#it’s giving Pygmalion and Galatea

[fromedennn]

Galatea and Pygmalion—

Gérôme, Jean-Léon "Pygmalion and Galatea" // Normand, Ernest "Pygmalion and Galatea" // Ovid Metamorphoses // Regnault, Jean-Baptiste "Pygmalion" // Raoux, Jean "Pygmalion Adoring His Statue" // Falconet, Etienne-Maurice "Pygmalion and Galatea" // Shaw, George Bernard Pygmalion

[chesue00]

Sculptor Leon

It's giving Pygmalion and Galatea🤭

[bloodygnqv]

Oh Say Can You See

John Price x fem reader

cw: smut!! minors dni!, size difference (reader is described as small but dw there’s no infantilization), uuuh i think that’s it??

A/N: fuck the national anthem it’s a lana song. it’s been a while since i’ve written smut hope you enjoy anyway bless you all xx 🙏🏻

“Are you okay, love?” John asks you from where you’re laying on your side.

He’s all warmth and comfort, musk and tobacco and leather, a stark contrast between the feminine fruits and spring flowers and candy you enjoy wearing.

His voice is a quiet rumble, the crackle of a fireplace, the roar of an engine, the step on snow.

“Mhm, yeah,” you reply, sleepy and pliant, “Just really missed you.”

John lays on his side as well, cuddling you from behind. He’s always been the bigger spoon, arms and hands so large, so strong he can fully wrap them around your waist, cup your breasts in his palms, keep you to himself. His greed for you and your affection lodges in his throat.

You can feel him hardening against your back, and you stifle a small smile. “Go ahead, John, I’ve been waiting all day,” you whisper, your own desire sparkling in your belly, black milk and rose red and the veil of longing.

“God, you’re soaking. That needy pussy just needs some attention, huh?” His fingers slide against your slit gently as you whimper an affirmative and lift your leg a bit to give him access.

“I can take you, John, really, you can just slide in,” you mumble, stroking at his thigh greedily.

“Are you sure, sweetheart? You’re so small and I haven’t prepped you, you know it might hurt…”

Concern laces his voice like poison ivy. It almost makes you melt — he’s always been like this from the moment you two got together, soft care and love so strong it almost suffocates you.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I played with myself earlier..”

“Okay then,” he permits. He taps the head of his dick over your pussy, still not going in, syrupy whines escaping your throat.

And then his cock notches at your leaky entrance, slowly going in, and every little nag and annoying pesky thought hide somewhere in the back of your head.

“Oh,” you gasp and look down to where you two are connected.

John isn’t very long, but he’s thick, thick enough that you feel the stretch every single time you have sex. He carves out a place for himself in you, Galatea and Pygmalion, gentle marble across your legs (his large hands completely envelop the expanse of your thighs, leaving galaxy marks in his wake).

“Yeah,” John breathes, heavy, grunting out a response, “That’s it. Almost there, love, you can take it. Shit, you’re tight…”

You mewl, hands scraping for purchase against the duvet as he runs his fingers through your hair, his beard tickling your neck, whispering cotton candy filth in your ear. You know he’s already pushed in as you feel his heavy balls snug against your ass.

“There you go. Feels good, eh?”

“It does,” you whimper. There’s the slightest touch of too much, tiniest specks of pain, but they’re quickly chased away by the time John starts thrusting lazily. You’re not gonna last long, and if John’s satisfied grunts are anything to go by, he isn’t, either.

You grab his thick arm from where it’s perched over the gentle curve of your waist, delicate wrist teasing the underside of his palm and intertwining your fingers.

You’ve never felt more at home. You’re exactly where you need and want to be, ballad-like moans and late comfortable nights, devoted eyes and lust as a virtue. John’s filling you up just right, quenching the thirst that has simmered in you all day, pushing you off the edge.

John’s other hand reaches around and starts playing with your clit, just enough pressure in circles to bring you over the edge. He always goes the extra mile when it comes to expressing his love through pleasure, making your legs shake, newborn fawn, you are, seeing constellations and new planets beneath your eyelids.

“I’m gonna cum,” you murmur.

“Go ahead, baby. I missed you so, so much, my beautiful girl,” John rasps, peppering small kisses on the canvas of your neck.

There it is — the explosion of feeling and love and pleasure in your tummy, crawling down your legs and up your arms, making you moan and fist the sheet under your body.

Your orgasm pushes John to the edge, and you can feel his spend spilling in the crevice of your cunt, loud groans echoing in the corners of your ears, arms tightening around your small frame. That’s his favorite place to cum in, warm velvet around him, all that love that burns like a motor in his skin.

John pulls out slowly and lovingly cleans you up as your consciousness slips away from you. It’s been a long, long day, and the great sex is but your favorite way to release tension and put you in that space between wake and sleep.

The afterglow sneaks its way in your vein as you lay across John’s thick, hairy chest and close your eyes. This is your favorite time of day, all warm and snug and happy.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

His caress always feels like a blanket, a balm to soothe your wounds, a hazy morning dream you don’t want to wake up. It makes you all the more grateful, lying with the man you love in a space you two made.

[colleendoran]

The Secret Language of a Page of Chivalry: The Pre-Raphaelite Connection

Adapting Neil Gaiman’s Chivalry is a decades-long dream fulfilled. The story as text can be enjoyed on multiple levels, and so can the art. You look at the pages and see the pretty pictures, but the pictures also have meta-textual meaning. Knowing this secret language adds to the experience.

Some people pick up the references quickly, but I’ll share with you some more of what’s going on under the surface.

In Ye Olden Days of Art Making, most painters made pictures that contained visual narrative cues. Flowers in a picture might be heraldic signs that signaled political affiliations, or could indicate purity, anger, or love. Purple was the color of kings. A dog in a picture might represent faithfulness, and butterflies could represent the soul.

There are Pre-Raphaelite paintings with so many symbols and ideas in them that you need a deep working knowledge of Victorian and Edwardian social mores to understand what’s going on.

For example, Ford Madox Brown’s Work, a painting which took some 13 years to complete, was first exhibited in 1865 with a catalogue explaining all its symbols and elements. There is nothing in that picture that doesn’t mean something.

I brought some of that visual meta-textual sensibility to Chivalry, (and I’ve written about the symbolism and meanings in the work in other essays.)

I also brought into the work direct Pre-Raphaelite art references.

