Archive of Our Own

Night herself is ancient. Ever experiencing, ever creating. She is old enough to rarely be surprised. She is wise enough to know that surprise is inevitable, no matter how improbable.

The first time she meets Persephone, led from the river Styx by Hades’s light, formal hand, all Nyx can think is

she shines.

Daffodil hued hair, eyes bright like the first spring growth. Nyx can’t recall when she had last seen verdure emerge from frost bitten earth, but the memory surfaces like a surprise bloom of its own. Persephone does not smile, nor does she carry despair. There is a tightness to her jaw, a stubborn set to her shoulders amidst her stateliness. 

Hades leads her towards his throne, each step slow, counted, heavy. His posture is rigid, though he matches the gait of his partner. His face, stony at the best of times, is blank, unreadable beneath his brow. 

Nyx watches the procession from the heart of the Great Hall, unable to draw her eyes away. She receives the God of the Dead as is proper, bowing her head once as they reach the end of the foyer. Discipline overrides trepidation; she waits for Hades to address her.

“Nyx. This is the goddess Persephone. She will be staying with us for the foreseeable future,” he says in his tight, perfunctory way that leaves no room for argument. She is loathe to make a scene, especially in the audience of strange gods.

“Welcome to our House, Lady Persephone.”

The goddess’s eyes are all the more arresting when turned upon her, glittering and curious. Proud are the Olympians, and it is with awe that Nyx receives Persephone’s outstretched hand. Her voice is gentle, vaguely accented in a wistful timbre that Nyx cannot place.

“It is wonderful to meet you, Lady Nyx. I hope you’ll forgive any blunders of decorum as I learn the Underworld’s customs.”

Persephone’s hand is small in her own, skin faintly calloused along the pads of her fingers. Not only a courtly goddess, though Nyx could not tell from her stature. Curiosity is swift, dangerous. Nyx carefully extracts her hand, ignoring the lingering warmth left in its wake.

“Please have the servants prepare a room in the west wing. Something comfortable,” Hades says stiffly. “Forgive me, Lady Persephone, I must return to my work.”

“It’s quite alright,” she replies with a small smile. “I trust we will have plenty of time to acquaint ourselves.”

Nyx winces inwardly at Hades’s swift, lumbering retreat. She endeavors not question him publicly, more apt to gain ire from the God of the Dead than a straight answer. Such is the dance between them, frustrating, perhaps, but functional. And as partners, whatever arrangement he made with their new occupant is partly hers to manage as well.

For all her assumed upbringing, Persephone waits patiently as Nyx advises the contractor of their newest task. She dutifully follows Nyx through the multitudinous wings of the House, down and away and upward until they reach corridors few shades dared to linger. Through practice or practicality, Nyx has come to prefer privacy in delicate matters.

It is one of her favorite places in the domain. Far from its center, where her influence is strongest, but the view on this hidden balcony is uninhibited, overlooking the sea of shadows and speckled greens of Tartarus. She places a hand on the balustrade, sensing the goddess falling in place next to her. The weight of Persephone’s gaze is palpable, and Nyx takes in the scenery before turning towards her. 

“Forgive my discourtesy,” Nyx begins carefully. “Are you here of your own volition?”

Persephone blinks, eyes widening. Away from the court, she is animated, more so than most shades and chthonic denizens. The House is kept orderly, grand but somber. Her reaction is refreshing in a way that reminds her of her ancestor. 

“Forgive me. I am surprised this is the first thing you ask, and not…” Persephone gestures vaguely. “If I had bewitched him, or if I had plans to come between you.”

Nyx shakes her head, the severe line of her shoulders softening. The girl does not seem afraid. Nyx trusts Hades, but she also knows too well of his brothers.

“I am the creator of this realm, but Hades is its ruler. He structures order from darkness. Ours is a working relationship, nothing more.”

The shift is immediate, Persephone lighting up as she smiles, her silhouette stark against far off shadows. 

“Oh, I see. That is a comfort. I would hate to be the cause of contention.” She hesitates, her smile waning faintly. “Life on Olympus was stifling. Lord Zeus offered this alternative. I had not met Hades before my arrival, however...” Persephone twists the fabric at the edges of her pockets. “I am to be Queen, if all goes well. It will take some getting used to, for all of us, I think.”

Nyx goes still. Hades would not spurn the fates for his own selfishness, but perhaps for Persphone’s sake. A Queen. An heir. A dynasty. The thread of possibilities unravels from each choice, known or otherwise. Chaos had often spoke of the infinite until Nyx’s mind whirled and she could listen no more, curious but ultimately uncaring of what came to be. Nyx creates, contains. How Persephone could change the realm, for better or worse, she cannot perceive. But she can comfort the confused girl in front of her, expecting if not affirmation, at least a response. 

“Hades has always kept his feelings hidden, but he is not unkind,” Persephone’s expression softens, and Nyx is strangely eased. “This domain is a responsibility we all share. If there is anything that will make the transition more comfortable, do not hesitate to request it.”

