of himself- much akin to the Rockstar persona he wore when he’d put on his leather and makeup and become “Kumiho” for his fans.

Namsaeng sighed, taking a moment to calm his thoughts and frustration. This wasn’t what he’d hoped for, all he wanted was to reminisce about the good memories surrounding Goguryeo before its fall and talk about his family. But all it did was agitate old scars and remind him that…

“Would you resent your father if you had to protect him?” His hands gripped the sealed box as he stood in the middle of his bedroom. His anger melted into dejection as his downcast gaze focused on it. He couldn’t look at Spencer even though he saw him standing in the doorway from out of the corner of his eye.

Spencer tilted his head slightly and licked his lips. “I wouldn’t know. I try not to think of him too much.” What was there to say about a man that abandoned his son and mentally ill mother? Nothing.

“I took care of my mother since my father left us, but I don’t resent her for it. Why?” This wasn’t entirely a fair comparison, but, then there wasn’t much in his life that could compare to what Namsaeng had experienced.

What did he expect him to say? Of course, he’d have no way of understanding something like this. This was different. Throughout his life, Namsaeng regretted many things, things he did and didn’t do. Perhaps living indefinitely was his punishment for his sins. “Never mind. It’s…” He sucked in a deep breath and tried to dodge this whole conversation. “Forget I said anything.”

“Namsaeng, please, talk to me.” He wasn’t about to let it go. If he did, he’d likely never get this chance again with him. “Please, for once talk to me.”

“What is there to say? History speaks for itself. My father was a warlord, I was framed for treason and fled to Tang with the help of Eun San. I used my influence to get a high ranking military position among the very nation who plotted to invade us. My brothers tried to assassinate me because they thought my new military position and connections would be their undoing.” He scoffed bitterly.

“Eun San was only fifteen...” He began, “when I came back to Pyongyang and found him on the floor suffocating and choking up blood.” Namsaeng pulled the bottle out faced Spencer holding the bottle in his hand. “I keep this, so I never forget the price of a reputation. My son was killed because he warned me and insisted I flee to Tang for safety.” Resentment boiled within him, as much as he tried to bury the past, the guilt still ate at him. “I failed my country and my family.” What bothered him most, wasn’t just the murder and the betrayal- it went deeper than that.

Spencer took a couple of steps forward and reached out to Namsaeng only to stop himself when Namsaeng withdrew. “It wasn’t your fault. Eun San loved you and tried to protect you—”

“I’m forgetting him! What kind of father forgets their child!” His hand clenched the metal bottle causing his knuckles to pale. “I look at these things and can hardly remember anything from that time. I loved him- I still do- and I can’t remember what his laughter sounds like or his smile… I can barely remember his face. Am I going to forget him completely one day?” 

The hand that clenched the bottle trembled from how hard he squeezed. “The only vivid memory I have of him was how he died.” The anger in his voice shook with sorrow and guilt. His desperate eyes searched Spencer’s for any sign of understanding or answers. That’s what he was best at, explaining things like this- finding solutions.

“It’s normal to forget. The only real memory of my father was when he left.” What was he supposed to say? It wasn’t Namsaeng’s fault that he couldn’t remember, nor was he to blame for his son’s murder. “Your brain can only retain so much information and over time the details fade.” He pressed his lips together as he added, “Namsaeng, you’re not responsible for what they did to him. I’m sure he knew what he was risking when he told you.” Spencer reached out and rested his hand over the hand that gripped the bottle and gently squeezed it in reassurance. As Namsaeng started to calm down, a thought occurred to Spencer.

“I don’t know if this will work but, we have a way to help victims recall certain details and events when they witness something traumatic.” Thought in Namsaeng’s case it might not work given how long ago it was. “We could see if it’ll help you remember Eun San, but, there’s a chance—”

“All right.” Namsaeng murmured. Even if it didn’t work, he wanted to try anyway. He had to hold onto his memory for as long as he could.

To Namsaeng, the greatest sin was...

... to forget his son.

[cottoncandyforbunnies]

Atlantis; A call for tomorrow

foreword : google docs says this was 2017. Typical Atlantis story. I had a better backbone for this, i don’t know why i went with this scenario. This feels like one of those burner stories. Where you have an idea and write it down in one sitting. google docs says the last edit was 2017 too. Im touching it now to be a little cleaner.

I didn't know why i was going back home. It has been years since i've went back.. 6 years back when my father died and another 4 years when he was followed by mum. After those two, i never really had a reason to go back. I lived in the city already, everyone i knew did. The province seemed too far, too inconvenient.  The drive seemed too taxing. The destination a hovering look into the past, only now without my parents it had nothing to anchor to. My own memories only a reminder of who i spent it with. I would not have had a reason to go back. This, if anything, was not something I would have done. But i woke up one day and found myself packing a bag of clothes and necessities, starting my car, and heading to where i only know ended to where home was.

It was a dark morning, heavy clouds covered the whole sky painting everything on the road ahead and what resides beside it the shade of gray. The radio hummed tunes and news about the weather. The ride, I remember, used to be long or maybe it was my perception of time as a child that seemed long. Confined within the backseat of a car, looking at the fields and trees i felt so free to run around at turn into walls and busy people. The city to me before was a labyrinth, nothing but corners leading you only closer to its center, never away from it. And so the ride i didn’t enjoy much, as it felt like home was being taken away slowly. Now 25 years old and working on an 8am-6pm shift job, time seems to forever stay in that trudging trickle of a pace. The ride, however, didn't. The vast similar walls of skyscrapers, food stalls, bustling people, and open window stores soon began to fade and, by and by, be replaced by open fields with sparse small houses or convenience stores (all still painted gray for the weather report on the radio tells of a typhoon coming). It was shortly after that i see the seaside, so close as though I could hear its waves already. Shorter still, that I find myself in front of our house.

It looked the same as it always did. Only smaller, the memories that remind me of the place calls forth how far it took me to run around it or how my parents needed to shout in order for me to hear them outside. It seemed old too, dusty, every step i took made creaks on the wooden steps leading up to the door. The door seemed smaller too. I avoid looking at whatever is left around the house and head straight to my room. I drop my items and change to my shorts and a t-shirt. I look for a pair of slippers inside my closet. I still hear the sea. The air smelled of seawater. If i started this narrative not knowing what i hoped to come back to, now i do. I found the pair of slippers and head to the beach.