From 1868-1870, Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones created four paintings illuminating the tale of Pygmalion and Galatea, entitled Pygmalion and the Image, and wrote a poem with each line titling one painting:

The heart desires

The hand refrains

The godhead fires

The soul attains.

A perfect little poem for Chivalry, and I think of it often when some people present me with what I think is a very strange question: why didn’t Galaad just take the Holy Grail from Mrs. Whitaker?

It kind of breaks my heart that people would even ask that.

Burne-Jones painted two versions of this series of which this is the second.

In the first panel of this page, Sir Galaad kneeling before the Grail is derived from the figure of Pygmalion kneeling before Galatea: The Soul Attains.

Sir Galaad’s restraint even in the face of his greatest desire makes him worthy of his prize.

There are two Pre-Raphalite references in this page, the most obvious being in panel 2: it’s Sir John Everett Millais’s 1857 work A Dream of the Past: Sir Isumbras at the Ford.

The painting was very poorly received on first exhibition, compelling Millais to redo significant portions of it. It was caricatured and ridiculed, and then ended up becoming influential and popular, and isn’t that the way it goes.

That’s an art career in a nutshell, really.

The Sir Isumbras image also influenced John Tenniel’s illustrations for the Lewis Carroll Alice in Wonderland novels.

Sir Isumbras derives from a 13th century Medieval romance poem about a good knight whose pride causes him to fail in his Christian duty. He is presented with a series of difficult challenges before he can find happiness again, reunite with his family, and be forgiven his sins. The painting by Millais is based less explicitly on the poem than it is on a later parody of the poem. (It’s complicated.)

My using Sir Isumbras as the base for the shot of Galaad with the children is obvious here. In the Millais painting, Sir Isumbras carries a woodcutter’s children across the ford. In Chivalry, Sir Galaad carries the children of Mrs. Whitaker’s neighborhood down the street.

While Sir Isumbras spent many years learning humility and Christian duty, Galaad has a long quest to fulfill before he can achieve his goal. And on the way to that goal, he’s humble and nice to children, too.

That the Millais painting was such a huge influence on many a depiction of knighthood over the years made it a perfect reference point here, and the story behind both the painting and the poem give it further layers of meaning.

The next panel has a far less obvious reference, but the source is Arthur Hughes’s painting The Rescue.

Arthur Hughes is one of the lesser-known Pre-Raphaelites, but his art is widely seen and influential. He’s certainly been a big influence on me, as many of his paintings appear again and again in Arthuriana references, as he was a prolific King Arthur picture tale teller.

The Rescue (1907-1908) was originally part of a diptych which was separated and sold back in the 1920’s. His style was becoming unpopular by the time Hughes painted the work, and little is known about this work except that one panel was in the collection of Andrew Lloyd Webber at some point. Maybe still is. Dunno.

Anyway, the diptych depicts a little child kneeling in prayer menaced by a dragon in one panel, and in the next, safely trotting away with a knight on horseback. I like that this is a diptych, a kind of proto-comic art form common in medieval religious art, so this was perfect to use here.

Another reference to Arthur Hughes is in this double page splash from later in the book as Galaad on his quest encounters the Hesperides.

I didn’t set out to reference this Arthur Hughes piece at first, but it’s one of my favorite paintings. When I realized my sketches for this scene kept echoing the Hughes composition, I went with it. The Hughes painting of Galahad is one of the most famous depictions of the character, so it makes me happy to have this referenced in Chivalry.

Kindly ask for CHIVALRY, published by Dark Horse Comics in the USA and by Headline Books in the UK at your local comic shops or bookstore. Written by Neil Gaiman. Adaptation and art by me.

For further reading on this project, go HERE.

HERE.

And HERE.

Thank you to my Patreon patrons for sponsoring my work and this post.

Colleen Doran Illustrates Neil Gaiman will be a solo exhibit at the Society of Illustrators in New York City this spring. Watch this space for updates.

Have a wonderful holiday season.

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

Pygmalion

[Prologue]

Summary: young woman meets Perturabo and becomes a sculptor in the Iron Blood.

Perturabo/Galatea (OC)

Warnings: no for this part

Word count: 2902

Author's note: The story is alternative version of The desire to possess.

In the prologue we get to know Galatea more. In the following parts there will be more interactions with Perturabo. His POVs will be there as well. With each part the story will get darker and more warnings will appear.

Song: Rammstein - Seemann

Blessed Terra, the birthplace of all humanity and the abode of the Emperor himself. To be born here is a real luck and a gift of fate. To be part of the great Imperium and a resident of the capital. Galatea did not know if the inhabitants of other planets really thought so, but one had to give credit to the iterators. Their skills even made her believe in such truth.

But she was born on the lower levels of the hive and saw the other side of the coin. Dirt and soot, unbearable heat from which weakened serfs died. Galatea herself was born into a family of workers and fully felt the ugliness of such a life. Her parents died too early and she was raised by her grandparents, barely working in a factory. Although her home was closer to the middle levels and therefore she was not born with complications like other children on the lower levels.

Well, after her life changed for the better, there was no need to worry about this. As a child, the girl was often afraid to go to bed, thinking that she would wake up in her tiny, rusty house again. And every time she got up in the morning, she thanked fate for her luck. Even if the Imperial Truths denied such a concept, the little girl then could not come up with another explanation for her new situation.

Galatea had not yet managed to become a full-fledged worker at the factory (although she also made her contribution) due to her age and therefore often spent time outside. She collected stones and built “barricades from the enemies of humanity” and “beautiful palaces”. But most of all, she loved to carve these images in her head on stone. At first, she did not do it very well, but over time, her persistence bore fruit.

Soon she could carve entire pictures on stone. She was especially good at portraits. She even gave them to her grandparents, causing tears of joy and delight on their faces. At least that's what she thought then. But in reality, her dear grandfather and grandmother were saddened that Tea would never be able to reveal her talent because of her origin.

At least, that was the case until one of the best sculptors of Terra, Solomon Vlahos, came to their home. The man was walking around the area in search of inspiration (not for the sake of orphans and the disadvantaged, alas) since the upper levels of Terra had already ceased to bring pleasure. The whims of the rich, as Grandpa used to say. And having learned about Tea's talent, he immediately came to their home to see the child prodigy with his own eyes.

