Three roses of various sizes dripping with molten gold



"Play your hand - freak cards facing up."

My name is Namiin Stone, better known as MoltenGoldArt. I'm an erotic illustrator and author with a singular driving story I want to tell, time and time again: fictional, fantastical, flesh and blood fathers and daughters tangled together to be destined as consensual, consanguineous lovers.



An ancient, unfathomable Incubus with intent set fiercely on seducing and claiming the heart of the girl that summoned him. The girl that was made from him, the lover that was made for him and him alone. Ila, a girl who thought she was abandoned, unwanted and untouchable - only to discover through loss, grief, and an inexplicable haunting that she had not been abandoned at all; she had been stolen.

Ila wasn't untouchable; she was only meant to be touched by one and one alone - a fiery, powerful demon called Idris, who needs her to come home for both of them to become whole.


A band called Elk Garden vanished without a trace over twenty years ago.

Ila comes home from her third year in an out-of-state college after getting into a car accident that nearly ended her life. Idris, ever the doting dad, welcomes her home and encourages her to enroll in a local college. Her coming home coincides with Idris getting peculiar phone calls that have him working long overnight hours, despite being so close to his retirement.

At the same time, the band Elk Garden makes a local comeback, along with its larger than life masked, anonymous front man, The Black Stag. As Ila bonds with a bad boy metalhead named Ahmed she'd always liked in highschool, and tensions with her father rise at home over him, an odd turn of events leads her backstage and into the arms of the Black Stag...


An Arab merchant and his albino daughter live in relative comfort in the French countryside, circa 1873. The merchant is approached one day by a noble, who wishes to ask on behalf of his son for the daughter's hand. The merchant, Idris, refuses. He asks again, several weeks later, and again is refused - until the noble insinuates something about Idris's past "dealings".

Idris's blood-soaked past has come to collect its due. He must marry Ila off to the son of the Viscount to save them both, but things become complicated when the girl he's certain never loved him the way he loves her kisses him with so much passion during a heated argument about her betrothal.

The two of them stall for time to plan an escape from France, and Idris's decades of experience as a lethal weapon will mean the difference between life and death.

The incestuous desire portrayed is not the protagonists' problem, though it is titillatingly taboo.

My stories and my heart are not for everyone - and that’s okay; they aren't meant for everyone. They are for me and mine, first and foremost. But, if you've found me here, and you like what you've found, I implore you to sit by the fire with me and listen for a while.

I hope, if nothing else, that I am an entertaining storyteller. ♥


Playing with the concepts of age, lived experience, and maturity between an older man and his much younger daughter is thrilling and titilating to me. There's something about the contrast of gnarled, aged hands skimming over the surface of an unblemished young woman's throat that's just so...

To that end, I find concepts related to ageplay in fiction - women play acting as little girls, vast age gaps, naive girls being taught and guided by their much older (usually elderly) fathers - to be intensely erotic.


I play a long game, as a content creator.

A much older gentleman with his hands sensually positioned on a much younger woman's throat and shoulder

My current novel and illustration project is called The Summoning, which takes my husband and I's characters - Idris and Ila - from their original setting and throws them into a modern, human, supernatural alternate universe.

Divided by space and time, only to come together again after so long that Ila never understood herself; was never given the opportunity to understand. So long that she doesn't know why she's so drawn to the old man who calls himself Idris, nor why his intent is set so fiercely on seducing her and claiming her heart for his own. He isn't real, after all, he can't be - he is only an illusion, a figment, a product of a grieving mind, surely?

Ila, a girl who thought she was abandoned and unwanted, untouchable and strange - only to discover through loss, grief, and an inexplicable haunting that she had not been abandoned at all. She had been stolen. She wasn't untouchable; she was only ever meant to be touched by one and one alone.

Idris gives her a choice, time and again. It does nothing to stop her from finding solace in him, because she chose the second she touched the book. She chose the second she kissed him for the first time, tasting petrichor and autumn, smoke and ash.


"What do I call you?"

Her voice was soft, her brow knit in confusion. Two more tears fell down the planes of his gaunt face, and then he smiled.

There was an emptiness, a hollowness when he finally whispered, "Idris."

"Idris." Ila tested the name on her tongue as soon as he'd said it. The tall, lean figure kneeling before her looked like he was about ready to collapse, and the light shifted enough to obscure his face again, plunging them both in darkness.

"How far did you go?"

Ila blinked. "Where?"

"The book, the book," both of his hands - hands that could swallow the whole of her head - tenderly cradled her jaw, fingers lacing in her stark white hair, "how far into the book?"

"I..." she swallowed, lips parting, shaking hands reaching up to hold his knobby wrists, "I don't know. It told me how to... It told me what to do. I can't read any more of it. I don't understand it."