My mother loved the beach, this is why dad bought the house. Even if it was somewhat far from where he worked, he always told me that seeing my mother happy made the trip worth going home to. My earliest memories were made here. Making sand castles, burying mum in the sand, having dad dust off the sand from my hair. We used to stroll here every morning. Mum would hold my hand bringing me to the shore and pointed at objects she sees, usually seagulls and ships. Here was where i learned how to swim. I used to be afraid of the water (i was mostly fond of the sand as a child) and would not go wading into it. I would run from the waves. I would only be in the water if carried by my mother or father. The sea was frightening. The waves, as a child, i found loud as they crashed to the sand. Now more so, for the sun has sunk and the moonlight glazed over the dark waters. I didn't know how far i've walked. I didn't know what time it was either, only that the moon is up on the sky. I didn't seem to mind.

I almost drowned when i was a child, or i thought i did. My parents were only smiling when they pulled me back to the sand telling me i had nothing to fear. I told them the waves were pulling me. Mother told me the sea doesn't pull, it only pushes you back to the shore. I didn't believe her at first but after learning to swim, the waves did always push me back ashore.

I wanted to feel the waves on my feet. It seemed to be calling. The sea looked frightening still, the waves a glinting black swaying to and fro. The saltwater lapped at my feet. I stood there at awe. The moon standing still on the sky. A couple of stars beside it and below the obsidian sea. The saltwater was cold and it harshly tugged at my feet. I keep in mind what my mother said. The sea does otherwise, it seemed to pull harder. I start to head back to shore only to feel hands grasp my feet making me fall face forward. I take a lungful of air as they pull me back deeper to the waters.

At first i thought i only imagined the hands, that it was just a strong current that pulled me but i felt hands firmly grasping my ankles and all i could muster was to grasp and claw at the sand hoping to hold on to a rock or a coral i could use to hold myself to. They pull me deeper and after a few more times of trying to find something to hold on to, i let go. They continued to drag me deeper to the sea. I told myself i was going to die, that i was going to drown. That i was going to float as a body somewhere bloated and unrecognizable.

I didn't know how long i've been pulled already. I also don't know when the pain in my chest faded or how long I have not been breathing. I didn't seem to need to anymore. I open my eyes expecting the sting of saltwater but i didn't feel any. Instead, i see the moon on top of me. It looked far, very far. We must've been very deep already. I look around and see that the sea is nothing but black on all sides. I see nothing but darkness. I look to my feet and see two persons. They looked human, i couldn't see their faces. They had arms and legs. Webbed feet. Their skin looked like how a frog's would underwater. They were naked and i could see their buttocks. They were like human eels. They didn't seem to mind me, just continued on to dragging me deeper.

My only measure of time or distance as i go deeper is the moon's size. It is no bigger than a dot now. I passed by a couple school of fishes and a whale. They seemed far too for they looked small on top of me. The sea is vast, but never did it cross me how much so until iv'e been dragged for so long already. Another hour or so past by (i think?) and, finally, i see the sea bed beneath me.

The sea floor was breathtaking (if not for the fact that i am already breathless). The sand beneath was black, like soot. It covered the alleyways and streets. It was a city, a crumbled one. The houses and buildings cracked. The roads empty. The statues and (what seemed to be) lamplights eroded. Even in it's time ridden shape, the city looked prominent. A shadow of the glorious civilization it used to house. Beneath here in the sea, it looked encapsulated. Frozen in a state of almost not existing, a reminder that it used to.

But more so, was that it was illuminated by light. Every wall, every statue, every street and lamplight was covered by what looked to be bioluminiscent algae? Moss?. It covered the city with a dim light. Enough to leave darkness inside the empty windows. Enough to leave your eyes straining to see the intricate designs the houses had. But also, enough for you to see that it was a beautiful city.

They dragged me to a street leading to what i think was the plaza. A fountain was in the middle of it and it was large and circular. There was a 10-12ft statue of Neptune holding his trident in the middle of it, covered in glowing algae. It looked alive. Behind it, having 1/4 of the circumference of the plaza, were very wide steps which lead up to the castle or home of whoever ruled or owned this magnificent city. I assumed it led up to such, for the stairs length leads up to a position where a castle would sit, in front of the large plaza surrounded by the city. Only i see nothing but darkness at the end of it. They stopped dragging me and let me stand (or float for the water carried me and my feet would only briefly touch the ground to push me forward when i walk ). They held my hands and guided me towards the end of the stairs.

The city was not so empty after all. Looking around, i saw several people (or eel men, i feel it is rude to call them such) hiding behind buildings, swimming from a corner to another, or within the windows their black eyes reflecting the light from the algaes. There were some floating around 10 paces behind me following us to the top.

There was no castle. There was, however, remnants of it. Two large pillars were at my left and right and the floor here was elevated and made of polished marble. What used to be a castle is now a cliff. The castle could've fallen below it. I do not know, but it is certainly big enough for a castle to fall into it. An abyss of darkness with a depth I can no longer imagine. I felt fear for i thought they would drag me deeper still into it. I see no other land ahead, how wide and how far this abyss is is shrouded by the water's darkness.

They left me alone at the edge of the cliff. I did not know what to do. They ran (swam fast?) away from me back into the city. I was left waiting for something i do not know of. The thoughts running through my head was if i really was here, or if i was asleep, or if this is where those who die at sea would end up to. Will i turn to something like them? I looked back to the abyss and thought how many people must be below if this is indeed where they end up in.

" Those taken by the sea do not end up here. "

I hear a voice then. Only it wasn't a voice for it did not reach my ears. The ground began to shake and black sand scattered while the ground seemed to vibrate. The shaking seemed to be coming from below. I looked down and saw nothing but darkness but i knew that something was there and that it was climbing up. I hear loud thuds that shake the ground as though whatever it is is grasping the cliff to get up.

