💌 Synopsis: Jay Jongseong is a prince—refined, disciplined, and expected to marry a woman of his father’s choosing.
You, on the other hand, are just a college student struggling to keep up with rent—until a team of royal advisors shows up on your doorstep and tells you that you’re the lost princess of Genovia.
But royal life isn’t a fairytale, and duty doesn’t care about love.
Because when the clock strikes midnight on the constitutional deadline, you’ll have to choose: your country or your heart.
“If I were just Jay, not a prince, would you still choose me?”
Release Date: TBA
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The library is vast and silent, moonlight streaming through the tall windows, illuminating the spines of books older than either of you. A faint fire glows in the hearth, casting long shadows across the floor.
Jay locks the door behind you, turning the key slowly, deliberately.
When he turns back, there’s something different in his expression—something darker, something longing, something desperate.
“You locked the door,” he murmurs.
You nod, tilting your chin up as his fingers ghost over your waist. “It means I don’t want to waste a single second of the time we have left.”
Jay lets out a soft, wrecked sound. And then, suddenly—his lips are on yours.
It’s slow at first, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, but when your hands fist into his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, something snaps.
His arms tighten around you, hands gripping your waist, pulling you against him as if he’s trying to imprint this moment into his bones. Because he knows this won’t last.
He presses you against the grand piano, the cool wood biting into your back, but you don’t care. Not when his breath is warm against your lips. Not when his fingers trace reverent lines down your spine.
“Tell me to leave,” he murmurs, voice wrecked with restraint.
“I won’t.”
And just like that, he’s yours.
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Reblog if you’d leave behind your entire life to be a secret princess (or if you’d fall for a prince who calls you “Your Highness” in private). 💌
Louis XIV
Versailles
Words: 1.179
*Trigger warning* infidelity, power imbalance, public humiliation, religious guilt, emotional manipulation, emotional distress, sexual situations (Non-Explicit)
The next day dawns with a strange stillness.
Versailles feels suspended—like a held breath before a confession.
You go about your morning with the grace expected of you, every gesture measured, every smile calculated to reveal nothing. But beneath the powdered calm, your mind hums with a single thought: what does he mean to give me himself?
By afternoon, the corridors are awash with anticipation. The King has called a smaller council—no wives, no mistresses, no ladies of leisure invited. Rumor runs wild: new alliances, new edicts, new sins. You, however, have learned not to listen. At Versailles, the truth always arrives last.
When the sun dips low, painting the marble halls in gold and crimson, a page appears at your door.
“His Majesty requests your presence,” he says, voice tight with the effort of not showing envy.
You follow him through the gilded labyrinth until you reach the King’s private apartments. The same guards as always—motionless, unreadable—open the doors.
Inside, Louis stands at the far end of the room, back to the window, the setting sun turning him into a silhouette of fire. He looks up when you enter, and the transformation is instantaneous: the Sun King fades; Louis remains.
“Madame,” he greets you softly, a smile ghosting over his lips. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”
“As if the world would allow it,” you tease, and his answering laugh is low, private, dangerous.
On the table before him lies a small velvet box. He gestures toward it with a kind of restrained pride, the way a man might when revealing something both precious and deeply personal.
“Open it,” he says.
Inside rests a pendant—a tiny golden locket shaped like a sunburst, its center inlaid with a single blue sapphire. You lift it delicately, heart tightening at the sight.
“It’s beautiful,” you whisper. “Too beautiful for me.”
“Nothing is too beautiful for you,” he replies, stepping closer. “The blue is your eyes. The gold—mine.”
You almost laugh, but his tone is earnest, and the heat behind it silences your protest. “Wear it,” he says, his voice dipping low, “so I may know that somewhere in this palace, my light has found its reflection.”
You turn, and his hands come to rest at the back of your neck as he clasps the chain. His fingers linger, tracing the curve of your collarbone, and the air between you thickens until it feels almost holy.
“Louis…”
He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Say it again.”
“Louis.”
The word trembles out of you like a prayer. And then his lips are on yours—slow, certain, a kiss that feels less like conquest and more like surrender. You melt into him, the perfume of amber and smoke clouding your thoughts, his hand sliding to the small of your back.
When you finally break apart, his forehead rests against yours.
“You make me forget the world,” he murmurs.
“Then remember it again in the morning,” you answer. “We are safer when you do.”
You stay with him for hours. You talk about the chapel he plans to build, the war he dreads, the endless performance of being a god in mortal skin. He tells you things he has never spoken aloud before—the ache of wearing perfection like armor, the loneliness of absolute power.
