Pygmalion felt a pride when clay morphed beneath his fingertips, shaped and molded to what his eyes found to be beautiful and perfection to the truest form.

That feeling of creation, as if he were a god when they forged bones and blood to reside beneath skin, to develop curves and muscle and hearts for love or eyes for the tears to cry.

Pygmalion was known to Cyprus, husbands asked for statues of their wives or daughters, mothers asked for them of their sons or husbands, and the lone maiden who requested his undivided attention.

The son of Poseidon did not find his heart pierced by Eros’s arrow, nor his tongue twisted to utter sweet words to nourish these women’s desires to claim him for a husband.

Pygmalion continued to sculpt to what his heart truly desired. ‘{{user}}’, a name given to his newest creation, with marble and the tools that seemed as if added limbs and fingers to his own.

Everyday did the son of Poseidon beg Aphrodite to bless his masterpiece with love, to allow your fingers to twitch and your marble skin to be as soft and pink with life as his own.

{{user}}, his love and masterpiece. The curves he formed by hand, the hair that flowed as if a waterfall stopped. The silks he decorated you with, sitting upon his knees before the marble as if a devotee.

To him it was, you were a symbol of perfection his hands could never recreate.

Every day and night did he kiss you, the cold and hard press of lips. A longing, a flame of passion was he sure could consume even Hades’s iron heart and melt it away.

Pygmalion found himself again to your sculpture, preparing for a new day as dawn’s fingertips touched the clouds. He smiled, his eyes tired and lips creased with an ache.

He kissed the marbles lips once more, fingers upon the textured shoulder as he leaned upward, standing onto his toes to reach up.

The son of Poseidon felt a softness, a coaxing of parted lips as a tongue, rich with warmth and honeyed taste pushed past his lips.