I shouldve ran. I wouldve ran but i didnt. I stood there waiting knowing that this was the reason i was dragged down here from the sea. That this was the reason i felt the urge to go home. It was coming closer, and only now hearing how loud and seeing how strong the ground shook have i realized just how far it was awhile ago. The city seemed to be moving in inches everytime the ground shaked. I looked down and still saw nothing but darkness. To my far left, a black skyscraper grabbed the ridge. I soon realized it was a very large tentacle. Another one went up and grabbed the ridge at my right. More thuds followed, seeming to grab a different part of the cliff, but i am unable to see where it is anymore. The tentacles strained then to pull up a humongous oblong body that emerged from the deep abyss infront of me. I do not know how big it was, imagine standing on the shore of the ocean and straining to see the end of each side, the size of it i can only estimate by how far i can see. It had large human-like eyes. It had eyelids and a thick brush for the lashes. I counted four from where i stood but i imagine it had more around the expanse of its body. If it had a mouth i could not see it. Its skin was covered by the algae too, and this one i knew was alive. It opened its eyes, and looked around until it saw me. The other eyes closed and only the one infront of me was open now. It glowed dimly. Its iris focused intently on me.

" Greetings, son of Apollo. "

I stood there confused. I haven't opened my mouth for fear of drowning. I only realized it now when i tried to speak that i was firmly keeping my mouth closed. But it (he? or she? does it even have a gender? does it even need one?) was wrong, and i felt like i needed to tell the truth.

" My father's name was Fred. " I said.

It, too, was confused then. I didnt know how i knew. It didn't have facial expressions. Ofcourse it didn't, it didn't have a face. But i knew that it was confused and that after the confusion it laughed (which here was another hard thing to explain for i didn't exactly hear it laughing but more of what it did if it found something humorous, which again, i just seemed to know). It looked at me happily after, seeming to mock my existence, or what little and insignificant it was compared to its kind.

" All prophets are sons and daughters of Apollo. But if it makes you feel any better you are a son of Fred too. Have you met the others? "

I said i haven't. It seemed surprised then, thinking deeply after.

" Nevermind, I always thought I'd go up last. It seemed fitting for the people of the waters to come up last. Do you know why you're here? "

I said I didn't.

" Well seeing that you’re the son of Apollo, i'm sure you're here to either get or give news. Seeing that you’re not the latter, it must be time for us to go back up then. For you to tell the people above that Atlantis is rising. It must be, the last prophet told me that if ever another comes not knowing anything, it would be to spread news of the coming of the end. Incredulous Apollo! Can't even give and receive news properly. This is why i favored Neptune. Great guy. Appreciated the sea far more than what was above. I mean who wouldn't? The land is small to house us. I don't even know why some of us tried to. "

It continued to tell more about why the sea was better. I didn't want to interrupt so i listened intently even if my mind seemed to wander how a city would rise. It seemed fitting to ask.

" How would the city rise? " i asked. It stopped it's bickering and laughed again.

" Stupid boy. This city is in ruins. There would be no need for it to rise. I told Neptune to leave it at land for a city is not fit to house people of the sea. You see, the sea is always meant to be open. Never confined within building walls or roofs. Said he favored it though, dragged a couple million of land people to their deaths bringing it down. Neptune built his kingdom here afterwards. The sea people grew to love it after awhile. It flourished for a few short centuries. Didn't last long though, the war broke up afterwards and now this has been left standing here for a hundred or more centuries. I lost count. You live as long as me and a hundred years feels like the time you spent getting here."

" It's not the city itself that would rise boy. It's the people. "

It looked up and seemed to reminisce. Remembering what it was like before. I could only imagine.

" The sun is almost up. I'm afraid i cannot keep you here any longer. I need you to tell of us. To tell of our coming. "

I looked up to see if the evening was indeed over. I couldn't see the sun, but the sky seemed less darker. It looked at me one last time, then descended back to the abyss. I had so many questions left to ask. On what he meant that the end is coming. On who he was (although there is this thought behind the back of my head that thinks i know its name, but found it unbelievable.) I tried to call it back but there was a stabbing pain on my chest suddenly. My lungs felt like they would burst. I felt the painful need to breath. I opened my mouth. I felt the water filling my lungs and my vision clouding. I struggled to keep myself from gulping down more seawater, but i couldn't. I felt it stinging my eyes. My stomach was full of it. The last image i saw was of the two eel people who dragged me down approaching me. Then a final look at the bioluminescent city and everything went black.

[jinjikook]

Roadside Dreams (M)

word count: 4.8k

genre: the fluffiest fluff i could manage + smut ; tv host! hoseok + hoseok can build stuff idk what the title it would be

pairing: reader/wonho

summary: hoseok is a host for a show that renovates old school buses into dream vans/rvs. you’ve brought him a project and over time, you’ve developed a crush for the charismatic man, wanting to take him along for the long ride you’ve dreamt up; as does he, you come to learn.

dedicated to: my wife @honeyheonie bc she deserves some tooth-rotting wonho fluff. also one word to you mi amor: diddle

a/n: this is based off an actual tv show that i literally saw half of an episode of with my mom and i instantly thought of this prompt and just had to write it

music: all of seventeen’s love & letter album 

masterlist

gif credit

“So, what do you think?” You stepped up the pastel stairs, painted to tailor your style perfectly, and your jaw dropped in awe at what you were faced with.

The interior was amazing, gorgeous even. You had only disclosed a minimal amount of details and even more less when it came to specifics. You weren’t sure what you wanted when you came to Shin Hoseok with an old school bus and a good half-hundred grand of money to throw towards it. But this? This exceeded all of your expectations; dreams of living out on the open road with nothing to tie you down or hold you back finally come to life in a divine mix of lavender and grays.

“How did you—? I mean, you just— This is amazing!” You were partially speechless by just how mesmerizingly you the entire bus was, now a ghost of its former shell. The outside was a cream based white, the only thing pointing to its old form being the shape itself. But everything else screamed home, in the way the pull out couch was neatly decorated up front and the windows were now garnished with flowers and the dash was devoid of all clunky buttons and switches, now a smooth birch counter with a glossy finish.

