Released as a reader reward for a pre-order goal. The Persephone Effect can be pre-ordered on Amazon, Itch, and other storefronts. It is part of the Gunmetal Olympus series, a futuristic sci-fi set on an inhospitable world populated by hostile megafauna that the gods must fight back with giant mecha and the pilots sworn to them.
“What we had is long gone. I made sure of that the moment I entered Hades’s bed without telling you. I am so sorry.”
The apology is so late that it ceases to have meaning. But there is something here that has laid zer bare. Ze stands before her vulnerable, the armor of a century cast aside. It makes zer harsh beauty suddenly impossible to ignore.
“Come here,” she says, and when Beauty commands, all must follow. Hephaestus approaches, and as ze does, Aphrodite points down to her feet and legs, wrapped in an elaborate spiral of leather twisting up from a pair of sandals, well-worn. She’s played around with human wear from time to time—it has a smell and heft that her light constructs did not. “Decades gone between us, and now you don’t even keep xenia with me? My hands and feet are unwashed.”
Hephaestus raises zer eyebrows. “Ah. My… apologies. I wasn’t aware you kept to the customs that closely. I’ll fetch a bowl—”
Aphrodite rests the pad of her thumb on the iron-warm lips of her ex-lover. The heat in Hephaestus snaps to focus like a flame settling after the initial spark. Zer eyes are chasmic, the coal pit, the bed of embers, where even now she can witness zer desire. It’s grown in the intervening years, she can tell. The shape of it remains irresistible. “That won’t be necessary. You will use your mouth.” She runs her tongue along her lips. “And whatever else should please me.” She summons a pen. “Once I am satisfied, you will have my signature on those divorce papers. Consider it a gift from Beauty herself, twice over. Many would kill or die, beloved, to worship any part of me. Were I so inclined, I could hold all of Elysium in thrall.”
And it is true: even now Hephaestus, gazing upon her, must see the flawless facets—ze is not as dazzled by her as a mortal might be, but nevertheless the exquisite surety of her can only strike deep, stoke the fire of zer. And, they courted once.
The Lord of the Forge kneels, proper as a supplicant. Ze places the sandaled foot on zer kneecap, and begins the work of unlacing it. Zer fingers are precisely as thick and rough as Aphrodite remembers—oh, how she remembers—but ze is far more gentle than before, taking zer sweet time to kiss the spaces left by the undone leather, to move aside her anklets of gold chain and seashells. Ze slides the first sandal off, making sure to thumb the pad of her foot. A frisson of pleasure rocks through them both, the shared electricity of worshiper and worshiped. Ze repeats this, taking off the other sandal and setting it delicately aside before beginning zer work.
Aphrodite’s feet are well-oiled. Her votaresses, each morning, wash her with rosewater and adorn her with myrtle oil. In most spaces, she would glisten like blushing dawn. In Forge Aetnaeus, her skin catches the ash and dust all about, the remnants and grime of labor. Upon meeting the alchemy of her, they transmute to flakes of platinum and opal. Eminently more beautiful, but still a task for Hephaestus’s tongue. And ze sets to it without embarrassment or hesitation: zer tongue extends, improbably long and serpentine, teasingly wrapping around Aphrodite’s ankle. Then ze works zer way down and around, licking the back of the foot, and then the sole; tracing the elegant arch, and then individual lustrous nails. Ze sucks as though this is an organ of sensitive nerves, tongue darting to every crevice, leaving none unserviced. Ze licks until zer mouth, too, is platinum and opal. Precious substances passing from one god to the other.
In spite of herself, Aphrodite’s breath heaves as Hephaestus worships and services; she braces her foot against zer shoulder. Then she thinks of what it would be like to press this same foot on zer neck, exert her strength. Anger and pleasure pendulate.
She kicks the Lord of the Forge into the railing. Using it as leverage, she tears zer trousers roughly down the seam, exposing zer cock and clit. Ze glistens below like prized minerals.
“Beg,” she commands.
Hephaestus’s eyes are hot coals, the glare of one used to dominance. Another incompatibility between them. Love does not submit to you; you submit to her. Grudgingly, ze obeys. “Please. Please step on me.”
She does, and she is not kind. Ze groans as she drags her toe roughly down zer shaft, firmly pressing it against zer clit. Zer moan is the first flame roaring in the forge, that too-bright exultation of need. She drags zer wetness all across zer thighs and up the hair of zer navel and steps even closer, allowing the whole pad of her foot to cup and squeeze zer cock.