He was impressed. So much so that he offered the grandparents to take the girl to his school for sculptors. Vlahos was even ready to adopt her so that they would not be afraid for the life of their child. Tea remembered that she cried for a long time that day, but her grandma assured her that it would be better for her. They are giving her to the sculptor because they love her.

Galatea never saw them again after that day. The only thing she was able to take with her was an old gray rag. Specially twisted into a rope so that it resembled a person. For the girl, it was a knight, but when Solomon saw the toy, he called it an Iron Warrior. Although the Space Marines were an important part of the Imperium, but being a lower class, Tea knew little about the legions.

But with her new “father”, she not only entered the school of sculptors (named after Vlachos, who would doubt it), but was also able to learn to read. And even gain access to his limitless library. A luxury unheard of for many terranians! And Tea took full advantage of it, absorbing knowledge like a sponge (and this is not to mention the fairy tales that she read at the speed of light).

And of course, thanks to this, she was able to learn about the Legions, the main armies of the Imperium of Man, led by the finest warriors. The Primarchs, the sons of the Emperor himself, whom in ancient times people would call demigods. Tea loved to read about the Space Marines.

But most of all, she loved the Iron Warriors. True heroes who did not wear beautiful and sublime armor like the Emperor's Children or the Blood Angels. They did not just participate in battles. They participated in real sieges, waged grueling wars and were famous for their impeccable fortitude.

Tea could not understand why everyone preferred other Marines. The Imperial Fists were also on her list of favorite Legions for their fortress-building. But there was something about the Iron Warriors that caught the girl's eye. Perhaps it was their grey-yellow armour, reminiscent of a house or her first old rag doll that had fallen apart over the years (she had missed it for a long time).

But be that as it may, Galatea dreamed of one day exalting this Legion as it deserved. And showing the entire Imperium that they were heroes and worthy of recognition like other Space Marines. Even if they were previously called “Corpse Grinders” (the Imperium harshly punished anyone who mentioned the forgotten nickname), Tea understood that war was cruel. And the fact that everyone so conveniently ignored the terrible military actions of other Legions was unfair.

Yes, she dreamed about it a lot. But with each passing year, despite her growing skill, she also understood that not everything should come true. Perhaps Galatea Vlachos would become one of the best sculptors, of which there are as many on Terra and in the entire Imperium as dirt. Perhaps she would be able to create her own school someday. To visit her native land (her grandparents had already died of old age). But to go on a Crusade on the Iron Blood? Absurd.

Then why was she here?

Why was she in the halls of the Golden Palace of Terra? Why was she alone in a corridor with Perturabo himself? He paid no attention to her, looking at the gilded statues. And yet they were so close.

How did this happen?

***

“Rejoice, my dear students! Soon you will ascend to heights that most cannot even dream of!” - Solomon Vlahos, always calm and reasonable, excitedly rushed around the office like a wild animal while all the students looked at him in surprise.

“What happened, master?” - one of the young men casually asked a tormenting question. The son of wealthy aristocrats who decided to become a sculptor. He was a good student and received the appropriate education. Tea had to work hard to make up for her past.

“Something great has happened, my boy! My friend Peter Egon Momus, you all know him as the greatest architect of Terra, has not only secured me an invitation to the Emperor’s palace…”

Everyone sighed in surprise and almost awe. As talented as Master Solomon was, he was only one of many sculptors. Only a few could get into the Emperor’s palace and Vlahos, like many artists, aspired to this. Especially at the expense of others.

“And you, my dears, will not only be able to visit the palace with me, but also to show off your craftsmanship in all its glory. Your sculptures, your creations, will not only be displayed in the palace of our beloved ruler. The primarchs themselves will see them!”

***

Galatea had been toiling over her miniatures all week. Huge statues and busts were alien to her. A life of poverty had left too much of an imprint. It was much better to use a small amount of material, but wisely. The teacher was proud of her after all. How could it be otherwise, because she was the best at it.

So she dedicated one miniature to an ancient legend of Old Earth, several to the warships of the Primarchs. And Olympia. Tea was delighted with the picts of the magnificent planet annexed to the Imperium. It was on it that Perturabo grew up. Green hills, rivers and mountains, a world clean of polluted atmosphere. As the people of Old Earth would say, it was nothing short of paradise. Surely the Primarch adored his home world.

And Galatea wanted to capture this elegant and in some ways simple architecture. Beautiful landscapes and hardworking people with a herd of animals. Perhaps she sat over this miniature the longest. And it was worth it, seeing the tears of pride in the teacher.

Of course, no one except the teacher was allowed to meet the Primarchs. And yet the fact that they were allowed to visit the Imperial Palace was already intoxicating. Moreover, they were even allowed to wander through some of the corridors! The Emperor is gracious and generous, Tea never thought she would see such beauty.

Gilded walls and magnificent statues gathered from all corners of the Imperium. Frescoes depicting scenes from the legends of old Earth. Stained glass windows in every color of the rainbow. Images of the Crusade and the Emperor himself were everywhere. One corridor among many was a work of art in itself.

But all of this paled in comparison to those who lived here. All of this paled in comparison to HIM.

Galatea had seen picts and portraits of the Primarchs, and yet to see him with her own eyes was a different experience. The girl felt her heart flutter and her breath catch at the sight of the tall man dressed in Imperial military attire. His majestic appearance evoked only one association that the fanatics of the Imperial Truth would brand as foolishness. A demigod.

Perturabo.

How lucky she was! How unspeakably lucky to see the Primarch, whom she had admired since childhood, in person. Apparently the master had already shown the Emperor's sons their works and now Perturabo had decided to return to his business. But what luck it was to meet him in such a huge and intricate Palace.

Images from her childhood, when she played with her rag dolls, immediately appeared before her eyes. Oh, in Galatea's games, the Primarch was her savior. From the poor on Terra, from the rich students of the Master, who mocked her. From failures and bad thoughts, imaginary monsters. He built great impregnable fortresses in which he protected her from villains like a princess from fairy tales. Perturabo was always her hero.

The weakest of spirits could lose consciousness or even die of a heart attack just by looking at the Primarch. Galatea considered herself weak, but apparently she underestimated her spirit strength. As well as the power of her dreams, realizing that she was heading towards a man who was completely oblivious to the mortal girl.