It was something straight out of television; from the boards of Pinterest and famous Instagram user feeds. Something that couldn’t be bought or ordered from a hippie-esque catalogue, divine in every way, shape and form and yet it was completely tailored to you and everything you needed in a house on wheels.

Hoseok took you by the hand and led you further in, ignoring the camera crew behind him that was documenting the details of the bus and the shocked expressions you kept replaying on your face.

“Now, I know you said comfort is your biggest caveat, so I went ahead and gave you this gorgeous couch that doubles as an extra bed,” Hoseok reached under the cushions to release the switch that allowed the seat to slide out and flatten into a queen sized mattress, right there in the very front of your home. You clapped and praised his choice, loving the idea of having an extra bed should you have guests or if you just wanted to sleep up front for a change.

Hoseok beamed at your reaction, elated that his personal choices reflected well. He liked to think you and he were very similar, in both tastes and ideas. It made for a relatively easy job, as sometimes he has trouble getting into the mindset of a customer to truly give them what they want but also able to branch out and test his own creativity in the process. With you, he just thought about what he’d like if he were to live in one of these, travelling the country with someone wonderful by his side to share the sights with him.

Someone like you.

Call it unprofessional, but he had a slight crush on you.

(read: a big fat “I-can-see-myself-growing-old-happily-with-you” crush)

When you came to him with this clunker of a bus and told him you weren’t sure what you wanted but you loved the simple and cozy life he fell head over heels for you, the way you cutely stood with your hands fisted in your patterned dress and how your eyes gleamed with brimming potential.

“This here, is for the ultimate cooking experience.” You watched as Hoseok pointed out the finer details, from the real marble countertop to the station above the mini-fridge that was made specifically for a coffeemaker.

“Hoseok, this is incredible! I didn’t even tell you I liked a big kitchen, I just figured it was impossible in a space like this…”

“Honey, nothing is impossible if you think big enough! I figured you were one of those women that loves to cook with someone and that requires room to not only dance around each other but also to get close and snuggly as one of you works on the eggs or something.” He got a little lost in his fantasy, imagining it was him who was in front of the stove top, working on getting the bacon just right or the eggs less runny when you come up behind him to wrap your arms around his middle and kiss the top of his bare shoulder, possibly after lazily making love in the early morning sunlight that beamed past your silken curtains.

“Well I love it, this entire place feels like a dream come true,” You trailed off, gazing lovingly all over the remainder of the bus as Hoseok guided you through all the nooks and crannies he thought up.

“And now, for the coup de gras, what I think you’ll love the most,” His hand was still cradling your own, not even caring about how he doesn’t do that with any other customer and how viewers of the show would most likely notice it later on. He walks you up the small step/storage space and you’re faced with what you wished upon every shooting star you’ve ever seen—a solid 2.5; one was an airplane and another had been only slightly falling.

“The bedroom. Fit for a queen, perfect for you.” He warmly smiled as you stood at the entrance, frozen in a stupor of amazement. The shelves were lining the walls so prettily, some even had vases or statues already on them, as if Hoseok had jumped into your mind himself and snatched all of your greatest desires and threw them all into one room.

You hoped he hadn’t seen the section in your brain that you have locked away, with a sign that states for my eyes only. In there are all the details you’ve catalogued about the handsome man beside you; the times he’d brushed his hand against you or taken yours into his own, all the flirty advances you’re sure couldn’t be true but the way he’d wink or smile right after would beg to differ.

“Go on, get a feel for the room.” Hoseok’s warm palm touched the small of your back and gave you a little nudge, urging you to step further inside and do a little exploring, find the small intricacies that Hoseok painstakingly took months to put in, one by one.

With caution, you tread over to the wardrobe he’d built into the wall, a sliding mirror door away from a surprisingly deep closet. He explained how it’d been made a little taller just to make sure your dresses wouldn’t touch the floor when they dangled from the hanger and how there was a nice little set of hooks against the wall for belts, hats and anything else your heart desired.

At this point, your heart was already Grinch-style “three-sizes-too-big” and you were swollen with admiration for Hoseok and his ability to nail everything about his job.

(You also hoped he’d nail something else but that was neither here nor there.)

As he described the painstaking process he’d gone through to custom make your curtain rods and went shopping at several locations to find the perfect knick-knacks to decorate your home, you couldn’t help the heart eyes that you’re sure the camera crew was eating up at this point. This man knew you more than anyone else you’d ever met and he’d only been commissioned a short while ago, having only been told of the basics of your life.

With only the knowledge of your job, the little things you enjoyed in life and your budget, this man was able to leap into your heart and build you a dream home only to leave with a piece of it in his pocket, forever his as long as you stayed in the abode he built for you with his bare hands.

“Now, how about giving that bed a try?” He gave you his signature eyebrow wiggle and that sinful tongue of his darted out to lick his lips and you had half a mind to drag him on the bed with you and give him a taste of his own medicine—or your tongue, same difference.

You nodded and meekly placed your knee on the bed, using your palm to feel the firmness of the mattress and the stability of the wood it was mounted onto. As you awkwardly tried to “test” the bed, Hoseok huffed behind you and chuckled before placing his hands on your hips from behind.

“You really have to give this thing a test ride, love.”

“I’ve been trying to,” You muttered under your breath, hoping he wouldn’t hear the little slip of your tongue.

Another chuckle and Hoseok is leading you onto the bed, taking the time to settle next to you almost domestically.

“Nice huh? I made sure to pick out a bed that’d suit you perfectly! And look,” He reached over your laying frame to tug at the curtains that were right by your bed side. “A beautiful view of outside; ideal if you’re staying by the beach or on the mountainside. Imagine waking up to such a sight…”

You weren’t looking out the window when he said that, only able to focus on his chiseled body still hovering over yours as he gazed dreamily out the window into the open field he’d parked the bus in to do the big reveal. The view, as far as you were concerned, was him.

“Tell me, are you satisfied with everything?” His pearl white teeth basically reflected the sunlight into your eyes and you swore you were squinting at him as you spoke.

