#An example of a large rustic water fountain landscape. statue

[shiroweenie]

Fountain Landscape (Omaha)

[zanamoses]

Omaha Landscape

[cozycryptidcorner]

Chapter One

Sweat glues your hair against your forehead, droplets running down your temples and down onto your shirt. Your arms protest against the pressure as you lift a rather heavy vase, one painted in tiny, intricate blue details, and stand on the very tips of your toes to push it on top of an old oak cabinet without running the risk of chipping the base. You let out a little wheeze once you manage to wiggle it right into place, taking a moment to crack your knuckles to release some tension, then step back to take one last look to make sure it appears fine. Satisfied, you turn around as your phone begins to chirp, the screen announcing the caller as one of your few employees.

You pick it up, hitting the accept call button and lifting the phone to your ear. “What’s up, Jill?”

“Just giving you an update, boss,” the child-like voice offers, though the owner is well into her late twenties, “the equipment arrived at the next location, Boomer and the others are about to start gutting the kitchen.”

“Sounds good,” you say, clicking the pen lying on a nearby table to help you focus. You try to bring up your memory of the room, having visited for a full day before heading back to the current job at hand, trying to picture just what you plan on doing with it once you get there. “Don’t forget that I want the exposed brick to stay put. The owner said she liked ‘rustic,’ so that’s what we’re going to give her.”

“Yes, ma’am,” there’s not too much respect in the voice, more like Jillian is poking fun at your authoritative stance. “Anything else? Getting lonely?”

You let out a loud snort. “Not yet, can’t say I miss Boomer’s constant arguments with Steph and Jack.”

“Okay, Lemme know if you need any help, I could use a break from the bickering too.”

“Will do, talk to you later.”

The castle isn’t the worst place you’ve had to turn into a liveable space, but it’s not without its challenges, that’s for sure. A crew of people from the local electric plant has had to wire up the entire place, a septic system had to be installed, oh, and also pipes for running water had to be dug. Working around people all trying to do their own jobs without any attempts to stay out of each other’s way has tested your patience to the very most thinnest line you didn’t even know you could take, but at least it’s over.

Your speakers blare music loud enough to be heard on the other end of the castle as you hold out strips of sample colors from the nearest hardware store, comparing and contrasting the two until you come up with a couple of possibilities for the room. The sun shines in through the freshly bought glass panes, warming the room to a comfortable temperature without the need to turn on the newly installed heating system. Carefully and thoroughly, you write down the exact serial numbers of the colors you’re deciding on, and tuck the notebook in your back pocket. You’ll head over to the hardware store tomorrow, but for now, you’re probably good to prime the walls.

The castle isn’t gigantic, it’s not like the kind you’d see in Disney movies that can seemingly house an entire city within its walls, but it’s definitely mansion-sized. A couple dozen rooms, enough to make a decently sized inn, which is exactly the plan you’re running with under the instruction of the castle’s new owner. Oh, speaking of which, they’re visiting the day after tomorrow, so you better have a good report to give to them. You open up one of the cans of primer, the scent of artificial wrongness causing your eyes to water, but you continue working like you aren’t in danger of choking on some wack fumes.

The first layer doesn’t take too much work, the roller sponge reaching all those tough places on the ceiling you wouldn’t manage to get to without the tall ass handle. Your people did a decent job making sure the plaster on the walls is smooth as silk when they painted the stuff on, so you don’t have to sand anything down before the second layer. Since this is supposed to be the ‘renaissance room,’ you’re stuck painting frescos on the walls like the many geniuses did a few millennia ago, and hoo boy do you have your work cut out. The owner seems fine with the outrageous price you named when you heard what they wanted, but a part of you regrets making such a time-consuming decision.

You have a couple of sketches on hand, pre-approved by the person in question, but still, you tap a bit of willow charcoal against the side of the paper as you try to come up with some different options that might be a little more fun for you to paint. But you need to stretch- and get some fresh air before you start feeling lightheaded from the primer fumes. Still trying to filter some sort of decent idea through your head, you wander through the halls, marveling at how your people managed to string up some modern chandeliers in the short amount of time they had. There’s a rather large and curving staircase that connects the first and second floors, one that you just had to keep in all its glory, though now it’s polished within an inch of its life.

There are several exits you can use, but you decide on the one that spits you right out into the garden, which is pretty darn dead for the most part. You know that an army of landscapers is coming to start planting things sometime in the near future. Still, you neither know what company it is or when they will be here, so you untangle the sweater from around your waist and somehow get it on without having to put your sketchbook and charcoal down. There’s a large fountain that hasn’t seen water in probably a hundred or so years, dead leaves collecting in its nooks and crannies, but at the center of the empty pool is a rather incredible statue.

