Greek Mythology

Calypso: Hi

Nico: Bitch, I’m gay

Nico: *walks away*

Later: 

Calypso: And he had the most beautiful sea-green eyes

Who was the one to propose:

Who stressed more over wedding planning:

Who decorated the house:

Who does the cooking:

Who is more organized:

Who initiates bedroom fun:

Who suggested kids first:

Who’s more dominant:

Who’s the cuddler: 

Who’s the big spoon/little spoon:.

What’s their favorite non-sexual activity: 

Who cooks: 

Who comes home drunk at 3am:

Who kills the spiders: 

Who falls asleep first: 

A head canon: 

Their relationship summed up in a gif: 

Do they have any “rituals”?

Who is louder?

Who is more experimental?

Who takes more risks?

Do they fuck or make love?

Lights on or off?

Who is more likely to be caught masturbating?

Who is more likely to suggest a threesome?

Who comes first?

Who is better at oral and who prefers it?

Who is more submissive?

Who usually initiates things?

Who is more sensitive?

Who has the most patience?

Modern Mythology → The Fall of Persephone (Or did she just Jump?)

He is the young man cloaked in shadows. She is the young woman surrounded by flowers. He blends into the darkness that swallows everyone whole when the lights aren’t on them. She is the girl watching from a distance, her head always pointed up to the lights, but her eyes searching the darkness for what others don’t see. It is in a club that they meet. Music that makes their chest vibrate, flashing vibrant lights, and bodies pressed close together. Glances are exchanged, hands barely touching as they pass one another, and there is little conversation in the beginning. He sees her she sees him and they fall into the pattern of communicating through nonverbal actions and gestures. One night he asks if she’d like to see the world the way he does. The first time he has said more than just a few words to her. He slips a small bag into her hands, tells her to take it when she craves the dark and leaves her.

It is tucked inside of her pocket along with the dirt she can never wash away. She looks at it when she is alone, rubs her fingers against the plastic that contains the substance before tucking it under a loose floorboard in her room. She leaves it there in the dark while she heads into the light. She knows it is there beneath her bed at night, but its prescense is never acknowledged out loud. She sleeps and then wakes, pruning her plants and taking care of the flowers that blossom under her green thumb. Every few weeks she returned to that club where she met that young man. She lets the music move through her and guide the way she dances, hoping that he would be there like he once was. Her hands are tangled in her hair, holding onto it while the beat intensifies and she almost swears she sees him standing there from the shadows watching her. Every time she steals a second glance he is gone, almost as if she had dreamed him up.

There is a freeness the dark provides. No light to point out your mistakes or flaws. What some called cold is misconstrued. It is warmer here than it is in the light because at night bodies press together, hands find one another, and intolerance is the scary story passed from one child to the next about the daylight. Now alone in her room she reaches out for what she doesn’t have. The covers are wrapped tightly around her as she struggles to be free of it, the light was becoming too suffocating. A charlie horse causes her to sit straight up in bed. A bird’s nest of hair blocks her vision as she reaches down to find the loose floorboard. While she can’t see as clearly, she isn’t blind. She finds the dark guiding her hand to it, helping her pry it up and make that bag accessible. She pours the pills into her hand and up to her mouth, all but six. While she craved the dark she still sought the light.

“Persephone,” he says her name like wind howling between the branches of the tree or the rain against a roof. He is tangible, warm, and her’s. My queen, he calls her, his hand reaching out to stroke her cheek and bring her lips to his own when she is pulled back, her hear pounding in her chest.

“We have a pulse.” She is blinded by the white light that meets her eyes. It hurts more than it use to. “We almost lost her.” Voices are all around her as she struggles to see. Her vision is blurred by the light. She makes out things that resemble faces, but she can’t be sure till she sees him standing in the corner, in the shadows, his leg pressed against the wall, his back leaning against it and his arms folded across his chest. “We almost lost you,” he repeats the words that the other had said, but the way that he said it is not one mixed with relief. It is a statement and it is cold.

She knows now what she should have known on that day. She had almost died that night, close to the edge they had called it. She straddled the divide and came back to the living, but a part of her is still in the dark and she is okay with that. Two halves make her up instead of one; her missing piece has been found. She sees him at night with his tussled hair and muted clothing; her escape from the over vibrant colors surrounding her. She comes to in rich hues of purple, because it is the only thing that doesn’t make her eyes hurt, but still separates herself from being consumed by the dark.