“And so much more…” You couldn’t help but look down at his peachy lips; you blame his damned bright smile, making you deflect your eyes elsewhere and giving him ideas.

Hoseok shifted on the bed, his eyes no longer as clear as the skies outside as an inky darkness swirled inside them—at first you figured it was just a trick of the light, a trick your mind was playing on you.

“Okay guys, did you get enough footage?” Hoseok questioned the camera crew, getting a resounding thumbs up and they all shared their farewells as the director clapped Hoseok on the shoulder, saying it was another heartfelt episode that he’s sure viewers will love.

“And your chemistry! Definitely something spicy to have brought to the show, you two. It’ll surely get good ratings from the female audience, especially the ones who’ve shared their thoughts on our mastermind here.” The director chuckled as he pointed at Hoseok, giving him a hearty handshake and a thoughtful one to you before saying his own goodbye, leaving the two of you in the bedroom of the bus-turned-home. Neither of you moved an inch as the sounds of rumbling engines droned off in the distance, confirming that the others had left; that you two were utterly alone in the immediate vicinity.

“So, now that the cameras are off,” Hoseok turned to face you where you lied still on the bed, the light from the window essentially casting a spotlight on you. “What do you really think of the bus?”

A playful grin toyed on your lips and you couldn’t help but tease, as a form of punishment for the tailored torture Hoseok had been performing on you all this time.

“It’s terrible, I hate it.” Even with the words rolling off your tongue, the smile you refused to hide was a dead giveaway and Hoseok returned his own 1000-watt grin. The two of you felt some bubbling spark and suddenly you’re laughing, holding your stomach as the giggles overtook you. Hoseok seemed to have the same witchy effect on him as he doubled over in a fit of laughter, the two of you under some spell that had you on your backs on the bed. As he clutched his own stomach, you wiped at a tear that squeezed its way out as your laughter came harder.

Once the two of you had sufficiently calmed down, Hoseok looked up at you from where he lied, upside down and still as stunning as ever.

“What?” You touched your face, trying to see if maybe there had been something there that had Hoseok’s complete attention. As his wispy eyelashes fanned down with every slow blink, Hoseok drank in the vision of you; bathing in the warm sunlight and surrounded in the soft shades of gray that he painted every inch of your new bedroom in.

“Nothing, you’re just really beautiful.”

“Oh shut up, the cameras are gone Hoseok, no need to pretend anymore.” You brushed his compliment off as you finally took the time to look off into the distance, really appreciating the window that Hoseok put here.

Mind wandering, you hadn’t registered the sounds of the mattress creaking or the feeling of a warm body edging closer to yours until his breath fanned over your ear, making you whip your head around to meet Hoseok’s face directly in front of you own. Instinct told you to jump back and scream at the surprise of his proximity but his hand on your thigh and his lips on yours stopped your mind completely, shutting down all motor functions and rendering you both helpless and useless.

His lips were plump, soft and warm like a muffin fresh from the oven. You swore you tasted coconut on him, something tropical enough to make you feel like kissing him was a vacation; long awaited paradise with warm sand in between your toes and the breeze licking at your cheekbones. His breath mingled with your as his lips melded in further with your own, his craftsmanship extending past renovating things as his mouth worked some sort of mastered sorcery on yours.

You couldn’t even begin to describe how his kiss matched his hands, something along the soft lines of silk but still as firm as fresh fruit, the similarities making you dizzy but there was Hoseok; always ready to catch you. His strong arms framed your face and deepened the kiss, as he hovered over you. His tongue swept over your own and you couldn’t help but succumb to Hoseok’s charms, not knowing what spurred this on but also not caring enough to put a stop to it. Not when his hands felt so right on you and his body heat radiated and made your body feel warm to the touch despite having to constantly battle chills.

It took no time for his deft fingers to unbutton the shirt he had on, whipping off the plaid to reveal a toned body glistening with the slightest sheen of sweat from the combined heat of both your interaction and the lack of air conditioning since the bus hadn’t been turned on yet. Your eyes had a mind of their own as they greedily took heady gulps of Hoseok’s body, every dip and curve now forever etched in your memories.

Hoseok grinned and let you ogle him, taking the time to covertly make work of your buttons on your bottoms. It was when the final button snapped open that you realized his sneaky hands and you scoffed, playfully batting at him to scold his naughty fingers. He only laughed at your reaction, his hands sliding past your pants to slip under your top, the heat of his palms against your hip bones. Hoseok was silently asking permission, his thumbs gripping the fabric of your shirt until you responded. Anticipation brimmed at his fingertips and he was itching to rip the shirt off; to finally reveal the skin underneath.

When you nodded, it was like Christmas morning to the man.

He scanned your body, making sure to never forget just how gorgeous you were even in the barest of materials. The wine red of your bra accentuated your skin so well, Hoseok had half a mind to keep it on as he made love to you but he needed to see all of you, he felt like he’d just die if he couldn’t have all of you tonight.

Lips were back together, now with the sharp tang of ferocity biting between the two of you; static sparks tingling the nerves in your tongues as Hoseok took the time to unhook your bra amidst the blur of it all.

Once you were bared for him, he wasted no time in laving your breasts with his tongue. His peach plump pout peppered pecks over your pectorals, right above where your heart was thudding loudly against your ribcage. He worshipped your body with his lips, making sure not to miss a single inch of what he’d been longing for.

When you whimpered his name, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer to have you.

With his deft digits, he made work of removing the remainder of your clothes, leaving you bare for him on the mattress whilst his lower body still remained clothed. You wanted to remedy that as soon as possible and as you distracted him by sitting up and latching your mouth onto his thick neck, suckling small bruises there that stained his porcelain skin so well you couldn’t wait to see them bloom in various colors as they healed, you reached to palm him though his bottoms. He groaned at the feeling, head lolling back and revealing even more milky skin to attack.

You felt him trembling beneath your ministrations, clearly craving more but holding back.

“Hoseok,” He brought his head back up to look deeply into your eyes, gaze flickering down for a second as you darted your tongue out to wet your lips before continuing. “It’s okay, please don’t be afraid with me.”