It’s up on a pedestal, body in a suave contrapposto pose. The hair is carved in a mop of unbelievably gorgeous curls, you can almost imagine yourself running your fingers through it despite knowing very well that all you’ll feel is solid rock. Its face is a perfect example of what’ bedroom eyes’ means, its gaze staring directly towards an invisible partner, mouth in a sultry, inviting smile. Whoever carved it, though, definitely outdid themselves with the butt because good god the careful balance between curve and firmness is extraordinarily executed. The thighs, too, look like they could crush a melon between them, but there’s just something about the butt that always makes you stop for a minute to admire it in all its glory, no matter what you’re doing at the moment. Jillian’s mocked you a few times for ogling it perhaps a little too intently, but you know what?

You get your phone out, already formulating a dumb little stunt to put on your Instagram page. Oh, Jillian is the only one on your crew who is going to think it’s hilarious, but maybe your followers will also find it funny. Cautiously, you step over the wall of the fountain, avoiding the pipes that at one time pumped water into the knee-deep pool, and then take a moment to look over the inscription at the statue’s base. It strikes you as rather odd, mainly because you would think that a plaque would instead belong on the outside wall of the fountain, rather than right at the feet of the statue. It’s in ancient greek, or at least, that’s what the owner of the property told you when you asked some time before.

Trying your best not to use the statue’s available limbs for balance, you step up onto the pedestal, getting rather cozy with those lovingly carved abs. You have to stand on the tips of your toes to get your mouth anywhere near his, and yes, up close, those lips look even more inviting than usual. After a moment of fiddling with your phone’s camera filters and trying to find a good angle to show off your jawline and chin, you press your mouth up against the statues, glancing up only briefly to make sure the camera’s got everything. Then you close your eyes and pretend like this is the most magical moment you’ve ever experienced, finger clicking the shutter button. You take a moment to look over what you’ve got, your arm still around the statue’s neck, biting your lip as you pick which one is going to go online.

It doesn’t take you long to pick out two or three. The angle and lighting in those are a bit off from the others, not in a bad way, though, but it kind of almost looks like the statue isn’t just the recipient of the kiss. Actually, now that you really look at it… the shadows make it look almost like it’s leaning into your mouth, which you suppose is going to sell the picture even more. Neat. You hop off the pedestal and step over the wall of the fountain. Enough break time, you decide, picking up your sketchbook where you mindlessly tossed it, and head back into the castle.

You didn’t have any wild inspirations while you were making out with the stone, so you decide instead to start working on something that doesn’t take as much brain juice as, say, designing an original fresco that’s supposed to rival Raphael’s Philosophy. At the moment, you’re probably better off painting the freshly stripped and primed walls of the library, something that doesn’t require intricate thought. The paints for the library have already been purchased and delivered, courtesy of Steph, so buckets of baby blue wait for you on the protective layer of plastic taped to the floor. Turning on some loud music, you begin, stirring up one of the paint buckets and pouring some into a container long enough for the roller brushes.

Throwing yourself into the work is easy, so long as you try to keep yourself entertained. After the music loses your interest, you take a quick break, flipping through podcasts while sipping water. Wiping some sweat from your face, you happen to look through the window and into the garden to see that... Wait- the statue- the statue is missing? You frantically walk over to the glass and look out, your heated breath fogging your view. Your first impression is correct; the statue isn’t on the pedestal, which is fucking impossible? That thing has to weigh almost a ton, it’s a slab of rock, no one can just walk away with it.

You’re outside before you can even register the shock of your feet hitting the cobblestone of the path, your lungs wheezing from the sudden strain of exercise and nerves. There’s no fucking way you lost a whole ass statue after being alone for just three days, but, oh, that’s precisely the kind of stuff you would expect to happen to you. Of course your dumb ass would somehow lose the most valuable thing on this property, oh, god, you’re going to be so fired. This is going to destroy your company’s reputation, you’re never going to be able to get another job again and then you’ll have to dissolve it all once the owner decides to sue and you’ll never be able to so much as breathe in the direction of interior design again-

“Fuck!” You shout, kicking uselessly at the pavement. It’s gone. The whole thing’s fucking up and gone, and you’re doomed.

“What’s wrong?” A new voice says, too close to your body for your liking, so you do what anyone else in your position might and punch the source of the sound on reflex, letting out a loud shriek.

