#pygmalion studios

[ottopilot-wrote-this-txt]

Coven, Part II

Coven is a work of erotic fiction, intended for adults 18+, written by Ottopilot. Original version with images. Content warnings: sexual content, mature language, mind control, corruption, occult, sadism

Previously: Part I, This is: Part II, Continued in: Part III, Part IV, Part V

[Lily Solomon, a beautiful multiracial Black woman, sits at a desk in a university library. She is wearing a white t-shirt and reading glasses and has her hair in messy bun. She is typing on a laptop computer.]

Lily tossed her messenger bag on the sturdy but well-worn pine table, followed by her drip Clockwork Coffee, black, and had a seat. She pulled out her laptop and opened the clamshell.

Taking the coffee to her lips, Lily closed her eyes and took small, careful sips. Still too hot to take a big chug, she needed that strong acidic bite and intoxicating aroma to get the cobwebs out. Clockwork wasn't for everyone — too corporate for some, not foodie enough for others — but Lily appreciated its consistency. The trademark dark roast offered a dependably predictable experience in a world that was anything but.

The senior journalism student took a deep breath, drawing the earthy smells of coffee and university library into her nostrils, and began by reviewing her notes from Sarah's debriefing.

"I took Dr. Bishop's class on polytheism and paganism my senior year, and she wrote my recommendation letter for grad school. She's my faculty advisor, and we've become very close friends."

Starting with Dr. Helen Bishop's university bio, nothing pegged her as Future Evil Sorceress, Lily thought, chewing on her pen. B.A. Stanford, M.A. Harvard, PhD Brown. Tenured faculty at Blackthorn College, vis a vis Dartmouth, Wesleyan, and Amherst. Expert in polytheism and witchcraft. Author of two books: The Many Faces of the Divine: Polytheism in a Monotheistic World and The Arcane and the Divine: Magic, Ritual, and Worship in Antiquity. Her headshot, a black-and-white photo of a middle-aged Southeast Asian woman with short hair and a friendly smile, was pleasant and benign.

Lily frowned, peering at the search engine results. Amazon.com link to her books. Link to a piece in Anthropology Quarterly. Glowing student reviews of her classes. Notices of past speaking engagements. A neglected Instagram account with photos of her travels and food. Her LinkedIn profile.

With a frustrated sigh, Lily removed her reading glasses and rubbed her temples. There's either something I'm missing, Lily thought, or Sarah's out of her freaking skull.

"Through word of mouth, we formed an unofficial witchcraft interest group. We performed positive spells for personal growth or things we wanted. For example, the professor regretted never having children, so we cast fertility spells for her." "Did they cast spells for things you wanted too?"

The door to the apartment closed as Jamie headed off to class, and Sarah Rodgers was alone. He seemed like a good guy, she thought, making it harder for her to despise him out of pure jealousy.

Lily had practically sprinted out the door this morning, while Sarah pretended to still be asleep on the couch. It was clear Lil was trying to avoid her. She was doing Sarah a favor, a huge one, but that didn't make it hurt any less.

It felt strange to wear Lily's clothes, especially the sweatshirt. This goddamn aquamarine, threadbare sweatshirt.

Sarah didn't think it was intentional. Lil could come off cold and impersonal, but she wasn't insensitive. No, Sarah thought, just because she had strong memories of this sweatshirt doesn't mean Lily gave it a second thought.

[Sarah Rodgers, a pretty young college student is holding up the light blue sweatshirt she is wearing to her nose. She is a white Latina woman with long auburn hair. Her eyes are closed as she smells the sweatshirt nostalgically. She is in an apartment living room.]

Sarah took the sweatshirt in both hands, bringing it up to her face, and inhaled deeply. It wasn't exactly the same. She guessed Lily switched detergents. But it still smelled like her, sweet like a summer peach.

She loved to wear it, Sarah reminisced. Anytime she caught a chill, she put it on, unzipped, over her clothes. The bright hue clashed with Sarah's goth-influenced, monochrome tastes. But Lily loved it.

And Sarah loved Lil. So she came to love it too.

Spring of her freshman year, Lily ordered some sexy lingerie online as a surprise. But Sarah was late, stopping to pick up Szechuan on the way back from class, and Lily got a little cold. When Sarah arrived, there was Lily, an absolute knockout in sheer and lace…and glasses, and that goofy sweatshirt.

[Lily is laying on her side on a bed in a revealing black lace bra and panty set. She is also wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt unzipped and reading glasses. She is slightly younger and has shorter hair as this is in the past. She is in a college dorm room.]

They both had a good laugh, and they stayed in all night, making love and eating out of take-out boxes in bed. Sarah truly loved being dominated by Lily. She craved submitting to her, had trusted her with her safety. Even after Lily had marked her flesh, after Lily's fingers closed around her delicate neck, she would have let her do it again.

Sarah remembered Lily before she became guarded and closed-off, when she didn't take herself so seriously. They were so happy then. As she sat alone, wiping away tears with the sleeves of Lily's favorite sweatshirt, she wasn't sure she had been happy since.

If you thought magic could heal your broken heart, was it so illogical to try it?

"When Helen came back to school this fall, something had changed. She had changed."

Lily felt a chill. This damn library was always so drafty. You think with the cost of tuition, they could turn the heat up a bit. Guess it's bad for the centuries-old books.

She pondered this sentence. Assuming Sarah hadn't lost her mind, what happened to Dr. Bishop last summer that made her go off the rails?

Lily leaned back in the chair. Besides wanting to get out of the apartment, Lily liked to work in the library because of these firm, unrelenting chairs. It was harder to fall asleep if the chairs weren't comfortable.

She looked at her notes. Looked at the browser. Cycled through the open tabs. Amazon. LinkedIn. Instagram.