His eyes softened, the pitch black pools fizzing into soft cocoa puddles, slightly more shimmered with a dewy wetness that you found endearing. With a small smile, his hands found yours and brought them to his mouth, each knuckle being carefully kissed before he finally rested them back into his lap, permission to continue.

His pants were off as well as his briefs and whilst you appreciated how gorgeous he looked completely nude—something akin to a Greek god, no doubt the perfect rendition of the priceless marble statues save for the more… intimate regions that he certainly did not lack in—you had some more urgent matters to attend to. As did Hoseok, if the flush on his length the steady dripping from the leaking head of it was anything to go by.

One could describe the setting to be poetic; a housewarming of sorts.

No better way to break in a house like breaking in the headboard first.

Hoseok’s calloused yet tender hands gingerly touched you all over, making you itch with arousal and need for him to touch you where you needed him most. He smiled, grin as bright as ever, as he continued to tease.

You took matters into your own hands as you deftly flipped the two of you over, nearly bouncing off completely from the freshness of the mattress springs. Erupting into yet another fit of giggles, you manage to stifle yours in the crook of his neck and despite the obvious distraction, Hoseok’s hands still managed to glide over your skin almost in a calculated manner; like he knew every place to graze to have you trembling.

“Now, now, that’s enough of that,” You chastised, stealing a kiss as you tried to pretend to take the reins. You maneuvered yourself to lay on you back once more, dragging Hoseok to follow you and cage you in. He took no time to accept his role, already kissing all over your face as one of his hands slid down to your core—a stark contrast to the gentle pecks he had trailed all across your cheeks. You weren’t expecting his finger to already make way inside you, gasping at the intrusion.

He continued to press his lips against yours as he worked you open, drinking in all your needy mewls and sultry moans as he pressed further, inching in another digit and stroking your walls in ways you’re sure you’d never be able to mimic when you’re by yourself.

“Baby, tell me when,” Hoseok whispered, breathless pants puffing against your collarbones, clearly trying to make sure you’re comfortable and feeling good but at the detriment of his own pleasure. You raised your leg and it brushed against his member, making him audibly whine against you.

“Now Hoseok, please. I want you.” He looked into your eyes again, the stare almost piercing but in a way you could only describe as tender.

His lips made their way from yours all the way to your ear, leaving a searing trail of kisses in their wake before he softly spoke into the shell of your ear, his breath audible with every labored syllable.

“Protection?” You turned your head to face him head on, mouthing I trust you and Hoseok couldn’t have looked more relieved if he tried, wanting to feel every bit of you but not knowing how to ask without seeming selfish.

His hand reached down and he guided himself inside you, using the other to spread your legs and allow him to ease his way in with minimal discomfort for you. Considerate as ever, he bottomed out slowly and kissed your nose as you closed your eyes and focused on not splitting in half.

His thick girth left you with a satisfactory fullness, having never felt such a feeling with a partner before. Despite every reason Hoseok had to be cocky with his body and sex appeal, he gave you every single minute you needed to adjust, down to the millisecond. He whispered sweet praises to you until you finally gave him the signal to move, even then still treating you like fine china as he pulled out and slowly thrusted back in.

The slow burn of his length inside you coaxed an open flame inside your belly, making your kisses turn hungry once more. Gone was the gentle, playful air that had radiated off the two of you as the atmosphere shifted to something darker, spicier.

Hoseok noted the change and began to grind into you harder, his kisses now laced with his devilish tongue and the barest hint of teeth. As his cock fucked into you with more passion, your body took on a mind of its own as your back arched and toes curled from the spine-tingling sensation of Hoseok fucking you just right. Pleased with himself, Hoseok hummed with his own pleasure, never having felt such a tight, hot heat around him like this. No one compared, the tension that coiled so tightly between the two of you throughout the span of the show having been so intense that now, in the culmination of it all,  it felt like the two of you were about to burst.

You teetered on the edge of coming for too long, not wanting to end this too soon but also feeling yourself fray at the corners from the relentless pleasure that Hoseok was managing to tear from you with ease. As you came apart underneath him, Hoseok wasted no time in clutching underneath your thighs, delving deeper inside than before. The feeling had you breathless, the wind knocked out of you long ago with just the mere sight of Hoseok; clothed or not.

“Angel, baby, I need you to come for me,” Hoseok whimpered, feeling his sanity slip from him as you continued to clench around him agonizingly.

And with that command, you were wrapped around his finger—or cock, same deal—and his word was law, having your orgasm hit you by surprise. Never had you come on command like that, but it was intense and breathtaking and everything that dirty novels wax poetry about.

Hoseok bared down and bit on the junction of your neck as he rode out his own high, taking a few more harsh thrusts inside you before his rhythm began to escape him and he sloppily came inside you, the warmth both startling and oddly satisfying. You let him catch his breath whilst still inside you, needing to catch your own as well if you had to be completely honest.

As he stayed inside, you slowly regained focus of the world; realizing where you were and just how heavy Hoseok actually was.

“Um… could you like, get off me?” You strained to speak, the weight on your lungs crushing the oxygen out of your words. Hoseok shook with laughter, that and the breathless chuckles against your neck indicating that he was laughing once more, and he dragged you into joining him as he gently pulled out; as gingerly as he’d done most everything else so far.

He plopped down on his back next to you, eyes gazing lovingly at the ceiling. He slowly let gravity do its work and his head came to rest on his arm, gaze refocusing on you as you become the main attraction; the target in his sights. You return the look with as much warmth as you could muster, hoping that even post-sex, you could still try to look good enough for him.

The way Hoseok was looking at you, it sort of terrified you. How one could look at someone so… sweetly, purely, even after such a lewd act? Yet here Hoseok was, managing it all while still looking like something straight out of a magazine—his after-sex glow had you beyond jealous, why couldn’t sweat work that way for you?

“You know, you look at me as if I hung the moon for you.” You couldn’t help your smart mouth from commenting, fighting the stash of giggles you felt bubbling from the base of your tummy and settling just behind your palate.

“Maybe you did? Have you ever considered that?”

“Ugh, so cheesy. Shut up, I thought those were just tropes for the show, to get women to like you.”