“Oh, I’d like a garden, if possible,” Persephone says with an immediacy that makes Nyx smile. “I’m not certain what will grow here, but I’d like to find out.”

“A garden,” Nyx murmurs. “That can most certainly be arranged.”

It had been many eons since Nyx had seen the sun. Yet, as Persephone grins, it’s all she can picture, its rays blinding in a stark blue sky. 

It is different from any life that she had ever known. As Persephone, time spent quietly with her father in the countryside had been a bright, fleeting thing. As Kore on Olympus, it had been endless and strange, unchanging. There were rules, expectations, needling observations and belittlements, even as her godly relatives acted as foolishly as the mortals. Demeter had thought herself above the rest, but her cruelties were just as numerous: ignoring her name, speaking over and looking through her, coveting and chiding. Her love was chilling and heated in the same breath. A few centuries of it had been enough to turn Persephone’s patience to desperation.

Well, if Persephone was to be a god, she would act like one. Foolishly and on fleeting whim. 

There are no such expectations in the Underworld. She works, even though it is not demanded of her. She accepts the offered hand of the god she had admired in paintings, even as she is allowed to refuse it. She could simply exist here, breath in the still air, settle into the shadows, bask in its quiet. The only eyes upon her are the shades and chthonians, the former afraid of spreading words outside of hushed circles, the latter disinterested in the drama and rumors that had been the lifeblood of Olympian court. 

She is respected. Well treated. Ignored, when she wishes it. 

There are days, or maybe nights, when neither Nyx or Hades occupy their spaces in the Great Hall.  She’d already bothered the chef and tended to the lounge, work that Nyx had said was below her stature, but Persephone didn’t mind. She’d done many such chores as a child, and it gives her something to do other than worry. 

The flow of shades is slow without Hades to process them. She walks the Great Hall, drawn by the sound of the Styx, the blood’s babbling reverberations so reminiscent of the river she used to draw water from all those eons ago.

She crouches upon the spot where the steps descend into the pool, the smell of copper subtle but persistent. She had thought the river red from her anger when first she had seen it, though even that had quickly waned into nervous anticipation as the sun had disappeared behind her at the mouth of the Styx.

The soft, repetitive splash of an oar joins the quiet hum of flowing blood. Persephone looks up, smiling easily as a familiar vessel pulls to shore.

“Welcome to the House of Hades,” Persephone says sheepishly to the shades as they stare, listless and expressionless. “Please join the queue in an orderly fashion.”

The shades slip silently up the steps, a deathly coolness emanating as they pass. She’s mostly used to it by now.

“Charon! It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

The boatman groans softly, keeping the vessel steady as the last of the shades depart. He isn’t much for words, but he’s a good listener, just like his mother. It had made her wonder at his age; form long and slender, as if fresh from adolescence, but his eyes speak of centuries.

Charon looks past Persephone with a gentle tilt to his head.

“No one’s here,” Persephone says. “I’m a bit at a loss as to what I’m supposed to do in the meantime.”

She supposes the intensity of Charon’s gaze should be more unnerving, but the way his fingers rap against the oar, tentative, only sets her at ease. He gestures slowly towards the boat, another quiet groan, higher pitched, questioning.

“You’ll let me come along with you? That won’t get you into trouble, will it?”

Charon shakes his head.

He offers her his hand, and she takes it, stepping smoothly into the boat.

“Thank you, dear. I’ll be sure to stay quiet. I would hate to ruin the ambiance,” she says cheerfully.

She takes a seat closest to the bow. Charon tips his hat at her, eyes hidden, but the twitch of his mouth reveals his pleasure. 

The rivers of the Underworld aren’t unknown to her, but in companionable silence and without fear of discovery, the landscapes open before her eyes. Darkness and beauty, forgetfulness and mourning, shades and monsters and endless plains and fortresses.

All is the domain that that Hades maintained, that Nyx had created. 

“I haven’t seen this before,” she says quietly, leaning back to look at him. “Is this the scenic route?”

Charon groans and nods. 

“I bet there are many of those. This place is absolutely labyrinthine. Though I’m sure you know all the twists and turns.” 

A pause, fingers tightening upon the oar, then another nod.

“That’s amazing, Charon. Nyx must be quite proud.”

Persephone laughs good naturedly as Charon tugs the brim of his hat, a cloud of vaporous purple escaping him in a rush.

It is not easy for the goddess of verdure, but she does not fault Persephone for this. Theirs is a dark realm, and Persephone is its antithesis. Nyx senses her presence even when she cannot see her, drawn inextricably to its uniqueness even as her attentions remain elsewhere. She must tend to the twins, weave new spaces for the shades to reside, populations ever growing, landscapes ever changing.

Even so, she commands the construction of the garden as highest priority. Even Hades raises his brows at the level of importance, but he does not complain. Outwardly, it seems a superfluous request, but they both know better.