“L-Lord P-Perturabo,” the girl greeted the man, but as soon as he turned his attention to her, she immediately stared at his chest. “I-I am Galatea Vlahos. My master brought m-my works to the palace. And the sculptures of other students.”

“Ah, yes. I never liked Solomon’s style. Too much gilding where it shouldn’t. It’s like he threw up on them.” The man spoke the words slowly, lowering his voice to a low octave. As if the girl who had approached him caused him nothing but contempt.

The girl pursed her lips, not knowing what to say to such a remark. In truth, she partly agreed with the primarch. The master sometimes overdid it with the gilding, leaving other parts of the sculpture untouched. And yet he had talent and experience that Tea respected. That Perturabo could criticize a sculptor so openly was disconcerting.

What if he had criticized her miniatures too?

No, she couldn't bear the thought of that. All her dreams were being destroyed in an instant. If... if this was fate, Tea had to accept it. She would never reach the level of a primarch. She would cherish this meeting for the rest of her life. And yet, she would rather die here in shame than remain silent for the rest of her life. She had to try. At least to say everything that was in her heart.

“L-Lord Perturabo… I have read every book written about you. The worlds you conquered, the worlds you brought into the Imperium. The tactics you used in sieges were admirable. And the fortresses and outposts you built were crafted with perfect precision to torment the enemy and protect the innocent. The Siege of Incaladion, Bernean and Morningstar Campaign…”

Galatea felt herself choking on the words, but she could not stop talking. She wanted so much for the Primarch to understand how much he meant to her. How he and the Iron Warriors on the edge of the galaxy had inspired faith and hope in the heart of a little girl from the lower levels of Terra.

“How beautiful and yet functional all the buildings you built. And I have always admired the way the Iron Warriors rose to any challenge. Please, allow me to board the Iron Blood. I will not interfere. I understand that this is a warship. I-I have money for maintenance. I just want to capture your exploits. So that the entire Imperium knows about the greatness of the Fourth Legion.”

Finally, having spoken enough, the girl took a deep breath, trying to stop trembling. She could not even imagine that she would be able to not only meet Perturabo, but also tell him everything she thought. It happened. But the consequences were much more terrible and unpredictable.

The man was silent. During the entire time Galatea spoke, he did not say a word. Tension was in the air. The girl thought that by giving in to her feelings, she insulted the primarch. It seemed that she had made the biggest mistake in her life.

“Yes” - the man's sharp voice broke the silence. - “You will serve my Legion. Pack your things. Tomorrow my servants will come for you. We are leaving Terra this week by order of the Emperor.”

Unable to believe what she heard, the girl looked up at the primarch. Even without his armor, Perturabo smelled of iron and gunpowder. He was the very embodiment of war and creation. But most of all, in the image of the man, his blue eyes caught the girl's attention. Galatea had never seen such cold eyes.

"Thank you." - she whispered quietly, hoping not to destroy the beautiful dream with her voice.

The man only chuckled and hurriedly left the hall, clenching his fists. Galatea should have been worried about such a reaction. Suddenly, she insulted the primarch or distracted him from important thoughts. But the happiness of the long-awaited meeting inspired her and she hurried to Master Solomon in the hope of sharing the latest news with him. He was just nearby, looking at one of the ancient paintings.

"Master, I have wonderful news for you." - the girl smiled broadly, wringing her fingers in impatience.

"Wait, wait, my dear. Now you will tell me everything, but do you not want to know how the Primarchs assessed my students?” - waiting for her nod, the man continued. - “They all appreciated your desire to comprehend art and talent for sculpture. Lord Fulgrim even declared that Octavian has a brilliant future.”

“And… what about me?” - Galatea licked her lips nervously. Surely Lord Perturabo appreciated her work to decide to take her into his service. Wonder what he said about the Olympic landscape.

“Oh, my dear Galatea, one of the Emperor’s sons will surely offer you work.” - seeing her enthusiastic smile, Solomon continued. - “Rogal Dorn highly praised your miniatures. He especially liked the way you depicted the Phalanx. Very accurately, as he told me. I almost thought about asking him to take you on his ship to capture his exploits. But I did not dare ask for such a thing. Although he was very impressed with your talent.”

For a moment, the girl felt as if the floor had been pulled out from under her feet.

“This is an honor for me.” - she really meant it. And yet, the recent event did not allow her to fully enjoy someone else's praise. - “And what about Lord Perturabo? Did he say anything? Especially about Olympia?”

“Oh, my dear, I know you always admired him.” - her foster father murmured sympathetically. - “The truth is, my dear, he liked almost no one. He criticized everyone. When it came to your turn, he did not say a word. And perhaps it was my imagination, but with each word Dorn said, he grew darker.”

“But he took me to the Iron Blood.” - the girl muttered in a trembling voice. - “I will become part of his Legion.”

“Really? Well, that means he did like it. Never mind, my dear, the Primarchs have so much to do. Surely he was thinking about a new campaign, and we distracted him from important matters. The main thing is that you have become a sculptor of the Iron Legion. You are going on a Crusade! Isn't this what you dreamed of?"

Yes. This is exactly it.

It was 999.M30. A new millennium was about to begin. It was a great era. When humanity made new discoveries and the Imperium expanded. To be born and to live in this time was the greatest blessing.

[xythlia]

— ❛ metamorphosis ❜

inspired by the greek myth of pygmalion and galatea, the sculptor who loved his creation so much he begged aphrodite to turn her flesh and blood so she would be his wife

› satoru x f!reader

› word count : 2k+

warnings : angst, m masturbation, mention of death but nothing explicit, readers a curse & a marble statue, something something be careful what you wish for (possibly gonna do a pt two because obviously reader came back wrong™)

Everyone who needs to know, knows how a curse is formed. Knows exactly where they come from and for the most part why. But Satoru could never wrap his head around why you chose to haunt him, and like this.

After your initial death it manifested as peculiar visions caught in his peripheral, a flash of white that dissipated the second any of his six eyes tried focusing on it. But the feeling of it, god it felt just like you. And it was so like you to play some elaborate little joke, even after death. As if your entire death had been one elaborate joke and not the second greatest heartache of his life.

He'd been careful, so painfully careful about controlling himself and not letting the despair of losing you suffocate him lest this be the outcome. He didn't want to see you that way. Instead throwing himself into teaching, into the present, lest he become shackled by the past even more than he already was. He tried so very, very hard to let you go.