“Nope, all me.” Hoseok beamed and you resisted the urge to smother him with one of the decorative pillows he’d carefully picked out, yet another fine choice by the man.

“So, I guess we should say our goodbyes, right?” You digressed, longingly removing your eyes from him to focus on something past his lying figure, not wanting to truly come to terms with the idea of having to abandon the dreamlike lifestyle you’d envisioned with Hoseok, knowing this was probably a one-time thing and—

“What are you talking about? I really like you Y/N, was that not obvious enough?” His eyebrows furrowed in concern while yours shot up towards your hairline, not believing that his advances were actually legitimate. “Guess I should’ve used more pickup lines…”

“Hoseok, are you for real right now? Because if this is some elaborate business scheme or prank for TV, I’ll never forgive you. And I’ll probably sue for emotional distress.” You couldn’t hide the hope that glimmered in your eyes like shining pebbles in a babbling brook, the waters crashing against the creek and making your eyes get a little dewy at the thought of Hoseok being yours.

“Of course Y/N, I would never even dream of such a cruel prank! You’re really beautiful and sweet and lovely and… you’re like me. You’re a dreamer with a blank canvas and you’re dying to fill it with the colors of your mind but, sometimes it’s easier to paint with someone to help. And Y/N, I really want to color my world with you, you’re the only one I want.” Despite the slight lack of eloquence in Hoseok’s words, you still found every single bit endearing, feeling the emotion behind him as he spoke. It only served to make your eyes water more.

“Please Y/N, may I be your plus one on these travels?”

“But… the show, what will happen if you’re constantly traveling with me?” You tried to fight the pout on your lips, you really did, but it still puckered out and Hoseok chuckled at just how cute it made you look.

“The show is in its final episodes for the season, we’ve already filmed the big finale and I only need to reveal one more customers bus and that’s it!”

“Hopefully you don’t… celebrate like this with everyone after the big reveal, right?”

Hoseok laughed and this time you didn’t suppress your urge to hit him with a pillow, kissing him right after as he whined about getting hurt.

“No, just you baby. Now, shall we take this baby out for a test ride?”

“Are we talking about the bus or you?”

“Either works for me.”

“Me too.”

In a dust cloud of laughter and warmth, the two of you set off to complete your new home with a few finishing touches to truly make it yours and in the meantime, you get to test out the stability and sturdiness of the furniture Hoseok built. It was very educational, for sure.

From here on out, it was a journey with your new companion, and you had hopes that one day, you could repay Hoseok for giving you what you’ve always dreamed of:

A home.

[bestitalianmarbleindia]

BEAUTY OF NATURAL STONE BY BHANDARI MARBLE GROUP

Natural stone refers to a variety of materials which are extracted from the earth and then processed into architectural elements. This is important because different types of stone will have different properties. Marble and onyx, for instance, are very soft, easily scratched, and can be stained by liquid agents.

If you are looking for a good low maintenance stone kitchen floor, then you should probably look at materials such as slate and granite. These are very hard stones, that can be made nearly impervious to water with a proper sealing treatment. They are also resistant to scratches and divots, although chips and cracks can appear if a heavy enough object is dropped, or if the floor is improperly installed.

MARBLE

Marble is a metamorphic rock formed when limestone is exposed to high temperatures and pressures. Marble forms under such conditions because the calcite forming the limestone recrystallises forming a denser rock consisting of roughly equigranular calcite crystals. The variety of colours exhibited by marble are a consequence of minor amounts of impurities being incorporated with the calcite during metamorphism.

While marble can appear superficially similar to quartzite, a piece of marble will be able to be scratched by a metal blade, and marble will fizz on contact with dilute hydrochloric acid. Classic white marble remains the top choice for many homeowners. It’s no surprise that marble countertops are so popular—the material has been attracting fans for millennia. “It’s a natural material with great variety, depending on which species you select and how it’s cut.

What Is Natural Stone?

Natural stone, of the type that is used in homes, is 100-percent stone quarried straight from the earth, with nothing added or removed, and no color additives. Natural stone can be wholly real in shape, such as rounded river stones. Or natural stone can be carved to the desired shape, such as blocks for building, sheets for walls, or tiles for flooring.

SANDSTONE, GRANITE AND OTHER IMPORTED MARBLE

Bhandari Marble Group is the well known for top quality marble suppliers in marble market. Since 1631 we are manufacturing and supplying the top quality marble and Granite in India. We have more than 500 unique designs and different-different sizes of marbles and Granite. So people have lots of choices to choose from them.

We deal in onyx marble, marble stone, Statuario marble, Italian marble, Indian marble, Kishangarh marble, granite and provides any kind of natural stone with great finishing that our customers need. We are the most reputed suppliers, manufacturers, exporters, imported marble suppliers in the market. We provide great collection of imported and Indian marbles to your home, office, hotel, hospital and any other location with fast and quality service.

We are well known or most famous for quality, quantity, and finishing of natural stone. Since 1631 we have come to this field. People call us the pioneer company of marble field.

KISHANGARH MARBLE, MARBLE IN INDIA, GRANITE, GRANITE IN INDIA, SANDSTONE, SANDSTONE IN INDIA

We have the great collection of Indian marble and Kishangarh marble, granite, sandstone with the great and latest cutting and finishing tools for marble stone.We have the fully experienced team for cutting, finishing and supplying the marble stone with the latest technologies.

We are one of the greatest marble manufacturers, suppliers, and exporters of all kind of marble stones like marble, Italian marble, Marble Flooring, Onyx marble, Statuario marble, Sandstone, Kishangarh marble, Indian marble, Makrana marble, and Granite at an affordable price. Looking for any kind of quality marble, granite in India or anywhere in the world, you are at the best place. We provide quality marble, Granite, Limestone etc in India or anywhere in all over the world at wholesale price.

INTERESTING FACTS ABOUT MARBLE

Everyone knows marble looks great and is probably one of the best investments a homeowner can make, but there are many other aspects of this natural stone that are worth learning about. Marble has occupied a special place in the fields of masonry and construction for thousands of years. We’ve likely learned everything there is to learn about it, but some facts are more interesting than others. Here are five curious facts about marble and its various uses.