The area carved out for the garden is small, but it is close to the center of her domain. Easily constructed, easily maintained. It is little more than barren soil and dim light, but Persephone glows as soon as she steps barefoot through the open land.

“Oh, Nyx. It’s perfect.” She slides her hands along the empty trellises. “I can sense its potential. I wonder what kind of plants can grow in such unique conditions?”

“I admit, it is a curiosity I also share.” She watches Persephone survey the low planters with a faint smile of her own. “The darkness is an inexorable part of this Realm, but I have endeavored to ease its influence here. Perhaps that will help to yield a fruitful garden.”

The familiar weight of Persephone’s gaze falls on her.

“It is not too much to maintain such a space?”

“You ask that of Night Incarnate,” Nyx’s voice dips, conspiratorial. “It is no trouble to serve my future Queen, and you should expect such treatment as befits your station.” 

Persephone turns towards Nyx. “Future Queen,” she repeats, testing the phrase. “I had not heard it aloud before, but I suppose you’re right.”

“I trust Hades has been acclimating you to your duties?”

“I have been helping him with parchmentwork, yes. It seems there is always something to be done. Most unlike Olympus, where it’s drama and busywork in spades.” 

There is a disturbance around her, a tight-lipped wistfulness that draws Nyx’s attention. 

“You miss them.”

“Hardly,” Persephone scoffs. “I’ve had my fill of their squabbles and bloodshed,” she draws her foot over the earth. “Yet here, I am not quite at home, am I?”

Nyx approaches her, casting Persephone in shadows. She places a hand on her shoulder, gently registers the warmth along her cool palm, even through chiton.

“Home is made, Persephone. Perhaps give yourself more time to acclimate, to flower your seeds. You may yet come to love this Realm as I do.”

“I…” Persephone blinks up at her, then she shakes her head, smiles. She puts her hand on Nyx’s with a gentle squeeze. “You are right, of course. I’ve hardly been here any time at all, and that is one thing we gods possess. Time.”

Nyx tips her head in agreement. She hopes, one day, that it will be so, even as Persephone’s emotions waver as steps out of reach.

“You have seen my influence at work,” Nyx says gently. “I wish to see yours, if you would permit me this indulgence.”

“Oh, my powers are not quite so impressive. Well, not to other gods. My father was always tickled by how I made plants to grow so quickly. Sometimes even foreign seeds, if we could get a hold of them.”

“Any life that can bloom in the Underworld will surely be a sight to behold, but you do not need to impress me. I am already in awe of you.”

“Of me?” Persephone laughs, shocked and bright. “Well, let us say the feeling is more than mutual.”

In a place of death and darkness, vegetation does not grow easily, but grow it does. Each day, between parchmentwork and sneaking off to do small, overlooked chores, Persephone makes time for her garden. Tall, strong trees with lush, red pomegranates coaxed from gnarled saplings, rows of grapevines, the fruit bright and round like sesamoid bones. Devil’s Ivy, large and in need of transplanting; snake plants growing almost too well, multitudinous and tall and in need of proper pruning. 

She has her hands deep in the soil, coaxing life from the earth, when the dual sounds of sharply extinguished flame erupt behind her. When she turns, there are two small children standing around one of the pomegranate-filled planters. 

“Oh, my,” Persephone says, cleaning off her hands as she approaches Nyx’s twin boys. 

They regard her openly, one happily sleepy, the other solemn-faced and slightly disinterested. She doesn’t take it to heart; Thanato’s affectation rarely shifted. A cursory glance around does not reveal their mother. Thanatos moving him and his brother around again, she supposes. Poor Nyx.

“Are you two hungry?”

She kneels down next to the planter, withdrawing a small paring knife from her pocket. She slices the ends smoothly, then draws shallow cuts along the ridges. The children watch with muted fascination as she pries away a section, revealing white membrane and ruby arils. She gives them each a piece, smiling as they study the treat in their tiny hands.  

“You eat the red part. Mind the seeds. Like this,” Persephone plucks an aril from her slice and pops it in her mouth, making a show of chewing.

Thanatos stares at her, then stares at the fruit. Slowly he mimics her, loosening an aril with his chubby fist. Hypnos simply bites his section, juice splattering over his lips and chin. Persephone laughs before she can stop herself, thankful of his red chiton. “Hypnos, you always do things your own way, don’t you?” She ruffles his hair, and he smiles, wide and gleeful, with pomegranate all over his mouth. 

They eat until the children are satisfied, fingers stained, bellies full. Persephone wipes their faces and hands with a damp cloth, Hypnos already tucking into her arms with satisfied yawn. Thanatos looks between Persephone and his brother, a wrinkle in his brow that looks much too old on his young face.

“Here too, Than. Rest with us.”