Wait.

Turns out the good doctor was fairly active on the Gram for a while. A photo with a graduating student. A batch of cookies she baked. Striking Italian architecture. A pasta dinner and a generous glass of wine. Tuscan vineyards. A necklace bought at a shop. That was the last photo, 4 months ago.

Lily looked at the necklace. An odd thing, made of iron, triangles overlapping with horns, inset with rubies. Not particularly pretty, though definitely old looking. A strange thing to turn up in a tourist-trap Italian antique shop.

Excited at the prospect of a lead, Lily selected an area around the necklace's charm and conducted a reverse image search. Lily was initially discouraged as very few results were returned - until one of them stood out from the others.

"Hell yes," Lily said to herself, leaping out of her chair. She hurried to a computer, looking for the library's copy of "The Arcane and the Divine: Magic, Ritual, and Worship in Antiquity" by Dr. Helen Bishop.

[A hand is pulling a back from a long bookshelf. The author photo on the back is a black-and-white photo of Dr. Helen Bishop, a smiling Southeast Asian woman with short hair and bangs.]

With the enthusiasm of a bloodhound on the trail of murderer, Lily scoured the aisles of books until she found it. Quickly she scanned the index, and found the entry about the demon Asmodeus.

Lily read the passage aloud to herself:

"In Abrahamic religions, Asmodeus is a demonic king associated with lust and revenge. He wielded a weapon, the Ruby Rod of Asmodeus. It is believed that, in tribute, worshippers of Asmodeus circa 100 A.D. created an amulet called the Eye of Asmodeus. Constructed of iron, the Eye of Asmodeus contains a large ruby surrounded by both a triangle and inverted triangle, forming a pentagon. The Eye also has bull horns on both sides. "The ruby in the Eye of Asmodeus is rumored to have been created by submerging the ruby in the spilled blood of innocents. It is suspected to give the wearer the ability to influence and control minds, at the cost of eroding sanity and morality of the user."

"Well, that sounds bad," Lily said.

"She was leading us down a dark path, but we were so seduced by the power we willingly followed."

Watching morning game shows, Sarah tried to think back on how she got here. She thought of the metaphor of a lobster being boiled alive, the temperature slowly rising while the clueless lobster succumbs to its fate. The corruption of the coven was innocuous, comforting and soothing until she realized it was almost a full boil.

When Helen came back to school, she had so many new spells and techniques to show them. They all saw the immediate results, and were drawn to the power Helen yielded. She made them feel special and chosen and worthy of this forbidden knowledge.

The spells began small, with unforeseen consequences. Amy wasn't feeling well, so Helen taught them how to alleviate her nausea. Michiko had a disgreement with a neighbor in her dorm, and Helen taught them to make the girl see the error of her ways. It wasn't initially clear Amy got better by stealing energy from healthy students, or that the neighbor was mentally manipulated. The group identity of the coven eroded the morality of its members, making them rationalize the means to justify the ends.

Sarah started to wonder if she and Laura had overreacted. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding. There might be punishment, but the coven would take them back, Sarah thought. And now, Sarah was reconnected with Lily. Lily had a curious mind and a thirst for knowledge. They could learn about the mysteries together… maybe, this could be a rebuilding point.

"Samhain, after dark tomorrow, is when the barrier between the physical and spiritual world is weakest. That's the origin of Halloween. But what if I told you it was real?"

Lily did not have "ask the school librarian about cursed grimoires in their collection" on her bingo card, but here she was.

A yawn escaped Lily's mouth as she looked over the musty tome. She wasn't even sure what she was looking for. Three years of high school Spanish was only marginally helpful for translating Latin. She was basically looking at pictures like a toddler reading the encyclopedia, trying to follow along.

"This has potential," she murmured, as she looked at a drawing of a person, laying on their back in the middle of a pentagram. "Samhain… luna… corpus… Ah, fuck this."

Lily pulled out her phone, opening up Google Translate. There's no way it can read this handwriting, she surmised, so she furiously typed the words into the text box.

Samhain cum plena luna occurrit, corpus daemonibus deditur; anima daemonium regis coronatur.

"Okay, Translate," Lily said, hitting the purple button on her phone. Within seconds, she read the resulting message.

At Samhain, when the full moon occurs, the body is given to the demons; the soul of the demon king is crowned.

"Oh shit," Lily exclaimed. Sarah was right, and in grave danger.

"One of the junior witches, a literature major named Laura Valencia, took me aside. She said she overheard Helen planning a ritual with another witch, and that she mentioned a sacrifice."

The Price is Right had ended, with a college student jumping up and down, hugging Drew Carey, before transitioning to the mid-day news. The anchor, a handsome well-coiffed man, spoke with a booming baritone.

"More reporting on our lead story from this morning: a fatal bus crash on Interstate 495 has traffic snarled up for miles around. It appears the culprit was poor visibility, as the driver lost control during last night's surprise storm.

"The driver and all passengers onboard were killed in this tragedy. The bus was a Greyhound bus destined for St. Louis."

[Sarah has her hands on her face in a look of shock and terror. Her mouth is open. She is wearing a light blue sweatshirt. There is an orange wall and a window with curtains behind her.]

Sarah covered her mouth in shock. No. No no no no no.

Laura's bus. Sarah put her on that bus to get her away from here last night, before going to Lily's.

She wasn't being paranoid. She was in danger too.

"Without Laura and I, there are only 11 witches in the coven. Samhain - Halloween - is tomorrow night. I don't think the ritual can take place without us, and I don't know what will happen when it doesn't."

In a panicked frenzy, Sarah tossed blankets and couch cushions, looking for her phone. She had to call Lil, to get out of here, before they found her. Where the fuck did she put it?