1. Some Marble Is Actually Limestone

The geologic process that results in marble starts off as limestone. Tectonic and volcanic activity consisting of extreme heat and pressure causes limestone to remineralize and change its molecular structure and appearance. Some exotic marble quarried in the Sinai Peninsula has a creamy yellow color with a pattern reminiscent of gold flecks. Since the geologic process in this part of the Earth’s crust was interrupted before reaching the surface, it would be more accurate to call this yellow marble limestone.

2. Some Egyptian Pyramids Were Covered in Marble

Thousands of years ago, many pyramids in Egypt used to be gleaming white. Ancient builders cut and polished massive slabs of white limestone for the larger pyramids and beige marble for the smaller ones. Marble blocks and columns used to decorate Egyptian temples, but they were later removed to build mosques during the caliphate periods. For this reason, you can find hieroglyphics on the marble panels of ancient mosques outside of Cairo.

3. Marble Has Uses Beyond Construction

Pulverized marble is used to make adhesives, paint, fine paper, and even luxury cases for the iPhone. Marble powder is sometimes added to “China clay,” the bonding material used to make pills. There’s one more pharmaceutical use of marble powder: since its minerals have properties that can reduce digestive acids, it can be found in medications such as Alka Seltzer.

4. Michelangelo Was Wrong About Marble

Renaissance artists sought to improve upon the classics, but they were astonished by the keen sense of aesthetics shown by ancient Greeks and Romans. Michelangelo thought his ancestors brilliantly chose marble for their sculptures because of the elegant look of pure white stone. What he didn’t know is that these statues were garishly painted in various colors, but the pigments eventually faded away.

Bhandari family has worked in and has written about the home improvement industry since 1631. We have written numerous articles on art, interior design and home improvements, specializing in kitchen and bathroom design. A member in good standing with the marble Association, we are working knowledge of all areas of home design.

MARBLE IS THE GORGEOUS..........

This is most definitely one of my most requested posts that I have been meaning to actually sit down and right for forever and a day now. So you are thinking about using marble in your kitchen? Yep, I thought super duper long and hard about it too when I was designing our kitchen. Even as professionals in the stone industry. that specializes in the fabrication and installation of stone countertops. Our start-up story is quite a lengthy one but long story short, we started our company just the us 387 years ago and it is now one of the biggest/busiest. I say that as a badge of honor. It has been the craziest, longest.

So let’s get to the cold hard truth… Is marble for everyone? YES.

I tried and I tried and I tried to find something that compared to our Statuario marble. Mark showed me every porcelain, granite and quartz slab he could find to talk me out of marble but I saw our slabs and I fell in love with it’s natural beauty. In my opinion, you really just can’t beat the elegant, classic and timeless beauty of a beautiful piece of marble. I guess Mark kind of fell in love too because he surprised me with the most beautiful hand-crafted marble sink that our company made for our home from the same slabs as our countertops. It is probably one of my very favorite pieces of art in our home…

Whew! I think that about covers the honest to goodness truth about selecting marble for your kitchen. Now how do you care and maintain your new marble to get the MOST out of your beautiful stone.

NATURAL-STONE FINISHES: HOW ARE HONED & TEXTURED DIFFERENT?

Textured vs Honed Natural Stone San Diego, CA When you go shopping for natural-stone tiles, slabs, or panels for your home, you’re likely to be offered various types of finished surfaces. There are various kinds of finishing styles that can be applied to natural stone, but most stores offer just a handful, which can be divided into two main categories: honed and textured. As its name suggests, a textured finish features a tactile element, while a honed finish is smooth to the touch. Both honed and textured surfaces can be glossy, but this is more often the case with the former than the latter. Modern finishing techniques can be applied to just about any stone, but some are more adequate than others in terms of form and function.

No matter what type of finish you have, you’ll need to clean it regularly with a specially formulated granite countertop cleaner like Granite Gold Daily Cleaner®. All of the products offered by Granite Gold® can be used on any type of finish as well as any type of stone, including granite, marble, slate, and travertine.

Honed Finish

When stone blocks are initially cut into slabs and tiles, their surfaces will be naturally textured. If you prefer a smooth and even look, this will require grinding and sanding, which in turn results in a honed look. You can expect some level of gloss after honing, particularly with stones such as marble, granite, and quartzite, but if the desired effect is a mirror-like surface, honing will require an extra step.

Whatever finish you have on your natural-stone countertops, here’s a video explaining the quick and easy 3-step process for caring for your stone properly:

Polished Finish

This is the look most homeowners think of when they envision marble floors and granite countertops. The polished look starts off with honing, but the sanding and grinding of the surface is augmented with a few more abrasive processes plus a lot of polishing. This finishing technique has been used for centuries. When it’s applied to white marble, the colors and veining really come out and light is reflected in a very attractive manner. Frequent sealing is a must for homeowners who want to preserve polished surfaces. If you want a polished floor, seek the help of a professional. It’s not recommended to polish stone floors yourself because it will make them very slippery.

Natural Finish

Various finishing techniques can be applied to achieve a textured surface that approximates the natural look of the stone upon being quarried. For example, the split-face method creates a slightly rough surface ideal for interior décor that favors a rustic look. Vertical panels generally look better with a natural finish. An example would be a fireplace surround or decorative entrance columns in a foyer. An advantage of natural finishing is that it tends to be more affordable.

Flamed Finish

The textures created by the split-face technique may be a little too rough for flooring and counters. A better option would be to expose the stone surface to very high temperatures, thus creating a reaction among its crystalline elements. The result is an attractive look that’s imperfect, slightly textured, and somewhat glossy. Limestone, marble, and granite surfaces with a flamed finish can still be buffed and polished without diminishing their traction.

OUR SPECIALIZATION

We are the specialize in quality, quantity and finishing of marble stone, that is our unbeatable strategy or no one can match our quality and price. We have the wide collection of Indian marble, Italian marble, granite, sandstone and many other marble stone. We have the largest and maximum experienced team of engineers who delivers the marble products to our customers at reasonable price.