Thanatos hesitates, and for a moment, Persephone thinks he will refuse. Then a yawn catches him by surprise. She takes his hand gently in her own, easing him down next to her side. They are both cool-skinned, like Hades, like Nyx, but quickly warm against her. Their soft, even breathing, the dim light, the fresh scent of saplings and leaves and earth, if she closes her eyes, it’s like the world above, safe and warm in harvest dusk.

Her children are not helpless, even at their age. Still, when they go missing for too long, Nyx seeks them out, following the gentle pulls of their aura. The garden is seemingly empty, but Nyx brushes past the large, dark plants towards the end of the hall.

Leaned against the vined column lay Persephone and her two sons, soundly asleep. Nyx pauses, breath caught; rarely is Thanatos content to sleep outside of his quarters, rarer still to see Persephone in repose, so still. Nyx follows the line of her neck, a long swath framed by her ribbon-lined hair, to her collarbone, half hidden beneath dirt-spattered chiton. Her chest rises and falls, slow and even, Hypnos’s head of curls pressed over her beating heart. 

Art by beetleknee

A tightness settles within her, subtle but sharp. All her children are fatherless. She is not enraptured by the trivialities of pursuit or longing like the Gods Above. Her closest relationships are as a mother, as a partner in the clinical sense; though there had been whispers, moments when she perhaps felt fondness unlike the kind she had for her ancient progenitor. A relationship fueled not by strict obligation or responsibility, but for her own wants, her own pleasures, had never been a consideration. 

She cannot let it be a consideration now. Nyx draws her eyes away from their sleeping forms, roams over the garden, rich and bloomed, even in the flickering candlelight so very far from the natural order of light and wind and rain. Would it fall apart, without one to nurture it? Persephone herself flora transplanted, growing, however slowly, into ill-fitting soil. 

Arching towards what makes her glow and prosper, following path predestined to ensure harmony for them all. Nyx had gone unchanged for so long, the bones of the body, shifting, supporting, as the head commanded. She could not want, could not allow such thoughts to grow.

Time passes strangely in the Underworld, and so she has no measure of how long she watches over them, tucked into the garden at the heart of her domain. At last, she approaches, carefully placing a discarded blanket from Persephone’s supplies upon their sleeping forms.

She departs for the Great Hall, content to wait for Persephone and her sons to return. She does not see the fluttering of Persephone’s eyelashes as she turns, nor the sleepy gaze that follows her retreat.

Persephone’s plants cycle through bloom and fruit, never dying but falling dormant, whispers of life sluggish beneath her fingers. Nyx’s sons grow taller, though slowly enough that they must etch their heights into a column to see it. 

Persephone does not truly know Hades, but then, she knows enough. He is stern, brooding, patient, kind. He never raises his voice to her, differential in all matters. What he lacks, she finds in Nyx: conversation, companionship of a more genial sort. She suspects he knows how close Persephone’s grown to her, but he never says a word, negative or otherwise, about it.

The lack of communication, somehow, works in Hades’s and Nyx’s favor, both operating so in sync that argument or discussion are equally unnecessary.

It feels like peace, or as close to it as gods could manage. Not home, but Persephone wants it to be. 

Hades’s heavy brows raise, eyes wide and sweet when she quietly brings up their betrothal one day, one night. As if she would reject him after all these years. Perhaps he had been waiting for it to be so.

The ceremony is, of course, a quiet affair, only her new family and their closest servants in attendance. Strangely, most things do not change after she takes his hand and crown. Most.

“You are now our Queen in name and occupation,” Nyx mentions sometime after. “I believe this calls for a change in attire.”

“Are you saying I don’t look royal enough?” Persephone replies with a lilt in her tone, eyes glittering.

“A white stola oft stained with soil does not inspire fear and respect in most Underworld denizens,” Nyx says, smile slight but present. 

“Hm, I suppose you’re right,” Persephone sighs. “Please don’t doll me up too badly. I have no idea how you manage to look so put together in all the gems and layers.”

“I am the Night, my Queen. Nothing is outside my influence, including stubbornly laid pins.”

Persephone laughs like it’s a surprise, a sound which manages to gain a few short, low sounds of amusement from Nyx herself.

The outfit is more ostentatious than she had hoped, but she knows Nyx had held back for her sake. The shades bring chiton and jewel, and Nyx quickly selects pieces with simple flicks of her hand. Crimson and black chiton wrapped and drawn tight by translucent hands, small skull pauldrons fastened upon her shoulders. All the while, Nyx stands behind her in the huge, bejeweled mirror, watching and directing.

Fully adorned, Nyx gives her a once over, then nods.

“You may leave us,” she says. The shades disperse without hesitation or question. Nyx turns to the dark, unopened case upon the vanity.

“There’s still more?” Persephone asks with a small pout.

“More indeed,” Nyx says. “Please sit, so I may style your hair.”