She heard her ringtone, from the bathroom. Of course, she needed to charge it last night. She started towards the bathroom to retrieve it, when a voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Hello, Sarah."

[ren-054]

“My Galatea…♡”

Happy Birthday to this fuckin guy!!! Cole Blush Blush ‼️‼️💕💕

[the-daily-male]

SIDE 5B

Totoro

Colonel Hugh Pickering

[thejoyofviolentmovement]

New Video: Slowdive Shares Breathtakingly Gorgeous "kisses"

New Video: Slowdive Shares Breathtakingly Gorgeous "kisses" @slowdiveband @neilhalstead @RachelAGoswell @DeadOceans @pitchperfectpr

Deriving their name from a dream that that their co-founder Neil Halstead (vocals, guitar) had once had, and “Slowdive,” a single written and recorded by co-founder Rachel Goswell’s (vocals, guitars) favorite band, Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Reading, Berkshire, UK-based shoegazer band Slowdive, which is currently comprised of its co-founders Halstead and Goswell, along with Nick Chaplin…

[doubledeadstudio]

Hello! Welcome to the official Double Dead Studio Tumblr, the solodev behind Reanimated Heart, Another Rose in His Garden, and Pygmalion's Folly.

Reanimated Heart is a character-driven horror romance visual novel about finding love in a mysterious small town. There are three monstrous love interests with their own unique personalities and storylines.

Another Rose in His Garden is an 18+ erotic Omegaverse BL visual novel. Abel Valencia is an Omega who's hidden his secondary sex his entire life. Life's alright, until he meets the wealthy tycoon, Mars Rosales, and the two get embroiled in a sexual affair that changes his life forever.

Pygmalion's Folly is a survival murdersim where you play as Roxham Police Department's star detective, hellbent on finding your sister's killer... until he finds you. 

Content Warning: All my games are 18+! They contains dark subject matter such as violence and sexual content. Player discretion is advised.

This blog is ran by Jack, the creator.

Itch | Link Tree | Patreon | Twitter

Guidelines

My policy for fanwork is that anything goes in fiction, but respect my authority and copyright outside it. This means normal fan activity like taking screencaps, posting playthroughs, and making fanart/fanfiction is completely allowed, but selling this game or its assets isn't allowed (selling fanwork of it is fine, though). You are also not allowed to feed any of my assets to AI bots, period, even if it's free.

Do not use my stuff for illegal or hateful content.

Also, I expect everyone to respect the Content Warnings on the page. I'm old and do not tolerate fandom wank.

F.A.Q.

Who are the main Love Interests in Reanimated Heart?

Read their character profiles here!!

Who's the team?

Jack (creator, writer, artist), mostly. I closely work with Exodus (main programmer) and Claira (music composer). My husband edits the drafts.

For Reanimated Heart, my friend Bonny makes art assets. I've also gotten help from outsiders like Sleepy (prologue music + vfx) and my friend Gumjamin (main menu heart animation).

For Reanimated Heart's VOs, Alex Ross voices Crux, Devin McLaughlin voices Vincenzo, Christian Cruz voices Black, Maganda Marie voices Grete, and Zoe D. Lee voices Missy.

Basically, it's mostly just me & outsourcing stuff to my friends and professionals.

How can I support Double Dead Studio productions?

You can pay for the game, or join our monthly Patreon! If you don't have any money, just giving it a nice rating and recommending it to a friend is already good enough. :)

Where do the funds go to?

Almost 100% gets poured back into the game. More voice acting, more music, more trailers, more art, etc. I also like to give my programmer a monthly tip for helping me.

This game is really my insane passion project, and I want to make it better with community support.

I live in the Philippines and the purchasing power of php is not high, especially since many of the people I outsource to prefer USD. (One time I spent P10k of my own money in one month just to get things.) I'll probably still do that, even if no money comes in, until I'm in danger of getting kicked out the street… but maybe even then? (jk)

What platforms will Reanimated Heart be released in?

Itch and then Steam when it's fully finished. Still looking into other options, as I hear both are getting bad.

Will Reanimated Heart be free?

Chapter 1 will be free. The rest will be updated on Patreon exclusively until full release.

Are you doing a mobile version?

Yeah. Just Android for now, but it's in the works.

Where can I listen to Reanimated Heart's OST?

It is currently up on YouTube, Spotify, and Bandcamp!

Why didn't you answer my ask?

A number of things! Two big ones that keep coming up are Spoilers (as in, you asked something that will be put in an update) or it's already been asked. If you're really dying to know, check the character tags or the meta commentary. You might find what you're looking for there. :)

Will there be a sequel to Pygmalion's Folly?

It's not my first concern right now, but I am planning on it.

Tag List for Navigation

Just click the tags to get to where you wanna go!

[may--hawk]

second chances (ineffable remix)

all of my heroes sit up straight / they stare at the ground; they radiate

There’s a statue of Aziraphale in the British Museum.

It’s been there for some time: centuries, in fact, one of the first pieces of the collection. It was a donation from a wealthy lord whose ancestors had gotten it from Greece somehow, and where it had, apparently, sat in their dingy hall, staring up at the painted ceiling above as if longing for the skies. Crowley had seen it at a house party and had put a little temptation in the lord’s ear to donate it to the British Museum, praying on his sense of pride, his desire to be lauded. The statue didn’t belong there in that dark and damp hall in the north of Wales; it belonged somewhere open and bright, surrounded by other beautiful works of art.1

The statue, to those uninitiated, is merely another Greek statue of an angel, entirely nude, with a massive set of wings and a flaming sword. It’s done in a smooth milky marble, done skillfully enough that the skin looks touchable, looks smooth and warm, although of course it isn’t. Crowley would know. The angel stands contrapposto, its shoulders delightfully broad, its wings seamlessly erupting from its back, perfectly natural, in fact, rather the way theirs do. Crowley wonders, sometimes, if Aziraphale had gotten his wings out to show Pygmalion. Now look here, he’d have said, this really won’t do at all, if you’re going to do something, best to do it right -