But apparently it wasn't really up to him, because as the years passed you gained more and more substance, more form, and seemingly felt more emboldened to no longer hide in the corners of his eyes but forcing yourself front and center.

And what a odd form you took.

A statue. Innocuous at first glance but he was never one to take anything at face value. It was like you were carved by a sculptor par excellence, birthed not from chisel but as if from the universe itself. Every detail, down to the most miniscule, lovingly rendered in breathtaking relief. So much tenderness held captive in your hardened, unseeing eyes. A hand held aloft in an almost loving, beckoning position.

As the days passed he spent more and more time focused on you, on your appearance and looking at it not as a curse but perhaps the strangest of blessings. You hadn't come back as some thing all teeth or claws, in fact you never moved a muscle. Just like all the earthly sculptures bedecked in various museums around the world you stood much the same.

With each day came a new bauble he would fix to your marble form, a flower held here or there to your hair with scotch tape, his favorite scarf wrapped around your cool to the touch neck. This evolved into a sort of... ritual over time. It was something he took greater joy in than he would ever admit. Quiet nights spent murmuring to you, not minding that you never answered. You didn't need to. It wasn't as sophisticated as telepathy but just the same it was like he could feel your feelings in response to whatever he was saying while rearranging and redressing your stone body.

In rare moments when his fingers would brush against the stone he could almost swear it felt warm, as if just seconds away from giving beneath his fingertips like melting wax, and in the next second you'd be shrieking with laughter at being accidentally tickled by him.

Just like back then.

It did mystify him a bit, why you chose a marble statue and why you remain so silent and still. Maybe it would hurt too much otherwise, so he doesn't press you to speak or try to change your shape. It was just like when you were still here, he would've loved you no matter what so why would it be any different like this?

But still, he feels all the same longing he felt then. The need to touch you, hold you, see your back arching off his bed and feel your fingers gripping against his shoulder blades. The saccharine cries of his name from your lips, prayer like and spurring him on move deeper, harder.

His hands tremble against your inert ones, tears blurring you in watercolor relief as the world loses its focus. His breathing became laborious as he rested his forehead against you, always so cold to the touch. It did little to ground him against the tidal wave of grief soaked desire that rushed around his mind.

Without conscious thought his hand slid down his torso, palming at his aching erection through his sweatpants. It was obscene, even thinking about doing something like this with a curse but for better or worse he was devoid of thought in this moment. His lips pressed sloppy, open mouthed kisses to your alabaster skin as he rolled the waistband down, feeling his throbbing cock smack against his abdomen.

Satoru hissed feeling the warm weight of his cock in hand, the pressure felt good and a soft sigh fell from his lips as his eyes fluttered closed. Retreating into memory as his other hand gripped the frigid marble, so hard he was afraid for half a moment that it would bruise before remembering himself.

He licked the palm of his hand, wishing it was your tongue sliding against the veins of his cock before wrapping it around the shaft, stroking slowly at first and alternating to swipe his thumb over his flushed tip, practically dripping precum.

He's called back to a memory from early in your relationship, showering together for the first time mostly out of utility after being on a particularly lengthy mission. The way you'd slid your hands down his body, across his back and over his stomach had made his heart feel like someone strapped electric cables to it.

Its harder to hold back as he falls headlong into it, remembering how your hands looked wrapped around his cock, fingertips straining to meet around the full thickness of him. The thrill of it sends shivers down his spine, makes him pump himself faster.

You'd look otherworldly on your knees in front of him now, eyes teary and cheeks hollow as you struggle to take all of him down your throat but you were always so eager to please, especially when it came to him. Satoru can feel the coil tightening in his gut, and before he was truly ready it's already happening, thick milky spurts splashing against your skin and his balls throbbing so hard his thigh muscles even tensing up in response. It took monumental effort to keep himself steady, braced against your solid form as his cum decorated you with the most pornographic accessory yet.

As his breathing steadied he was overcome with the fact that he hates himself for this.

Hates you a little bit too.

How pathetic, to be reduced to masturbating against this lifeless vision of you. To play dress up with it. To speak and laugh with it as if it's his closest confidant.

Just as he felt himself on the brink of the emotional abyss of grief something caught his eye, making his breath hitch and it was as if all time stopped.

The color of the marble was different.

So subtle that he nearly missed it, but it was undeniable. Ever so slightly the pallor of your skin had shifted, as if the color was bleeding through slowly.

For the first time in a long while Satoru wept.

[lottiecrabie]

you know how lorde brought jack out at one of her shows and he played the guitar while she sang and they were very touchy feely and just gazing at each other the entire time? imagine a blurb like that on gto readers tour when her and matty are just friends now but there is still definitely underlying tension the entire time

i Know where this blurb idea came from I see you🫵

the screams rain over you, a torrential wave of love that you can’t help grinning at. you sit there, legs hanging off the stage, gripping your mic in silent awe. the world ripples in front of you, bodies of people — real, tangible, knowledgeable of your lyrics better than you sometimes — face you. the room seems larger, like entire cities could fit between these walls, like everyone you’ve ever known could be smiling back at you.

you use the energy like fuel. pretend your heart isn’t racing up your throat as you tilt up the mic. ‘i have a surprise for you guys,’ you say, teasing, confessional. another wave of screams, delighted in just being special. you laugh. ‘there’s a really special person here tonight. the producer of this album, my dear friend—‘ you barely need to let the name out, high-pitched cries already drowning it out, but still; ‘matty healy!’

he comes from backstage and he cracks the world open. stagelight transforms in soft sun rays, shining over your head until sweat pearls your forehead. strawberry ice cream lingers on your tongue. the faint smell of cigarette comes through, burning in the heat. he’s summer, even in the thick of this december month. you have to blink away, blind.

there’s a part of you way that will always be in august, and it throbs when he’s around you.

matty sits down beside you, offered a guitar by some worker. he waves to the crowd, working his charm easily. you have no sun to blame this flush on. you hope the stage makeup hides it, stop yourself from pressing the cold microphone to your cheeks and draw attention to it.

‘hello,’ you say. ‘not too tired?’

‘never,’ he answers, though it’s lost to the ears of the crowd, micless that he is.

‘i warmed the crowd up for you.’