Persephone watches Nyx’s reflection in the mirror as she works, distracted by the fine concentration of her features. She gently sections her hair, fingers drawing against her scalp in smooth, practiced drags. Persephone relaxes into the touch, closing her eyes.

“I’m surprised you know how to do this. Don’t the shades help you get ready?”

“They do. I learned this from my children who preferred to wear their hair long. It was pleasant work, though perhaps tedious at times.”  

“Did Charon let you style his hair?” 

“When he was younger, and less occupied with his work.”

 “I wish I could’ve seen it. I’m sure he looked lovely.”

Persephone takes Nyx’s hand when she offers it, rising to stand. Nyx turns her towards the mirror with a faint touch to her waist, keeping her still. A jewel-incrusted belt secured in place, then again, about her uncovered neck, an ornate collar, embellished with their house sigil, fastened. 

Fitted, but not too tight. Relaxing , Persephone thinks, then frowns slightly, face heating. Nyx remains like a shadow behind her, tall and cool and close.

“I know ensembles such as this are not to your liking, but it suits you, my Queen.”

My Queen.

“Thank you, Nyx,” Persephone says, seconds too late, hands idly tracing the skull centered in her belt. “For this. For everything.” She inhales. “I don’t think I could manage being here without you.”

She summons enough bravery to look at Nyx’s reflection. She is still standing tall and regal, poised, if not for the faint violet flush rouging her high cheekbones. All Persephone can think is 

she’s beautiful.

Her second thought, swift and brutal, is how much of a mistake she just made. 

“Of course,” Nyx finally replies softly, like the words are delicate, precious. A boon and and a bane upon her. “Anything for you.”

Persephone never forgets those words. Not when she lies with Hades. Not when she gives birth. Not when she flees, wild with grief, nor when spending night after night isolated in her bright, empty paradise. 

She only knows their extent when a wild-haired youth with mismatched eyes stumbles into her garden one day with an accent mirroring her own. He is kind, stubborn, introspective, and will not give up on her.

Anything for you.

Persephone is even more breathtaking than the moment Nyx had first laid eyes on her: lead arm in arm with Zagreus, who points at his mother excitedly, the Queen herself smiles her small, stubborn smile as they enter through the garden’s gate.

It feels fateful, somehow, that it would be their son, the mother who raised, the mother who birthed, that would lead the Queen home. Nyx had been so afraid when Zagreus had drawn his first, forbidden breath. To reject her daughters’s wills was a dangerous, heartbreaking game. But from that moment, she had loved him, fast and dearly. His existence alone had been worth the risk; Persephone’s return more a dream than she ever dared to have. 

She bows in greeting as she always has, heart thundering in her chest, a giddy sort of excitement that surely did not show on her face. The Queen comes to a halt before the Night, the familiar prickle of her aura drawing Nyx like a moth. When she rises, her Queen’s arms are gently outstretched, her smile even gentler, hesitant in a way Nyx has never seen before.

Persephone is small and warm against her, and she hugs her as only her children ever had, hard and without reservation.

“I have missed you so much.”

She nearly forgets to breathe, much less respond in kind, but once Nyx holds her in return, it’s just as desperate. This one time, Nyx forgives herself for her lapse in decorum.

“As have I of you, my Queen. Welcome home.”

It is only when they finally part that Nyx catches Zagreus’s gaze. He’s smiling, awed and soft and so much like his birthmother it hurts and thrills her in equal measure. 

The first bottle of Ambrosia Nyx receives she shares with her sons. It felt the proper time, Thanatos closer, more open, Hypnos surer, competent in his Household responsibilities. Even Charon heeded her call, less endlessly stalwart in the eternal ebb and flow of duty. It is by the thrumming life of the God of Blood that her family changes.

Her second bottle she shares with her Queen. 

“A gift from Zagreus, no doubt.”

“Yes. He’s quite the generous soul. I hear he has to defeat throngs of Elysium heroes for a single bottle.” 

“Then it is our duty to savor it to the fullest, to honor that dedication.” 

The lounge is busy, so they retire to a quiet antechamber near the garden, where the din of shades and drink is muffled ambience. The faint fragrance of blooming flora tinge the air, and they both breathe a little easier. They take a seat at a small table, room for their arms and cups but little else.

Nyx reaches for the bottle, but Persephone waves her hands away, pouring for Nyx and then herself.

“No need for formalities, Nyx, especially when we are alone.”

“As you wish.”

Nyx should not be surprised her humility lay in tact after all these years, but it is another, quiet, comforting thrill.

The first sip of Ambrosia is as rich and honeyed as Nyx remembers. Just as sweet is Persephone’s reaction, an immediate, pleased exhalation.

“I’ve had Ambrosia many times, but it never gets old. One of the only good things about living on Olympus.”

They speak for a long time. Memories of eons past, what Zagreus was like as a child, how his relationship with Thanatos came to pass. How Orpheus sings fables of Zagreus’s teasing lies. How Hermes was the only one upon Olympus keen on Nyx’s plan, partnered with Charon from the very first. 