Aziraphale always sniffs when he sees it. “Not a very good likeness,” he says, but Crowley, oh, he thinks it’s perfect. It’s got the little softness between Aziraphale’s chin and neck, the breadth of his slightly rounded shoulders, the strength in his thighs that Crowley has seen oh too few times back when short tunics had been popular. The statue is a bit too slim, perhaps, but Pygmalion had worked in, at Crowley’s insistence, the very slightest suggestion of a roll on its back, barely suggested by its posture. The wings are too small, of course, as are certain other features,2 but the hair is perfect, every curl exactly right, a veritable halo. Although the angel’s pose is that of a warrior, sword raised in one hand, head tilted to the heavens, as if hearing a call, the eyes sparkle with mischief; the mouth curves, very slightly, under a perfectly upturned nose. Pygmalion had wanted to paint it but Crowley couldn’t bear the thought of it; the statue was perfect, was so like Aziraphale that he didn’t think he could handle the eyes in blue, the skin painted pink - “leave it,” he’d said roughly to Pygmalion. “It’s fine as it is.”

And it was.

The statue is ancient, thousands of years old. Crowley would know. He was there when it had been carved, had, in fact, just been popping over to Pygmalion’s to see if he’d wanted to nip out for a quick drink and there Aziraphale was: posing for a clay model, naked in the hot Aegean day, the faintest sheen of sweat on his chest, his back, his face. Of course his wings hadn’t been out. “Crowley,” he’d said, and stammered a bit, and then, “Gosh, fancy seeing you here, you getting done too?”

I wish, was what Crowley had wanted to say, but he hadn’t, because he’d just barely got the angel drinking, and perhaps innuendo was a bit much at this stage in the game, so instead he had lurked in the back of Pygmalion’s studio where it was dark, back against the statue of the ivory girl Pygmalion was working on, the one he kept draped when anyone else was around, the one he didn’t think anyone knew about. Crowley had watched Aziraphale intently. The angel had lost his nervousness over time, turning at Pygmalion’s commands - left - right - chin up - leg out - “Like this?” he’d said. “Like this, like this?” Would he ask that in bed as he touched Crowley, would he have that shy little smile, as if not quite believing he’d got it right? Crowley thinks he would. Thank Someone for dark glasses, Crowley had thought, because Aziraphale couldn’t see him staring,3 couldn’t see the way Crowley’s eyes had traced him like a sculptor’s hands on clay, until he knew every inch of Aziraphale, every inch he could see from the outside, anyway. Finally, finally, when Pygmalion had stretched, and yawned, and said he was done, and really needed to get back to things, and threw the statue Crowley was leaning against a few not very inconspicuous looks, Crowley had tempted Aziraphale into going out to drink with him, and then back to Aziraphale’s little oikos, and they had gotten drunk enough they’d sprawled on the stone terrace and stared up at the stars and listened to the sea, but all Crowley could see in his mind’s eye was Aziraphale from before, Aziraphale standing perfectly still, no movement except his chest rising and falling, the little dart of his eyes at Crowley, as if to see if he was looking.

Crowley used to come to Pygmalion’s studio and stare at the statue as they got absolutely piss-drunk, until Pygmalion would start going on about that girl-statue of his and eventually fall asleep. And Crowley knows all about wanting something you can’t have, doesn’t he, something you can’t touch, something smooth and white and perfect, so he’d enchanted the girl-statue for Pygmalion, had brought her to life, her flesh soft and warm under Pygmalion’s hands, her eyes tender. He figured the poor blighter deserved it. They’d been a perfect match too, hadn’t they? Crowley and Aziraphale had even gone to the wedding. “Where did he meet her, do you think…?” Aziraphale had asked and Crowley had just shrugged and said “Some studio, I imagine,” because Pygmalion’s secrets weren’t his to tell, and Aziraphale had watched them, how their eyes never left each other, how their hands never fell away from each other, as if remaking each other anew, and had sighed, wistfully.

The statue - Aziraphale’s statue - is almost miraculously intact for its age. However, it’s not absolutely perfect. (It is, it is). There’s a little chip missing out of the back of its right calf, there since 1895 when a crew of clumsy movers had moved it into the Antiquities wing and someone had dropped it. When Crowley had woke up from his sulking slumber - thirty-some years - and had discovered it, he had made certain they had cause to regret it. There’s a few feathers missing too, for the same reason, and the end of the sword is blunted, as if by use, although Crowley knows it’s just age. Most telling, though, is a dirty spot on the back of the angel’s left hand, the one not holding the sword. The marble there is darkened, stained enough to be almost the exact color of Aziraphale’s skin. A good reminder for Crowley. A warning. A longing. A mark in the exact shape of a demon’s fingers passing over it for millennia. Once, he catches Aziraphale looking at it, his head cocked. “How curious,” Aziraphale says. “I’m certain this spot is getting worse.”

“People feeling you up, angel?” Crowley jeers. “Would’ve thought you’d gotten used to that in the third century.”

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, making a face, “but it’s so regular, almost as if-” he trails off, doesn’t finish what he’s thinking.

“Lunch?” says Crowley, a bit desperately. “Still owe you one. Promised to take you to that sushi spot-”

Aziraphale acquiesces, and they go to lunch, then, and nothing further is mentioned about the museum, but he swears the angel looks at his hands when he reaches across the table for more wine. Aziraphale’s gaze lingers, brushing along the back of Crowley’s hand and over his fingers, like he’s memorizing it. Or like he’s just figured something out. Crowley pulls his hand back, balls his fist up in his lap, under the table. If he didn’t know better, he’d say a small sigh escapes Aziraphale’s mouth. That his shoulders, normally so firm, so strong, so set in stone, slump just a little, become touchable, become very nearly human.