‘you’re—‘ you aim the mic his way, graciously allowing the public into this moment, ‘—too sweet.’ you want to laugh. your chest tightens, in the habitual ways it still hasn’t learned not to.

something in you is angry that he’d dare say it here, in front of anyone, in front of everyone. not because he’s sharing anything personal, anything momental; because he’s not. to him, too sweet is any other phrase, and you’re left reeling from the slap he doesn’t know he gave.

‘we made pygmalion two summers ago, in this very city,’ you say conversationally, addressing the crowd. ‘i lived here for four months and so, forever, london will be the intrinsic pygmalion city. i don’t think i can walk any street without being washed with it.’

‘i live here and there’s still places i can’t visit without being reminded of pygmalion,’ matty says in the cadence of a joke. you chuckle for him, ever gracious.

‘there’s still wines i can’t drink,’ you attempt to volley back, but it starts feeling a little too raw, a little too real. you get the uncomfortable impression of being under a microscope, and you clutch the microphone with the need to swallow it all back.

matty steals the mic from your hands, eyes wrinkling with mirth. ‘this one used to say she didn’t like red wine.’

you roll your eyes, taking it back. ‘yes, well, i just—‘

again, matty’s fingers brush yours, angling the mic back to him. ‘—never drank the correct sort, yes, i told you so.’

‘stop taking my mic!’ you laugh, giving a look to the public as you gesture to him. ‘it’s a wonder we finished any song with all of this.’ you sit up straighter, attempting to put the show back on track. ‘and yet we did. you might know this one, it’s called galatea.’

again, a new wave of excited screams wash you. galatea is always a highlight of the night. the broken lyrics that come back to you, sung and cried, tears filling the eyes of the first row until you have to look away. this time, you don’t even attempt to watch them, instead turning to face matty, crossed-legged.

his fingers strum the chords familiarly; you croon the first words. you get projected on a sofa, red lights drenching the two of you, the stars shining just for you. he’s so known you might choke up. you have moved on, you promise yourself you have, but what can you do with all the knowledge you gain of someone? where do the memories go when you’ve stopped needing to play them back every night just to fall asleep. they can’t cease to exist, yet they can’t fit in the palms of your hands either.

his eyebrows tilt as he concentrates, bobbing his head. a curl strikes his forehead and you stop yourself from reaching up and brushing it away. parts of you wake up, called to attention. the need to wish and hope and yearn; to exist in the possible, nearly-not but just enough that it’s exquisitely painful. you think of new lyrics, you hate yourself for it.

the chorus cries out of you. you scoot closer, sing it to him. you’re back in a booth, angry eyes pinning him down vengefully. matty glances up and there must be something in you that has quietened, that has folded over and surrendered. he doesn’t look away from your stare. he doesn’t get overwhelmed with the weight of it.

your hand flies to his knee, as if to make sure he’s real. he is; flesh and muscle and that stubborn heart of his, beating somewhere far away from you.

for all the sun he represents, he doesn’t burn anymore. it’s a soft sting, like another memory buzzing in you. your fingers retreat. mournfully, you sing the next lyric.

you whisper the last words out, smiling faintly. his fingers halt. he stops suddenly; he’s there and then he’s not, per usual. the cries roar back to you. for all the worlds that exist in this very room, they always seem to cease when he’s beside you. a summery cocoon you craft out of nothings, one that’s off somewhere in a london apartment.

you turn back to the crowd, remind yourself of everything that is real too. ‘thank you,’ you whisper to them, a hand to your chest, vaguely bowing. thank you for being there when the ground doesn’t seem to hold you up anymore. you look at him. and then, a grin, waving an arm to him. ‘matty healy, everyone!’

[thewhumpyprintingpress]

Preorders Are Live for The Whumpboratory!

Our graphic designer just finished the cover today and I couldn’t wait to share it with y’all!

The Whumpy Printing Press presents: The Whumpboratory

This anthology brings together over two dozen stories that explore the horrors of the laboratory. From immortal lab rats to cannibalistic patients, these stories will be sure to send a shiver down the spine of every scientist. 

So enter The Whumpboratory. If you dare.

50% of all profits from this book will be donated to Dollar For, an American nonprofit that helps people who are struggling with medical debt.

And here are all of the awesome stories and authors!

Cycle(-stys) of Despair by Nemesis @brutal-nemesis

Part of You by Zi Trone @sowhumpshaped

In Prison by Christina Nordlander @nothingofvaluewaslost

Control by KL Massey www.horrorboundheart.com

Rainbow Rock by Devin Oldham

Live by Pier @itmustbeso

Settling the Little Albert Debate and My Heart Beats On by Aiden E. Messer https://www.instagram.com/author_aiden.e.messer/

Human by Konn Lavery https://konnlavery.com/

Pristine by Ryan Breadinc www.breadincbooks.com

Project Touched By An Angel by Kay Hanifen https://www.instagram.com/katharinehanifen/ 

The Boy of Theseus by Zipper @ziptiesnfries

The Blanket by Scarlett Skyes Ao3 - alchemistsarego

Nameless Tune by Kras Nebula @scrawlingmouse

If They Won't Give Us Our Humanity, We Will Take It by Lux Thorn @whump-me

A Song for Galatea by Vanessa Roades @vanessaroades-author

Transmission Received by Nox Spacey @not-a-space-alien

Breath of Life by Mill Cohen @whumpsday

Nervous Intervention by APEX @aapex--predator

Sedative, His Lake, and Project: Valeriana by Booker G. A. Feniks @up-in-flames-writing

The Exchange by Midnight Blue 

Pygmalion’s Folly by Coy Chambers @inscrutable-shadow

Your New Lab Rat: A Guide for Whumpers Scientists and Sunlight by Kailey Alessi @whumpy-writings

Coming October 15, 2024! Available to preorder over on Ko-fi.

[yameoto]

can't stop thinking abt tashi duncan and art donaldson. pygmalion and galatea if they were toxic wedded tennis superstars.

how its just as difficult for tashi to let go of art. IF NOT MORE bc their mutual codependence is so intertwined that art's become an extension of herself. he's a proxy for everything she's lost; her broken knee, her tennis career, hell—the surrogate father of her child. they both know he's playing for the both of them, so tashi takes the parts of art that he gives her (everything) and forges a new limb for herself. shapes and moulds and turns a pretty-good-just-okay player into a motherfucking tennis champion.

its why when tashi tells art that she’ll leave him if he loses, she almost immediately hops into a car with patrick and asks him to throw the match. its unforgivable. a betrayal worse than cheating, but she does it anyways because she can’t even risk the possibility of losing art for good. art donaldson is A PART OF HER! HE IS HER CREATION! its not hard to imagine galatea leaving pygmalion, but its infinitely more difficult to picture pygmalion letting go of galatea.