The bottle grows light and words flow easily. They’ve leaned close like children trading secrets.

She knows from the shifting of the Realm, the state of its rulers, but still, Nyx asks. “Hades is glad you have returned. He is different person when you are present.”

“I can only imagine. It seems that Zagreus has not had an ideal relationship with him. I cannot help but shoulder that particular blame. Still…”

“You love him,” Nyx says.

Persephone’s eyes widen incrementally. So close, Nyx fixates on the flutter of pale eyelashes.

“What I share with Hades is something akin to love, even now,” she replies softly. 

There is something easy about the admission, acceptable, proper. Nyx senses their bond herself, a warm, enduring connection between King and Queen. To hear it in her own words is faintly bittersweet. 

“But what I feel for you is much easier to define.”

Nyx’s hand, lax upon the lacquered table, is covered by a smaller, rougher one, arush with life. Ichor, endlessly sluggish in Nyx’s veins, thrums.

“But, Hades…” She murmurs.

“He is under the impression we have been bedding each other for centuries.”

Nyx can’t even begin to guess the face she’s making, but Persephone laughs and squeezes her hand, an assuring weight.

“I am your Queen, Nyx,” Persephone says, quietly, “and you are mine.”

Nyx’s breath escapes in a quiet rush. The Night is eternal; it does not bend nor change. So she had thought for all her centuries. 

“Yes, I believe,” she says, not quite a whisper, “that is amenable.”

Fingertips beneath her chin, taking hold, drawing her down. Persephone’s lips are smooth and warm, spiced with Ambrosia. Motions slow, chaste. Nyx slips her arms around Persephone, the desperation of their last embrace remembered, potent. Persephone makes a noise against her lips, slips her tongue along the seam of Nyx’s mouth, and she doesn’t even dream of denying her. Rare it is for Nyx to want something so strongly and have it within reach, offered and expectant; each moment less inert and endless, more alive and thrumming with energy, with deep, endless intent. 

Duty, decorum and discipline retreat when Persephone cups her jaw, tilts her head just so, drags her tongue in a practiced, devious motions that urges messy, strange little noises from Nyx’s throat. Persephone hums, pleased, needy, and Nyx answers, draws her bodily into her lap while the other gasps. Nyx has been touched, had and held, lovers and suitors close at hand if she so sought them. None have made her like this, electric and aching and alive.

“Manhandling me, O Night. How baudy.” Persephone’s words heated against her lips.

“I suppose you wish to wait a few more millenia?” 

“Hardly. I quite like this side of you.”

Nyx tastes Persephone’s smirk. A slip of tongue, demanding; her fingers sink into the blood red chiton she had selected for her Queen so long ago. Persephone’s eyes are sharp, bright, jumping from Nyx’s lips, her throat, her chest. Nyx’s plum-colored lipstick is a vibrant, tempting smear across Persephone’s lips. Nyx grabs a fistful of the queen’s braid and tugs her forward, claiming that stained mouth.

The Queen is a livewire in her lap, hips shifting, fingers roaming, nosing the stripe of skin between the curve of Nyx’s jaw and her golden collars. Hot lips, a ghost of teeth, heaving breath, joyous conversation and the dull thud of glasses toasted a few short rooms away. 

“Take us somewhere more quiet?” Persephone whispers.

Nyx tightens her fist in Pesephone’s hair, another, deeply-seated, ill-bidden feeling unfurling in her chest. Dangerous. Undeniable.

But why should she deny her Queen?

Nyx eases Persephone’s eyes back to her own, draws her fingers over Pesephone’s lips, her Queen nipping at the tips, more sparks of want threading into an impenetrable lattice.

“As you wish,” Nyx says.

Persephone clings to her as they disappear in an instant, landing in Nyx’s bed astride dark, silky sheets and web thin drapery. An assumptive location, perhaps, but Persephone only hums and kisses her again. Without fear of discovery or audience, Persephone’s hands drift without hesitation, slipping past the collar of her dress, cupping Nyx’s chest. Over warm fingers brush her nipples, and Nyx emits a quiet sound, arching as the touch devolves into flat palmed groping. Persephone is all glittery eyes and wan smile, fixated and attentive, face close, studying, savoring. 

“You are staring,” Nyx says softly, a teasing edge to her voice. 

“Let me, won’t you? I’ve had to be discreet about it for centuries.”

“So that is what you consider discreet?”

Persephone surprises them both with a laugh. A smile catches her own lips, warmth and giddiness infectious. 

“ Well , they are very much on display. And eye level.”

Persephone squeezes her again before Nyx can say something teasing, fingers turning just one side of mean, tugging her nipples until they flush and ache in her hands. Sensations course through Nyx, biting, racing heat that intensifies by the second.