1. Crowley had contemplated making off with it for centuries. He had just the place in his flat, but he hadn’t, because - well, the statue didn’t belong in a demon’s den of sin, didn’t deserve to be sullied by lust and rage and despair. back

2. He hadn’t been able to convince Pygmalion to do otherwise. back

3. He could. back

If you liked the sort of thing going on here, check out feasts of strange delight.

Check out the rest of the mixtape on AO3.

[cloudypariah]

Task Force 141/Los Vaqueros Artist AU

Welcome to Laswell’s Studio, your friendly one-stop shop for all of your artisan needs. Here at Laswell’s, we offer a variety of supplies suitable for almost any practising artist; from smocks to tools to canvasses - we’ve got it all! And if you feel like you’re missing that extra something special in your crafting life, just ask for Kate at the front counter.

Remember, a muse is a fickle thing so don’t wait, swing by Laswell’s Studio today! We’re here to help you bring your wonderful creations to life.

𑁍 Inspired by the Roman myth of Pygmalion and Galatea 𑁍

Photographer Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader

Woodcarver John “Bravo Six” Price x fem!reader

Tinkerer Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x fem!reader

Painter Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x fem!reader

Glassblower Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra x fem!reader: Backstory

Sculptor Alejandro Vargas x fem!reader

[inchidentally]

Pygmalion and Galatea charlos au where dashing sculptor Carlos is haughty and spurns other men and women - locks himself in his studio determined to sculpt the most perfect human form and ends up falling in love with it to the point where Aphrodite is like jeezus ok freako and makes Charles come to life when Carlos kisses and touches him

[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.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

Coven, Part IV

Coven is a work of erotic fiction, intended for adults 18+, written by Ottopilot. Images were AI-generated by Ottopilot using Stable Diffusion 1.5. Content warnings: sexual content, mature language, mind control, corruption, occult, sadism

Previously: Part I, Part II, Part III, This is: Part IV, Continued in: Part V

Lily was furious with herself. She couldn't believe she fell asleep in the library. What was wrong with her today?

As Jamie and Lily approached the beech grove, she put a finger up to her lips, signaling him to be quiet. They walked quietly and deliberately, trying not to draw unwanted attention. She turned off the flashlight on her phone. They would see by moonlight only for the time being.

They would be here, Lily was sure of it, although she had no plan. Jamie had found her asleep at the library, when his texts and calls went unanswered. When he came back from class today, Sarah was gone, he explained. There was no sign of a struggle. Her phone was still in the bathroom on the charger. Given the circumstances, Sarah wouldn't leave without letting her know, Lily thought. Something just didn't add up. But if she was here, the three of them were leaving together, tonight.

Lily saw something in a clearing up ahead. No, someone. She signaled to Jamie to get his attention, and they closed in on the clearing.

Sarah lay on the ground peacefully, eyes closed, flat on her back. She was wearing a simple white dress, and Lily felt a swell of emotion. Relief? Possessiveness? Love? She wasn't sure, and wasn't going to stick around long enough to find out. Looking around carefully for watching eyes, she approached Sarah's motionless figure.

"Hey. It's Lil. Are you okay? We need to get out of here," she whispered.

Sarah stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering. Then she opened them, and what Lily saw made her gasp and recoil. Her pupils were red, almost glowing in their intensity. Her lips twisted into a sinister, toothy grin that chilled Lily to the bone. Backing away, Lily stumbled, losing her balance and falling back. Sarah rose slowly to a seated position.

"Sarah, no," was all Lily could muster in her shock and disbelief.

"No, Lil," Sarah said, practically hissing, her smoldering eyes burning holes in Lily's brain. The venomous use of her pet name gave Lily goosebumps. "We're not going anywhere."

For the first time, Lily heard them. Female voices, faint whispers. She couldn't make out what they were saying. If she tried, it became harder to concentrate on them. They were elusive, and seemingly coming from all directions. Lily wondered if they had been there the whole time.

"You must be Lilith," issued a voice from the darkness, commanding and resolute. A woman stepped forward, her shapely figure obvious despite her dark robe. She was quite beautiful and alluring despite her mature age. Around her neck was an amulet Lily recognized as the Eye of Asmodeus, glowing with the same infernal fierceness she had seen in Sarah's eyes.

"You must be Doctor Helen Bishop," Lily said with a frown, as Jamie helped her to her feet. She felt oddly weakened, dizzy even, as she steadied herself. She might be disoriented, but she'd be damned if she let this witch she her shaken. She looked to her left, where Sarah stood, wobbly like a zombie. She glanced quickly at Jamie, and inched in Sarah's direction.

"I've heard so much about you, Lilith," Dr. Bishop said. She walked closer to Jamie and Lily, while still maintaining a healthy distance. "Thank you for gracing us with your presence. You may not know this, but you have quite a part to play in our ceremony tonight."

"Like hell I will," Lily snarled. "I know you're a donut shy of a baker's dozen, and I have no intention of signing up for your coven. Now, if you don't mind, I'm here to get my friend, and go home. Doctor." She was almost within an arm's reach of Sarah.

"I'm afraid I can't allow you to do that, Lilith," Dr. Bishop said confidently. This woman using her full name was getting Lily angry. Keep talking, bitch. Almost close enough to grab Sarah's arm, then we make a mad dash for it. She could feel the sweat beading up on her forehead in the cool night air.

Lily made her move. She grabbed Sarah's wrist, pulling her into an embrace like a rag doll, and moved sharply to her left. "Jamie! Now!" Lily screamed without turning around. She wasn't sure this was the way out, but she'd take her chances.