[kairos-polaris]

Beloved, why do you ship jonelias? Why do they consume your waking thoughts so?

I am glad you asked :D

So! I really enjoy uneven "problematic" power dynamics and this was what originally attracted me to jonelias. I listened to mag 92 and thought "jonelias seems like something I would ship" because even then I could tell they fit my taste. I also just like protagonist/antagonist ships, complicated relationships are my favourites

mag 92 is one of my favourite episodes as a jonelias shippers for a couple of reasons. at first it was solely the conversation between Jon and Elias and how it was about Jon getting changed by Elias, because of Elias. Jon was being openly vulnerable! "Am I still human, Elias?" he asks Elias who has just confessed to murder and keeping people hostage. Jon, who had so much respect and admiration for Elias' expertise, turns to him even in that moment. It is Elias who he seeks reassurance from, he asks another monster if he is one

Another aspect of mag 92 I am obsessed with is the opening statement and the way Elias puts Jon above everyone else (telling him to discard everyone in his pursuit) while also placing Jon on the same level as him

(Side note: I am still not sure if I prefer Jon to sit on Elias' lap/have Elias clean his wound or to focus more on what they don't do, on the gaping distance between them that they both wish wasn't there but both have their own reasons to not bridge it. Both are so good)

Vampire metaphor! Jon is a walking vampire metaphor and Elias is his maker, his creator. I am so obsessed with the idea of Jon feeding on Elias, pulling fear from his mind and Elias enjoying the intrusion and the freedom the compulsion brings. He said it felt tingly! Freak (affectionate). Also, telepathy and mind meld is so delicious

What I love most about jonelias is what I love in others ships: obsession and fully knowing each other. Beholding allows to take knowing and seeing your partner to another level, Jon and Elias can know and see each other in ways other people in their lives can't

Moral corruption is inherently fascinating to me and especially Jon. He gets worse throughout the series, his only anchors to humanity are his own guilt and the people around him who more often than not just reinforce that guilt (this makes sense in the context of the story but you can't guilt yourself into being a better person and that's why it doesn't really work for Jon but I digressed). I like thinking about all the ways Jon could be worse, the ways Jonah could push Jon into following his worst impulses, into choosing to be a monster instead of drowning in guilt to not feel helpless and powerless

I love jonelias when it's about all the things they wish to do but don't because they have other priorities, because they know but don't understand each other just like their patron. I love jonelias when it's Jon giving in, letting go. Of his morals, of his guilt, letting Elias shape him into something new. I love the idea of Jonah Magnus who worships no god, not even the one he serves, adoring and worshipping Jon and especially the parts of Jon that he himself had shaped. The Pygmalion and Galatea of it

Jonah chose Jon! He saw him and knew he was right! Jonah wants the Archivist and he wants the Archivist to be Jon. Sure, Jon was marked by the Web first but Jonah picked him too and I love it. It's fascinating from both of theirs perspective, Jonah feeling proud he made the right choice and Jon having a complicated mix of feelings about it. He hates that he was chosen and he just a little happy that he was chosen and he hates himself for it

Another thing I really like is the way they say each other's name! Elias calls Jon by his name a lot and I hate when people act like he doesn't

Jon and Jonah are very similar and I find that fascinating too. They are both workaholics and nerds and losers and freaks!! And I love them for that. And and and I really do think they could have eventually been truly equal if not for Jonahs prioritising his evil plan

Also they are sexy, I don't make the rules

[yeyinde]

I saw ur reply to doll maker ghost and now im giggling and kicking my feet, getting noticed by your favorite author gives you such a high lollll

And im also going crazy that you are going to write it omg can't wait to read the horrifying story you will create i love u

I'm a big fan of morute so had to find a way to combine both of my interests. I just imagine that everything Ghost creates in his shop are a reflection of his soul therefore they are disturbing and ugly but not you, because you were created by the image of someone he loved. And this love obviously was a sick obsession.

Anyway i love you and your writing!!!

someone replied with Galatea and Pygmalion and now i'm 2k into this fic already lmao but thank you!!! i'm glad you're excited for it because i'm having a tonne of fun writing it.

here's the lastest little snippet for ya:

“That's it,” he says, words drawing over your shoulder in a breath as he watches your hand explore the new parts of yourself that he made.

Carved hollow spaces in the gaps between your ribs wide enough for his desire to fit. Pretty face hewn together from redwood, ebony, encased in satin. Velvet to the touch. Copper sutures keeping you whole. Handmade wonder in spun silk.

(Plaything. Make-believe lover. Her likeness rots in you.)

The most notable of these changes is the softness at the apex of your thighs that throbs, empty, just for him. “Go on, pet. Touch yourself."

He seems content today to be the spectator. To watch you fumble with the newness of your body; this prison of flesh that makes you long for your old heart of leaves and twigs stuffed inside the chiselled oak of your bones. But trepidation thickens in your throat.

You've never done this before. You don't know where, or how, or what to touch. It's all so—

Foreign. Vulnerable. Fragile.

(soft. wet. tensile.

you fear you'll break if you touch yourself too roughly. a worry he put to rest last night—)

The heart that thuds, wetly, in your chest. In your ears. Your throat. The uncomfortable fill of your lungs inflating with the stale air of his shop, pressing taut to your bones. The hunger in your belly. The wetness in your eyes. Silken flesh folded over iron bone.

“Simon—” you start, but he huffs in irritation, buries his teeth into the tender meat of your shoulder, biting hard into supple veal.

It hurts. The pain a lick of something you haven't felt since he laid you down on the table in the lab, parted your thighs, and rutted between them like beast. A pinching sort of pain. Deep and vicious. One that hurts the most when he pries himself out of you, unhinging his jaw until his teeth are unglued to the torn flesh, dragging against the jagged wound. 

In response, you whimper, fingers curling into tight knots on your lap. It was better, you think, when you were soldered copper between oak and ivory.

“I don't know how—”

He shushes you, dragging his clothed nose over puncture wounds. “Jus’ like you used to, pet.”