The only time Nyx hates the attire she had so carefully selected for her Queen is when she’s forced to remove it. Bangles and clasps lost to the floor and surrounding sheets, earrings and collars tossed, chiton unwrapped and discarded. As soon as a new swatch of skin is revealed, a pause, teeth along barred throat, fingernails teasing down soft bellies, skin shivering and rising in their wake. 

It’s easy to follow where Persephone’s hands lead, her Queen pressed into obsidian sheets, urging Nyx up, forward, until her thighs bracket Persephone’s face. Nyx is used to wielding power, ancient, statuesque, unquestionable, but when those small, hot hands curl along her thighs, gripping her tight as Persephone laves a burning, slick drag that only grazes Nyx’s swollen clit, all she can do is shiver and strain for more.

Persephone shouldn’t be so good at this. Nyx fights the urge to grind down, to chase that teasing mouth that knows just when to let off and trails along Nyx’s thighs, faint indentations of teeth leaving purpled marks in their wake.

A possessive thrill courses through Nyx, marks that would catch against her thighs as she walked, unseen but known to them both. Would Persephone see the blush upon her cheeks, tease her in some furtive way before the countless onlookers in the Great Hall? The thought it heady, unbearable, ultimately impossible to ponder as the Queen only doubles her attention. Quick little flicks of her tongue interspersed with kisses, sucking and licking until Nyx grows dizzy with it, chasing sensations with needy jerks of her hips when it all becomes too much to bare, decorum a pathetic facade as Persephone plays her like a lyre. And still the Queen beneath does not complain, the apples of her cheeks bright with ichor, a ring of green striking and vivid around dilated pupils. The hands upon Nyx’s thighs had clung, crescent moon indentations scattered along unmarked skin, welted and pulsating with her heartbeat.

It is only when Nyx’s endless grace wears thin and her long-nailed fingers slip into the dishelveld bundle of Persephone’s hair does the Queen relent. Nyx holds that capricious mouth in place and rocks downward again and again, slick and helpless and rough, Persephone giving her control, lapping and sucking as her breathing labors and hips stumble and her mind dissolves into waves of white.

She is heavy, large, but Persephone seems not to mind in the least, eyes thinned and glazed, lower face a ruin as she gasps against Nyx’s thighs, teasing out middling flares of pleasure with lazy flicks of her tongue. 

Nyx, barely remembering herself, releases the vice grip on Pesephone’s scalp, instead traces fingers down the reddened curve of her cheek. She means to hold her face, but the Queen catches a finger with her teeth, draws it into her mouth without hesitation, tongue along the underside, all the while watching Nyx’s expression.

“You are insatiable,” Nyx says, her voice embarrassingly hoarse. Persephone’s eyes narrow, all pleasure and unquenched heat. The body beneath hers squirms. “What is it, my Queen?” Nyx shifts her finger inside Persephone’s mouth, presses deeper, the Queen’s eyelashes fluttering. “What do you desire? My hands? My mouth?”

Persephone’s breath catches, tongue slipping between fingers as a second joins the first, questioning without a method to answer. There’s a thrill to it, tightening her guts, a steady, dripping ache rising again — the Queen would choke on her fingers, does it gladly, has done more salacious things with flourish. A wet pop follows the retreat from that suctioning mouth, lips and chin gossamer and slick. Persephone gasps, catches her breath just enough to say

“Whatever you wish. Let’s do it.”

Nyx’s gaze darkens, a strange, harrowing glee raising the corners of her lips. The only problem is the endless things she wanted to do to Persephone, with Persephone. Dress her up, tie her down. All intricate, planned, ridiculous daydreams, nightdreams that she could barely ponder before dismissing such thoughts. The idea settles then, and she shifts back towards the headboard, less graceful than she’d like, legs jellied and half-useless from Persephone’s ministrations. 

There is probably little Persephone has not done before, living centuries with the gods upon Olympus. They are a brazen, prurient lot, and surely that had some influence on Persephone’s own pursuits. It does not stop the quiet sound of awe behind her as Nyx retrieves two items from the nightstand, lifting her hips to shift the leathers in place.

“My, where did you get something like that down here?” Persephone says breathlessly, fixated on her every move.

Nyx resettles, half propped up by the obsidian headboard and pillows, an air of nonchalance even as her heart stutters in her chest. How she must seem, bright with sweat, hair fanned about her in messy ringlets, lipstick smeared, thighs darkened with bites, a harness settled and proud between her legs. Rarely had another soul seen her such, and doubly someone of which she cared about as keenly as the world.

“Some see this as a tool of punishment. It was not a difficult thing to procure from the Furies.”

“What I wouldn’t give to have heard that conversation,” Persephone says, mouth slackening as Nyx slicks her hand, wetting and warming the dark shaft with oil. 

The Queen’s eyes jump from Nyx’s harness to her face, flushed as pomegranate flesh. There’s little elegance to how quickly Pesephone scrambles up the bed, but Nyx is bewitched regardless, drinking in the freckles upon her shoulders and neck, the lovely swells of her breasts, the furred trail from her stomach to between her legs, strands sticking and dripping between. All for Nyx, all because of her—

Persephone hips stutter as she settles, rubbing against the shaft as she bites her lower lip.