It was all the more surprising when her movement was halted by two strong, male hands grabbing her biceps.

With a gasp, Lily let go of Sarah, who turned to face Lily, her lifeless smile mocking her. Lily struggled, but her muscles were sluggish and unresponsive. The voices slid in and out of her range of hearing again, teasing her, daring her to listen to their siren's call. Lily tried to scream out in rage, to gather herself to fight her captor, but it never came. Instead, she let out a winded gasp, the futility of her situation grasping her. She turned back, looking in Jamie's eyes, expecting to see that he too had been brainwashed, seduced by the magic of the Eye. Instead, she only saw his brown eyes, filled with resolve but hiding a touch of remorse.

"Jamie… why?" He remained stoic, offering no explanation.

"As you can see, Lilith," Dr. Bishop cooed, now striding with confidence, moving right up to Lily's face. "The thirteenth position has been filled. The coven is complete."

[ottopilot-wrote-this-txt]

Coven, Part I

"Coven" is a work of erotic fiction, intended for adults 18+, written by Ottopilot. Original version containing images.

Content warnings: sexual content, mature language, mind control, corruption, occult, sadism

[Sarah Rodgers, a white woman in her early-20s, sits on a couch with her arms crossed and looking to her right. She is wearing a black hoodie and her auburn hair peeks out. She is in an apartment living room and there is a raging thunderstorm outside.]

"I didn't have anywhere else to go," Sarah murmured, her voice scratchy and quivering. She brought the mug of hot tea up to her lips, feeling the warmth spread down her chest.

Lilith Solomon studied the wearied figure on her living room couch, her fiery hair and sharp features obscured by a damp black hoodie. After two years, Sarah appeared unexpectedly tonight like a ghost, here to haunt Lily for past misdeeds. Lily observed Sarah intently while she frantically told her story, flinching at the thunder as her eyes anxiously darted towards the window, looking for unseen boogiemen. Finally, those big brown eyes settled on Lily, and behind the weary facade, she recognized the Sarah Rodgers she knew so well.

[Lily Solomon is a young multiracial Black woman in her early-20s. She is a sitting in a chair wearing a casual teal dress. She is in an apartment living room and there is a raging thunderstorm outside.]

Lily spoke, her voice calm and measured. "Sarah, I want you to know you'll be safe here." Strong and reassuring. Same old Lil, keeping up appearances, Sarah thought, taking a sip of tea while hiding a slight smile. She hasn't changed one bit. "Jamie set up a towel in the bathroom for you to get cleaned up, and I can lend you some clean clothes. I think it's best if you get some rest tonight."

Lily rose from her seat opposite Sarah. She towered over Sarah, her imposing presence a contradiction to her soft, friendly face. With her smooth mahogany skin and waves of raven black hair, she looked positively regal in the moonlight.

The words dried up in Sarah's throat, and she blushed as she realized she was staring. She wanted to tell her former lover she was a goddess. She wanted to ask her why she left. But all she could muster was a nod, and a thank you.

[Lily stands in her bedroom, which has large windows and a view overlooking the university town. You can see the storm and night sky. She is wearing a teal dress and looking over her shoulder at the viewer.]

Lily closed the bedroom door softly behind her. She sauntered over to the open window, closing her eyes and removing her jewelry. She took in the smells of the unexpected autumn storm as she tried to process Sarah's frenzied arrival. She had made every effort to appear composed and dispassionate, but she could not deny being rattled by her former love's reinsertion into her life.

Emerging from the en suite on the other side of the room, Lily's boyfriend Jamie misread her conflict for incredulity. "Do you believe her?"

"How much did you hear?" a weary Lily asked.

"Enough," Jamie Mendoza shrugged. He leaned against the entryway, a blue t-shirt and athletic shorts hung nicely on his slim, toned frame. He rubbed his index finger against his five o'clock shadow pensively. "I can believe quite a bit. Hell, I'm Filipino, we still have exorcisms. But witches? Human sacrifice?"

[Jamie Mendoza is a slim, well built Asian man. He stands in a bedroom leaning against the entryway. He is wearing a blue t-shirt and athletic shirts. There is a bed nearby. This is a wide shot of the room interior.]

"What concerns me is Sarah believes it," Lily said, frowning. "That woman is terrified. I hope it's okay if she crashes here for a couple of days while I check this out."

Jamie nodded. "Sure. I have classes, but I can swing by before lunch and check on her." He paused. "You're seriously going to look into this?"

Lily sighed and nodded. "It's not like Sarah to just make shit up. Anyway, I'll grab a coffee and do some digging at the stacks. They won't miss me at the paper tomorrow morning. Besides…"

"You just have to know," Jamie finished knowingly, with a chuckle. "The Blackthorn Ledger's intrepid bulldog reporter is a good friend to have."

"Yeah," Lily said, her voice trailing. She wondered what Jamie suspected about her past with Sarah.

Lily was still unsure about her future with Jamie. He was a kind and good-natured boyfriend - better than she deserved. She seemed drawn to the innocent ones like him. Even with her best intentions, she took too much pleasure in corrupting them, and they brought out her basest instincts.

No, she would break it off with Jamie before she got in too deep. That was the mistake she had made with Sarah. Even now, her need to help Sarah was less altruistic than driven by guilt that she failed in a domme's most important job: protecting their sub. Lily knew she wasn't as good and moral as the image she projected. That she was capable of darkness. And she hated that about herself.

"You see something you want?" Jamie said, playfully, a glint in his eye. Lily realized that, lost in her thoughts, she must have been staring.

It had been a long and strange night, but Lily was willing to take the bait. Besides, seeing Sarah again had stirred up a tempest in her mind and body, and she could use a release. "Bold of you to presume what I want," she snarled, her posture stiffening. Lily squared her body to face Jamie, hands on hips, her demeanor almost threatening. "Know your place, boy."