Instead of some rando’s face, you end up striking something stone-like as hard as you can muster, your knuckles exploding with a rush of pain. Your muscles twitch, and then you can’t feel anything but a heated throb pulsing through your fingers, but you don’t pay any attention to your ruined hand. Rather, you’re eyes are glued to the quite literal stony features of a man’s face, a face that would be on kissing level if you stood on the very tips of your toes.

“No,” you say, because, between the pain and the shock, you can’t think of anything else that would entirely summarize what you’re feeling at the moment.

Its smile is radiant despite the fact you had just struck it with the intent to knock a couple of teeth out, eyes somehow wild with an emotion you can’t place, and then it sets a well-sculpted hand on the side of your face. A split second later, you realize that it is leaning forward with the intent to kiss you again, so you do what anyone else might do in the moment.

“No,” you yelp, placing a hand on his mouth, and then repeat, “no.”

Confusion settles on his features, his brows furrowing, his mouth still in an inviting curve. “What’s wrong?”

Oh, dear god. Its voice... is like it was made for sex, melodic, soft, yet also firm. There’s a singer that you love to turn on and kick back in relaxation, the lyrics smooth and accented, running over you like a gentle stream of water, and that’s the only way you can think to describe the way that- that statue speaks, without sounding like an insane person. In fact, you’re so focused on trying to place which foreign singer that he sounds like that you forget that your hand is still firmly on his mouth, pushing his face away.

“I’m going to get fired.” That’s all you can think about. The owner of the property is going to take one look at the living, breathing statue and have a goddamn conniption.

“There is no need to fret, darling-”

“No need to fret?” You’re about to start screaming. “This is supposed to make my fucking career, and now the most priceless part of the fucking property somehow gained sentience is, um, walking around? I’m going to get scalped, no one else is going to hire me-”

“I have naught an idea of what you speak of,” it brushes some baby hairs away from your sweaty forehead, “but all shall be well, so long as you stay with me.”

You’re choking on the air because your body doesn’t know what else to do with itself. Still, somehow, you manage to pull yourself from its arms, needing a moment to breathe in an environment that didn’t involve something trying insistently to make out with you. Deep, deep breath, you coach yourself, dusting your sweaty hands on the front of your shirt, remembering suddenly that you might have accidentally fractured a couple of fingers when a sharp pain runs up the length of your forearm. “Shit.”

“Would-”

“Stop talking!” You need to think, and you need to tend to the already swelling knuckles on your hand. Hopefully, you won’t need a trip to the hospital. Angrily, you pace, two steps to the side, then three steps back, looking at the pedestal, then at the statue, and finally on the castle. “Fuck, just- just follow me, I guess.”

You storm back into the common room, frantically looking for wherever the hell the first aid kit ended up getting stashed. It’s not with the paperwork or folders keeping track of the tabs you’re racking up at the local hardware store, so you run over into the kitchen where the brand new industrial stoves and ovens are and start rifling through the cabinets until you finally find the white tin box. The statue follows you, thankfully, because you aren’t about to allow a potentially million-dollar statue to start wandering the cliffside without adult supervision.

After a minute of fiddling the sides of the locks with one hand, the statue makes a reach for the box just as you manage to open it. Quickly, you shoot it a chilling glare and pull the medical supplies closer, rifling through the contents until you find something for the spots on your fingers where the skin broke open. Okay, yes, it’s a little awkward to be doing this all with one hand, but you’re not going to let that… thing anywhere near you, much less your bloodied hand. Speaking of which, despite the substantial damage done to you, the statue doesn’t seem at all bothered by the strike which would have at least knocked an average person off their rhythm, but…

You reach over and take his jaw into your good hand, moving his head to the side to check for any damage. The stone is still in place, not a single chip flew off, which might be expected because this thing is a fucking rock. Though even now, a part of you wants to believe that this is some kind of ridiculously elaborate prank the owner is pulling for a publicity stunt, and this is a man in really convincing makeup. To call attention to the inn, you know, get some national headlines. Pull in more customers. Haha, look, it’s the stupidly handsome statue that scared the everloving shit out of the poor contractor. But if this were a man, there would be swelling puffing out that ridiculously beautiful jawline because you hit hard.

Angry that you aren’t able to come to the conclusion you want, you let go, returning back to sloppily wrap your wounded hand in some gauze and tape. Tea, you need some goddamn tea, you think, rummaging through the sparse pantry full of some random items you bought while in town, after all, you can’t get takeout for every meal three months straight. Not unless you want to take your bank account to a back alley and shoot it like a diseased dog. Urgh, finally, something relatively strong that might help cool your nerves down a notch or two.

“Do you… like, drink or anything?” You ask as an afterthought, filling a kettle with water from the sink.