Your throat closes up. He speaks of this person, this you, with such devotion that sometimes it frightens you. Scares you down to your very core—an irony, you're sure, since it was made by his hands. 

And you feel the brag of it deep in your chest. A thrum that reverberate through the old bones you were cobbled together with: an atavistic fear. Deep, unending disgust.

You swallow down the bile that rises in your throat, and wonder what he'd do if he knew the person he's so obsessed with didn't seem to like him very much—

[melonisopod]

These slap, actually.

remember when akihabara event gave us robot girl NPCs that were more appealing than the actual robot girl servant we got. remember when this event had arcade only servants in the background. remember when this event buffed nero bride for no reason. god i forgot how much this event kind of sucks.

[illustratus]

A Deep Sea Idyll by Herbert James Draper

The painting loosely combines themes from two sources. Firstly the story from ancient Greek mythology in which the sculptor Pygmalion fell in love with Galatea, one of his works, who with Aphrodite’s intervention, miraculously came to life. The story captivated artists and writers of the nineteenth-century as it provided them with subject matter infused with mystery, romance and classicism. Artists as diverse as Burne-Jones, Gérôme, Normand and Rodin, and authors such as Shaw, Tennyson, and Browning, all created their own individual interpretations on the theme. In Draper’s painting he has inverted the story and reversed the sexes, and it is the beautiful nymph who has risen from the depths and serves as the protagonist, her hair crowned with a wreath of seaweed and coral, as she offers a shell filled with pearls in supplication to the static figurehead carved into the wooden prow of the ship.

The painting is also suggestive of Hans Christian Anderson’s tale, The Little Mermaid, published in April 1837, in which a mermaid falls in love with a prince and is willing to give up her life in the ocean to gain a human soul and follow her love onto land. Tragically, as in Draper’s interpretation, the relationship cannot be fulfilled and the beautiful hero and heroine are destined to remain apart.

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

Prompt-ober 2023 – Mythology and chaste kiss

From the moment Harry first sees the block of marble, he knows what it’s meant to be. He gets it at a discount due to some flaws – not enough dark green striations to look intentional, too many to create a piece using only the pure white marble, a slight crack formed during transport from the quarry. None of them matter to Harry. Once he has it in place in his spartan studio, Harry works like a man possessed to bring his creation to life. His friends, well aware of how Harry gets when he’s sculpting, pop by to bring him food and drink and make him take breaks to sleep. He’s not sure what he’d do without them. Probably die from overwork and malnutrition. He’ll have to do something really nice for them once he’s finished his sculpture. It takes three months of solid, near round-the-clock work to chip the precious but unnecessary stone away from the form he can envision within. The time flies by. He knows he’s never seen the face he’s shaping before, but it seems so familiar to him. If he were to really think about it, he might be able to determine who he’d used as a reference for the chin or the nose or the lips. But looking at the features as they take form, he can’t imagine them any other way. He takes his time with the final polishing, ensuring the sheen and smoothness of the stone appears as perfect as he can make it. The sculpture’s skin almost glows – he’s gotten the translucent lustre just right. Harry stands back and takes in his finished work, removing his apron, pockets heavy with chisels, rasps and sanding paper, and dusting off his worn, ripped jeans.  The figure is seated on an ornate throne, slouching the slightest bit and staring down its aquiline nose at some unseen supplicant. The face is beautiful, but there’s a cruelty to the arch of its brow and the twist of its full lips. Lush, wavy hair frames high cheekbones, leading down to a long neck and broad shoulders. The sculpture’s body is trim and firm, but the musculature isn’t overly defined. Seven dark green veins of varying sizes spiderweb across the figure’s torso and arms. Its feet are planted solidly on the plinth beneath it, arms loose but holding a sword across its lap – covered with carved, draping fabric for modesty, because Harry just couldn’t visualise the sculpture’s bits and, at a certain point, he'd felt decidedly perverted from his continued efforts to do so. He has always been told that his sculptures are full of vitality – that they look ready to step off their plinth and join the world of the living. But even he thinks he’s outdone himself this time. Harry decides to catch a few hours of sleep then give the sculpture one final go-over. Before he puts out the lights and leaves, he wanders over to stare at his creation, looking as an observer rather than the craftsman. He’d been so careful to touch the marble with his bare skin as little as possible, to prevent his skin oils from discolouring the stone. But, just this once, he allows himself to reach out and gently stroke the sculpture’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. Cold and smooth. When Hermione had last popped in to make sure he was eating enough, she’d looked at his sculpture, raised her eyebrows, then looked at Harry and asked if he’d finally carved himself a Galatea. Harry had huffed a laugh – people had been making those sorts of comments to him for years at this point – and asked Hermione about her work at the library. But now, as he rests his hand against the figure’s cheek, he wonders if she’d noticed something he hadn’t. He’ll miss this project more than any other, once it’s sent to the gallery that displays his work. He leans in closer and presses his lips, feather-light, against the figure’s lips, thinking maybe… But he’s no Pygmalion, and the sculpture remains marble beneath his touch. Laughing a little at his fanciful actions, Harry finishes closing up his studio for the day and goes to rest. ──⚝── Hours later, with dawn’s first light illuminating the airborne dust in the studio and no one around to see, a marble finger twitches.

Part two can be read here.

[obsidianpen]

Hermione thinking she's a lump of clay and Tom giving her 'life' is such a major throwback to Pygmalion and Galatea. Also, Tom being invisible and telling Hermione to not look is another reference to Orpheus and Eurydice. It makes sense they have so many Greek references, Hermione and Merope have Greek Mythology origins

💕

[moondal514]

Hey. Hey SVSSS fandom. I like making Pygmalion and Galatea jokes about Shang Qinghua and Mobei-jun like the next MoShang shipper but you all are aware that it isn’t canon that Shang Qinghua purposefully designed Mobei-jun to be his ideal man to date, right? That when he called Mobei-jun his “ideal man” he meant in terms of like what he considers to be the epitome of masculinity, not in terms of what Shang Qinghua personally considers attractive as a gay man, so he was shook to find out that Mobei-jun is hot. If we want to be technical about it, Mobei-jun was designed to give Shang Qinghua as much gender envy as possible, not designed to be sexually attractive to Shang Qinghua specifically. You all are aware of this, right?