Silently, Jamie removed his shirt, then his shorts and briefs, revealing his smooth, hairless body. A flawless canvas, perfect for me to mark up, Lily thought, before dispelling that notion. He deliberately walked toward Lily, eyes cast downward, and kneeled directly in front of her. Finally, he looked up. "Yes, Mistress Lilith."

Lily playfully teased her fingers through Jamie's hair, then quickly grabbed it and pulled. Hard. Something between a gasp and a whimper escaped his mouth. "Make it up to me," she demanded. She guided his head under the hem of her dress, until she could feel his hot breath on her bare, glistening pussy.

Jamie panted, reveling in submission to his queen, his superior. Slowly, his hands traveled up her soft thighs, gripping her hips firmly but reverently. He inhaled deeply, her scent deepening his trancelike state, before his tongue dutifully lapped at her folds.

[A wide shot of the bedroom. Outside there are several lightning strikes, and trees and the town below. Jamie is squatting, nude, performing cunnilingus on Lily, who is standing and has her teal dress pulled to the side. Her eyes are closed in ecstacy.]

Holding his head still, Lily ground her pussy forcefully into his waiting mouth, as Jamie increased his fervor. "Such a good boy," she purred. And he was a good boy, so willing to obey. For a brief second, she let herself entertain the thought of how far she could push him. What would he let her do to him in the name of devotion? How wet would her pussy get to hear him squeal and see him grimace in pain? But Lily focused on the pleasure, and let the wave subside and recede from her mind. She always had - no, needed - to be in control.

To be continued... in Part II!

[tyba1t]

"The Doctor is here in his studio, with a look of deep thought etched on his face..."

"He sees in his mind an image of the perfect companion he has yet to create."

"One day, The Doctor completes his creation of the companion of his dreams. As a result, he falls hopelessly in love with it."

"In a moment of inspiration, he names the figurine Jamie. The meaning of the name is 'he who supplants.'"

"Countless are the nights and days he spends staring at him."

TwoJamie as Pygmalion and Galatea cuz I love angst

And, no, he's not an incel like Pygmalion

Just a very lonely old man who desperately needs friends-

Based Jamie off of Antinous

Used this for the story so uh

Check it out

[alifeasvivid]

83 and 84 ukus!

83. Intimate Artistry   84. Married to the Job  

ngl I am always still puzzled about what "intimate artistry" is because like.... that could literally mean almost anything. A long time ago, Iris sent me that one and that's how I got to the scene where the Thief of Spades ties Inspector Kirkland to a chair and paints on him XD

But this time around, I think I'd have Arthur as this phenomenal sculptor. His sculptures seem more real than people and the truth is they are that way because to him they are more real than people. More beautiful and more important. His clients' money is all that matters to him as far as other people are concered and he spends weeks upon months locked away in his studio.

As a boy, he wished for this skill--a deal with a faerie with a devlish bent--a wish for all of his skills, passion, talent, motivation, and joy to be directed only toward sculpting and that is what he was granted. He is a misanthrope of the highest order. He leaves the house only to visit the shrines of the fae, but all business is conducted via letter and photographs; food and supplies are delivered and completed projects are shipped away via service.

One day, having not ordered it and receiving no commission to work on it, a block of the purest white marble is delivered to Arthur's shop. He can surely recognize a gift when it one appears, but with no instructions, he is nearly driven mad by this beautiful specimen. What should he make out of such a thing? What could he possibly think beautiful enough to match its perfection?

He spends days simply staring at it, smoothing his hands over it, threatening it with a chisel. Stubborn thing. The faeries surely sent it to him for the express purpose of driving him mad. He suddenly wishes he had someone to complain about it to.

Out of spite, out of pure defiance, Arthur finally puts his chisel to the stone. Once he starts, he cannot stop. For one year, he hardly sleeps or eats. Work outward from that first impulse of longing simply for a sympathetic ear, Arthur reveals a stunning young man from the marble. A young man with strong limbs, good shoulders, fine, boyish features, and the smallest softness on his tummy, with a smile Arthur has never seen on anyone, anywhere. A silly grin that his hands recalled from dreams his mind tries to forget.

Yet now he is tortured again. The realness of his statue is not real enough. It doesn't stop Arthur from embracing his love, caressing every cold line of him, every smooth expanse of hard, unfeeling marble. Arthur kisses the statue's lips, wants to hear them say his name.

When the time of Imbolc arrives, Arthur forces himself out of the house to visit the shrines and make his offerings, trying to carry no hope with him.

And then I have two ideas for how this would go:

-Arthur pays his respects to the shines, returns home, just like in the myth (although it was the feast of Aphrodite), and there's Alfred all nice and alive and human and then Arthur spends about as much time fucking him as he did carving him

OR

-at one of the shrines, Arthur meets a faerie who looks just like his statue: Alfred, who saw the original bargain and didn't think it was fair and has loved Arthur all that time and this is how he could get Arthur to love him too and yes it's very manipulative but that's how faeries are and then Arthur spends about as much time fucking Alfred as he did carving the statue.

Anyway. some people who have possibly been following me since before I was alifeasvivid will know that I am fucking obsessed with the myth of Pygmalion so >.>

[kreature-ofthenight]

Art Idea: Galatea standing in front of a mirror in Pygmalion´s empty work studio putting a chisel to her body to recreate it in her own image

[syntia13treeman]

Case files 10.01

what I think happened in:

Case 10.01, the case of "Cursed Pygmalion" or "How I stopped worrying and started fearing for my life instead"

In 1994 Channel Six hired Niger Dickerson to host night variety show, nicknamed "Nigel’s SOS," (short for "Nigel Dickerson presents Saturdays on Six,"), where Nigel was 'held prisoner' by mysterious off-screen "Mr. Six", and played pranks on his guests. The prank always concluded with the guests being informed that they "got berried" and receiving a raspberry trophy.