“I don’t know.” He regards the kettle with curiosity, eyes following your movement with close precision.

“You don’t know,” you say in your best imitation of someone who is just positively stoked. “Awesome.”

“I have a rather interesting feeling that this is an unexpected happening,” the statue posits, placing its arms on the counter, an action that sends a shot of panic through your chest.

“Get off the granite, get off-” you half push, half lift him away, bending over and running your fingers over the countertop to look for scratches. A bit of relief breaks off into your chest, and then another, once you find no damage to speak of. Angrily, you wave your hands in the direction of a small, nondescript wooden table that’s already stained and pummeled within an inch of its life. “Just…. Take a seat over there, m’kay?”

The statue, thankfully, seems fine with listening to you, moving over to the bench and sitting while you find two mugs to use. There are dishes, at least, which wasn’t the case when your crew first started working on this project, but it’s nice to not have to eat out of styrofoam to-go boxes and drink out of travel tumblers anymore. The statue watches you intently while you work, eyes following every movement like you might offer up the secret to the universe in passing, and as the kettle shrieks, you decide that you’re just about over <em<that. You don’t care to give him any tea options, so you toss halfheartedly bag into both mugs after filling them with near-boiling water.

You set the cup in front of him, your teeth gritted, as you try to wrack your brain for where to start with your questioning because you have thousands of them rattling around in your head. After a moment, though, you decide to start with something easy. “Do you have a name?”

“I don’t know,” he says, too cheerfully for you to deal with.

“Where do you come from?” You try again.

His eyes grow distant for a moment, then suddenly snap back to reality. “I don’t know.”

You let out a frustrated breath. “Is there anything you do know?”

“I do know that you’re the one who brought me here,” he says, looking at you once more like you’re… like you’re a god or something.

“No I didn’t,” you say, as bluntly as you can muster, letting out a dry laugh.

He doesn’t say anything in response, only offers you a sly smile, tapping on his lips with two fingers.

You catch on immediately, a thrill of panic running down your spine. “No.”

His smile widens, and he nods. “Yes.”

“I did not-”

“You did.” He reaches over and gently takes your injured hand, looking over the hasty bindings with interest. “A kiss of someone with love in their heart. That’s what I know.”

You want to throw up. “I don’t- like I’m sure you’re a decent statue person, but I don’t-”

“Love me?” He finishes innocently. “Perhaps not now, but I’m sure you will be… convinced.”

You gently take back your hand, all the nerves in your body running on overdrive, and oh boy, if you weren’t sweating before, you’re sweating now. “The only thing I want to be convinced of right now is that you aren’t going to get in the way of me and my job.” 

 “What would that be?”

“Making this into an acceptable place to live or whatever,” you take a shaky sip of tea, “and the thing about that is that you’re supposed to be the main attraction.”

To your dismay, he seems absolutely thrilled by that statement. “Am I that handsome that people flock from neighboring villages to see me?”

”No, you fucking-” you take a deep, shaking breath to try calming yourself down before you finish that sentence, and start again. “No. You’re a prized relic. The guy who owned the property before the current one was an art collector, and you are kind of a big deal. Um,” you tap your fingers against the table as you try to recall what the new owner said, “you’re one of the oldest statues that have been pulled from Greek ruins,intact, so that’s kind of a big deal.”

That seems to catch his attention. “Greek… ruins?”

“A temple or something, I don’t really remember, she mentioned in it passing.” You cover your face with your hands, trying to get your fucking shit together before a full-blown meltdown happens. “There was an art historian who estimated your value to be in the millions. If the owner stops by and sees that her block of gold is no longer where it’s supposed to be, she’s going to assume theft. And do you know who the only person with unmonitored access to the entire property is? Do you know who is going to get blamed?”

“So tell her of this miracle.” He reaches over and covers your hands, gently peeling them back from your face. God, that smile is awful, mostly because it’s flawless and makes your insides want to melt. “Surely, she will understand that this love is a gift from the gods themselves.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. “I don’t think that’s going to work.”

“It will,” he promises, “surely anyone, even those with the heads of asses, will see that a miracle is present.” He’s about to say even more, you can tell by the way he tilts his head and takes a breath, but then your phone rings.

You wriggle out of his grasp and pull it out of your pocket. Oh, good god, speak of the devil. How the hell are you supposed to explain this? Can you even try? Should you? You swallow thickly, your good hand shaking as you hit the button to receive the call. Holding up your hand in the universal gesture for shut the fuck up, you answer, praying your voice doesn’t sound like sandpaper. “Hello, Marge! How’re things going?”