“Please,” ze manages, “please.”
“Oh, if you insist,” she says, but ze knows well to not continue without the proper command. “Be a good dog.”
Ze bucks immediately, grabbing her leg with both arms and propping zerself against the rail to rub zerself. Ze rolls zer hips and warm friction develops between them, her foot becoming far more sensitive than it has any right to be. Ze is fierce and abrupt, the rhythm of zer desperate and close.
“Not yet,” she tells zer, and zer whimper spears her with delight. If only ze had been this obedient the first time around. She rocks back, keeping the pressure direct and moving her toes around the shaft to tease zer, to bring zer to the edge and hold zer there. Zer eyes lock into hers like a spring trap. She gasps as zer breathing becomes that of a piston. She has forgotten how good it felt to be with zer, back then.
“Now,” she says, and the whole world jackknifes. She can’t help herself, she has to brace against the rail. Zer pleasure rips through her, an immediate empathic response. She can feel it as if it was her own.
In her estate, Aphrodite’s chambers are far from the artisans, retainers, and other staff that call it home. This is for one very good reason. She and Ares consummate their passion with a feverish frequency, even nearly a century down the line. It is a matter of safety for mortals to be far from the scene, lest their neurology be impacted.
Hephaestus’s engineers down below pitch and drop in ecstasy. One twists the hammer they were using around and polishes its shaft before ripping their pants off and inserting it into themself. Three more fall into each other’s embrace, clawing and biting until they draw blood, unable to stop confessing their mutual love for each other—their voices pitch high, higher, euphoric and frenzied. Yet more simply cannot move, stuck in place shuddering as they touch themselves. For each and every one, it will be the greatest climax of their lives as they reach the summit alongside two gods of Elysium.
Aphrodite stumbles her way down to cup the face of her once-beloved, who breathes unsteadily, pleased but never quite at ease. Ze smells like smoke and salt, and she inhales the whole of it until her head swims. She guides zer damp forehead, the crook of zer nose, to rest between her breasts.
“I’m sorry, too,” she says. “For what it’s worth.”
“You bitch,” ze says, a rumbling laugh echoing through all of her bones, a sensation she hasn’t realized she missed. “You don’t get to be sorry for a marriage I ruined.”
“How does Hades put up with you,” she says, laughter loosening from her lips, too. She wonders if ze thinks of hers the same way. A beautiful thing that belongs, now, to someone else.
“Well,” Hephaestus says, voice sloping low and delicately sweet. “I can show you one of the reasons.”
“Oh?” Aphrodite says, before ze lifts and pins her to the railing. Ze steps behind her, hand on the small of her back, positioning her to give zer just the right angle. Zer dark hand is calloused and the ease of force, the firm and the gentle all at once, compels her.
Her hair falls in fuchsia waves over the railing as she watches, idly, the workers below continue their orgiastic spectacle. She has always been something of an exhibitionist and voyeur. Watching their fingers and mouths work just so… she bites her lips. She arches her back. With one hand, she moves the silken light of her dress to the side, to cascade over her hips.
Ze slides into her and they exhale together. She grips the banisters until they warp in her palms. Ze thrusts and with every wave of pleasure they build and release, the mortals below swell and crest. She becomes dizzy from the raw pleasure, the musk and heat.
Hephaestus rocks faster and harder, a hammer against molten steel. The railing bends and creaks but does not break. The Master Blacksmith’s work is unassailable. They pant as they rut, as animal as any below them. Ze comes again with ease, zer seed dripping into the mesh floor, melting through it.
“Don’t stop,” she commands, and hears zer begin to moan with true effort, every stroke wet with reverence and repentance. “Don’t you dare stop.”
Desire roars through her like a riptide and she gasps with it, reaching back and digging her nails into zer arm. She does not yet absolve Hephaestus the first time she comes; only raw need takes charge. She keeps going, rocking into zer. As ze wanes in strength, she only grows.
They end up on the floor, with her hands around zer neck, grinding zer into a moaning mess. She squeezes every drop of seed out of zer and marvels at the warmth between them. When she is nearly finished, she summons the offending packet of paper—signed before she ever walked through the door—and stuffs it in zer mouth. The sight of it, of zer eating zer own apology, is enough to send her finally, finally over the edge.
She lets go, and the waves consume her.
Gunmetal Olympus / Hades Calculus 