In 1996, as part of the prank, a character of Mr. Bonzo was created (Nigel designed the look, nobody can really remember who came up with that name*)

The first guest confronted with Mr. Bonzo, chef Gordon Ramsey Gotard Rimbaeu was so freaked out, he broke the actors arm with a frying pan (allegedly**).

After that the actors (allegedly**) wearing Bonzo's suit would change frequently. Playing the role has become sort of rite of passage for the newbies on set.

Bonzo's role also changed overtime. From a jumpscare he went to become the show's mascot, to eventually replace Mr. Six as Nigel's 'jailer'. He was a hit with target audience, the merch was selling, they even started building a themepark… and then everything changed, when Terrance Menki attacked got caught.

Who is Terrance Menki? Apparently a serial killer, whose gimmick was killing in cosplay, presumably different one each time, as he had a whole wardrobe of costumes. Just bad luck that when he got caught with his 11th victim, he was wearing a knock-off Bonzo suit. (It wasn't even a good knock-off, all the colours were backwards!)

Alas, the press immediately dubbed him the "Bonzo Butcher", the public ate it up, and Mr. Bonzo's public image was ruined. Shortly afterwards, on 3rd March 2000 the Bonzoland was closed (ARG exclusive information), "Nigel's SOS" was cancelled, and Nigel was left to deal with hate-mail and death threats, despite having nothing to do with the whole mess (allegedly).

That would be the end of the story, except… between 2016 and 2021 there were at least 3 murders where Mr. Bonzo was (allegedly) seen at the scene.

When asked about in an interview conducted by Geraldine in August 2021, Nigel Dickerson categoricity denied it refused to comment on any potential Bonzo involvement in any crime.

Considering that he'd been living in Mr. Bonzo's house for the past [number unknown] years, his claims of ignorance and innocence fall rather flat.

The most recent Bonzo sighting was not reported on Saturday night, 09th of March 2024, when Gwendolym Bouchard, acting on behalf of OIAR, handed over an envelope containing (reportedly***) a name and address. Mr. Bonzo graciously accepted and chewed said envelope in his NOT SOFT teeth and lumbered into the night.

More news next Thursday at 5pm. For now let's speculate a bit:

*If Nigel didn't come up with Bonzo's name, and his producer Rich didn't come up with the name… then who did? I won't say it's impossible that it was just some random intern that Nigel couldn't be bothered to remember, but… Names are important. Names have power. Maybe something was trying to manifest itself, and started with giving itself a name?

**Where there ever actually any actors inside Bonzo suit? There are a few possibilities: a) it's been all Bonzo all along – it would go well with Bonzo naming himself, but otherwise I think it's unlikely. It's possible that: b) there only ever was one, very unlucky actor. When the Britain's snootiest chef attacked him with a pan, he did more than just break the poor man's arm. The actor died in the costume, and stayed in the costume, and just… kept going in the costume. This is macabre enough origin story to be plausible, but I'm gonna say nah. I think that: c) SOS really had their little ritual, where a stream of very tired, minimal wage studio workers had to run around in the suit until the next loser was hired. This is too easily verifiable for Nigel to lie about. I bet there were little 'behind the scenes' documentaries during the show's golden era, where Jack the stagehand and Joe the janitor bitched in polite British about how much of a pain in the neck it was.

So at what point did the actors become unnecessary? When and how was current day Mr. Bonzo born? I think it was a process that started with the name, but ended shortly after his show was cancelled. Over the years of popularity, as more and more people thought of Bonzo as a character (or a person) more than a funny suit, Bonzo was becoming less and less of just a funny suit. When the costume no longer had actors to animate it, it decided to animate itself. And because at that time the Bonzo-mania turned to Bonzo-hate, instead of chaotic but largely harmless creature he could have been, he became… well. Something that a shady government organization apparently uses as a hitman.

And here I need to ask an important question: What the fuck was up with that? Joking. (Though I wish to know how do you even discover you can do that). (***and did the envelope really contain name and address? Did Gwen check? Does she remember the name?)

The question is: who is the unlucky person, about to receive a lethal blast of the 90s nostalgia? Will we ever even know? (Will we know tomorrow, 11.04.2024, when Celia clicks on the newest case and hears an emergency call from someone fleeing for their life from a 'guy in a weird costume?')

Other question: how long has Nigel been held hostage in his own house (sorry – Bonzo's house) and just how sorry should I feel for him? He seemed pretty unconcerned about the actor with broken arm, and about Bonzo running off into the night to do murder, but I imagine that living in constant shadow of Mr Bonzo is pretty stressful and doesn't leave much room for empathy, so… I don't know. I'm gonna wait and see.

[materassassino]

WIP Game

Rules: You will be given a word. Share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of the word.

I was very kindly sort-of tagged by @the-starry-seas (thank you, it was so nice of you 🥺), and my word is North.

Sharing from my Pygmalion AU and my Soulmate AU (both JoeNickys because that's all I'm capable of, honestly). You win nothing if you guess which is from which, lol.

Nicolò rose again, gasping against the cobbles, and groaned as he felt his nose slide back into place. Oh, God’s mercy, not again! Rage filled him then, at the defilement, but it was replaced by horror. The first strike with the point chisel rings through the studio, a single, echoing chime. He sets yearning hands on strong biceps, and he is close enough to breathe in the man’s scent, the musk of him.

I tag @dangerouscommiesubversive, @non-un-topo, @serregon, @veradragonjedi and @wingsofbadass. Your word is: Marble.