Her fingers brushed lighter linen and heavy cotton cloth, tickled by hair that stood on end, gooseflesh rising over his dark skin. They stayed that way, her head in his palms, his wrists in her hands, for what felt like an eternity. Still - Ila wasn't frightened, though somewhere she felt she should be. No one - no man - had ever been in her presence for such a sustained amount of time.

"Look again when you can," he breathed a shuddery sigh, "it won't tell you everything. Maybe not much at all."

He smoothed her hair back and wiped at her eyes with his thumbs again, "It won't tell you why it was in the attic. It won't tell you who I am."

Ila's gaze came into sharp focus. Her hair stood on end, she felt heat blossom in her face, felt her pulse quicken under his fingers. "How do you -"

"Mysteries that will be revealed in due time," he murmured.

"What does that mean?" She asked, a sob threatening in her throat.

"I wish I could tell you. I wish I could tell you." His grip became firmer, and the light shifted again, casting the old mans face in gradients of diffuse gray. It revealed the darkness of his eyes, the shape of his mouth, the set of his teeth. "I can't."

"Why?!" It was the closest she'd been to shouting in months. Ila finally found her fear and shoved Idris's hands away, scooting back and staring at him, wild-eyed.

His hands hung in the air where he'd just been touching her, fingers flicking. His jaw set, and she watched the motion of him swallow. The light shifted twice more, before his arms dropped, held loosely at his sides, just barely enough of a bend in one to hold his cane. They stared at each other for several heartbeats that felt like several lifetimes, breath caught beneath Ila's fluttering heart, breath slowly exhaled from Idris's flaring nostrils. Black staring into lilac.

"You're beautiful. More than I could have ever imagined."

There was an ache, set somewhere between the low growling cadence in his throat and the accent catching his tongue. Ila was too stunned to respond, but she felt it too - in the way that her heart squeezed, wrapped in the vines of a growing recognition. Before she could voice it, Idris got up from the dusty hardwood in one fluid motion, cane held sturdy in one hand to support his weight. Though, judging from the way he stood so squarely, she wasn't entirely sure he needed the cane.

"Will I see you again?" It came out in a rush, before she could think to not say it at all.

Idris looked down his hooked, crooked nose at her, stilling. His gaze shifted from hers, to the book next to her hand, and he croaked, "That's your choice to make, darling."

The light shifted again, and when Ila blinked, he was gone.


I have a Discord server where I get to interact with you guys in real-time. ♥ I post everything that I make to my Discord first: sketches, WIPs, story snippets, and doodles get dumped in there before they go here. SubscribeStar gets to have the lions' share of the meaty posts I make about my process and deeper thoughts related to my artwork, though.

You can also share your art, ask me questions, and get a whole feel for who I am as the person you're supporting in the server. And hey, maybe you're not ready to subscribe - that’s no problem at all! Stop by my when I’m streaming to get a feel for who I am and what I'm like, I'd love to meet you!

If you'd like to become a part of my server, become a Subscriber and there will be a button that pops up on the left of my profile page - click that to gain access.


I urge those of you who want to join to keep an open, unbiased mind. Psychology, especially of the sexual variety, is an oft-talked-about topic in my server. There is an absolute zero-tolerance policy for shaming of any kind. Shame is never the answer to tough subjects.

We talk aout paraphilias, and problematique fiction. There are off color jokes abound, and on more than one occassion I have threatened to read Necrophilia Variations to everyone. That seems to not dissuade anyones' antics in the least.

All fiction is lovely fiction to someone, even if it may personally disgust or upset you.

Incest, underage, gore, noncon, torture, snuff, bestiality, and every obscene or morally objectionable thing you can think of, in possibly any permutation you can conceive. I defend the indefensible; I defend the right for people to express themselves and their existence as honestly and as authentically through art and fiction as they want, need, or can.

While I might find some of those topics in the realm of fiction uncomfortable, distressing, or bordering on morally objectionable myself - they have every right to exist, and I have no right to deny that existence. There is potential for beauty in brutality; there is potential for a rotten core in any perfectly polished moral.


If you're a fan of my older work, this is a post that you can access once you’ve subscribed to me, with links to specific folders. Those folders are for my Beauty and the Beast fiction and illustrations, my unfinished Predator comic, fiction, and illustrations, and my Xenomorph comics, fiction, and illustrations.

If you're not interested in subscribing but you'd like to get your hands on my past fanwork, I do have specific packs available for sale on my Gumroad store. Any little bit goes a very long way. ♥


For those of you still with me: I want to extend a sincere, heartfelt thank you for considering becoming a subscriber. I couldn't do all that I do without the wonderful folk here supporting me. My subscribers and this platform give me the freedom to breathe for what feels like the first time in my life, and they give me a reason to continue creating and curating exactly what is my most vulnerable, authentic self.

So, honestly, even if you're just reading this welcome post all the way to the bottom and not much else, that's good enough for me, and I thank you for it. ♥