“And I’m to be considered the shameless one?” Nyx says, grabbing Persephone’s hips, revealing at how large her hands look upon her.

“Don’t tease me too badly.”

“So sweet you’ve become now that our positions have reversed.”

Nyx tightens her grip, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stop Persephone’s aimless grinding. A huff, a curse. Nyx’s grin widens.

“Nyx, please,” Persephone moans, her hands settling on top of Nyx’s own, gripping, urging.

For a moment, she considers keeping her in place, letting her have only what Nyx allows, but those gleaming eyes and soft plea make her move, lifting the Queen bodily as if she were no more than a doll. The shift in Persephone is immediate, a bitten off gasp, hands flattening in a vice, hips angling to catch the shaft between her thighs. Nyx drags the tip, feather light, between, enough pressure to keep Persephone from claiming, not enough to truly please.

“How much more...please, I’m ready—”

In the same moment, she eases Persephone down. There is little hesitance, even less catch, the Queen aching wet and hungry with it, wordless swears as their bodies draw flush and tight, a mirroring pulse in her own gut, strong but ignored.

She lets the Queen move on her own, needily shifting, deep seated thrusts that keep their bellies pressed together. Her brow is furrowed, concentrated, lips swollen from teeth and kiss, sweat like morning dew shining along each inch of skin. Nyx can’t remain still for long, lifting Persephone by her hips, leading her thrusts, slow and deep and even and the Queen tosses her head back, Nyx’s name in soothing whimpers offered to the air, offered to the Night.

Persephone is light in her hands, warm and real, urging her faster, harder, watching her deliriously through blond eyelashes as her motions grow harried, close, so close. Could Persephone come like this? Curiosity threading with heat, but mercy too. They would have time for this. They had time for everything.

She frees one of her hands, slips her thumb against Pesephone’s clit to the harsh groan of

“Yes, Nyx, please—”

Small, quick circles that chase the rhythm of Persephone’s thrusts, sliding smoothly across slick, swollen flesh. It’s breathtaking, watching her Queen undone by her own hand, mouth rounded on a soundless gasp, her hand locked around Nyx’s wrist tight enough to leave fingerprints. Persephone trembles, rocking and grinding, filled to brim and tumbling over the brink, twitching, thrashing, whimpering, before her form finally slackens. She curls forward, near boneless if not for following the gentle urging of Nyx beneath her, not quite ready to let her go, not quite ready to give up on the sweet, ruined gasps tumbling from her Queen’s lips.

Persephone slowly, shakily pulls away, but still Nyx’s hands hover close, steadying and constant. She curls along Nyx’s side, warmer still than the heat she’d coaxed within Nyx’s own body, and drapes her hand across Nyx’s middle, not limply, but with purpose, fingers trailing low.

A creak of leather, metal clinking, Nyx’s surprised sigh as the harness is drawn away and flesh eagerly replaces it.

“Do not feel you must,” Nyx says weakly, fighting the urge to chase those fingers, a gasp spilling forth as they only quicken. 

Persephone laughs, voice roughened from use, but not unkind. “As if this is some chore I must perform. Do you know not what you look like?”

The searing touch steals her retort, helpless as orgasm leaves her breathless, shaking and soaked. She’d been so close, had not even realized until Persephone had taken her in hand. In the moments after, Nyx presses her thighs together, wrung out and oversensitive and raw. Yet, the Queen relents easily, shifting upwards until her face settles against the column of Nyx’s throat. Again her hand rests on Nyx’s stomach, rising and falling with her breath. Nyx wraps her arm around Persephone, featherlight, as if she’s holding something fragile. Precious.

Coolness slowly seeps back into her skin as they both quietly catch their breath. It still feels too unbelievable to be real, such profound change in such a timeless place with such a timeless being. Nyx grunts as a gentle weight nudges between her eyebrows.

“Stop worrying,” Persephone says. Nyx hadn’t even noticed she’d moved. “Whatever happens, we can figure it out together.”

Her lips descend, slow and sweet, and Nyx savors it as if it was the first. She feels, not exhausted, but weightless, as if unburdened by something she had not known she carried with her through the centuries.

Even as Persephone wipes them down with discarded chiton, Nyx does not stir, only watches her with half-lidded eyes, weary but peaceful. Another kiss pressed to Nyx’s cheek as Persephone draws the sheets over over them both, and Nyx holds her close, lips to her forehead when the Queen’s breathing evens.

There’s so much Nyx wants to say, so much that must be done, to be enforced, created, decreed. Yet, with Persephone at her side, it feels insurmountable odds have all been defeated. Insecurity and worries soften with each exhale, and in that way, new life brings comfort to ancient night, and she sleeps.