When you finally leave, the palace sleeps. The night air bites your cheeks as you cross the gallery. You feel light and heavy all at once—like you’ve stepped into a dream from which waking might hurt.
But dreams have a way of traveling faster than footsteps.
By morning, the whispers are everywhere.
The widow and the King.
The locket she wears—a token from His Majesty himself.
Montespan saw it with her own eyes.
You keep your composure, but the world around you trembles. Servants watch you with new caution; ladies whisper behind their fans; courtiers bow with smiles too sharp to be polite.
Montespan strikes first.
At a luncheon hosted by the Duchess de Noailles, she arrives late, wrapped in peacock-blue silk and righteous indignation. She takes her seat across from you, her fan snapping open with theatrical precision.
“I do hope, Madame,” she begins sweetly, “that your evenings have been restful. One hears such activity in the King’s corridors lately.”
You do not flinch. “The palace is never silent, Madame. You of all people would know that.”
A ripple of laughter runs down the table—low, nervous, delighted. Montespan’s eyes flash, but she hides it behind a smile that could kill a lesser woman.
“Oh, indeed,” she purrs. “But some noises… travel farther than others.”
Her gaze drops deliberately to the locket at your throat. Every head follows.
You meet her eyes evenly. “Then perhaps you should close your doors, Madame. Sound carries best when one listens too closely.”
The Queen’s ladies stifle their laughter, and for once, Montespan cannot summon her composure quickly enough. She excuses herself, muttering something about the air being stifling.
But you know—this is far from over.
That evening, the Queen sends for you.
When you enter her private chamber, she is alone, seated beside a small fire, embroidery in her lap. She looks up as you curtsy, and her expression is softer than you deserve.
“You wear his gift,” she says simply.
You touch the locket at your throat, guilt coiling like smoke. “I should have hidden it.”
“No,” she replies. “You should not be ashamed.” She sets aside her work and gestures for you to sit beside her. “I know what the court says. They always need something to gnaw on.”
Her eyes flicker toward the fire. “Do you love him?”
You hesitate, but only for a moment. “Yes.”
“Then be wise,” she says. “Love him as a woman, not as a courtier. His heart is a fortress. You have found a gate; keep it open with care.”
Your throat tightens. “You are far kinder than I deserve, Majesty.”
“Kindness?” She smiles faintly. “No. I am practical. He listens to you, and through you, perhaps, to reason. That is a gift France cannot afford to lose.”
She takes your hand then—delicate, strong. “I do not hate you. I envy you. And I pity you. Versailles will worship you today and crucify you tomorrow. Hold fast, my dear, to what is true, not what is gilded.”
You bow your head, unable to speak.
When you return to your chambers that night, another gift awaits—a small bouquet of violets, tied with a blue ribbon.
Beneath it, a note in the King’s handwriting:
They speak because they cannot touch what we have. Let them whisper. I hear only you.
—L.
You press the note to your heart, half trembling, half smiling.
The locket at your throat glows faintly in the candlelight, catching the reflection of the flames.
And somewhere deep within the labyrinth of Versailles, you know that the game has changed.
Love has stepped out of the shadows—and the court, scenting blood and glory alike, is watching.
NING'S ALLIANCES AND INFLUENCE - FIRST AND SECOND LIFE:
The one thing that stayed consistent with both 'lives' was Ning's ability to cultivate relationships with people around her. There is something about her that draws people to her.
In the first life, she had Zhou Yinzhi and You Fangyin. Zhou Yinzhi was never truly trustworthy, always more interested in furthering his own ambition and keeping his neck safe. The only reason he stayed loyal to Ning was because her ambition far outpaced his own. You Fangyin's loyalty was purer, she stayed by Ning's side even at the cost of her own life and safety.
In the second life, things are very different, with Ning trying to actively make changes and in doing so, she won over and also changed so many people she came into contact with.
There was of course You Fangyin, who remained steadfast as ever. But her relationship with Yan Lin matured. She was open and upfront that while she cared immensely for him, she was not in love with him and he took it well. (I'll do a deep dive on the relationships in a separate post) Same with Shen Zhi Yi, she went from someone who actively harassed Ning in life 1 to becoming one of her staunchest supporters and protected her in the court (true love and probably the healthiest of all her potential suitors). Then we have Xie Wei, who probably underwent the greatest amount of growth. And finally Zhang Zhe and with him, she actively tried to undo the mistakes of her past.
NING'S PERSONALITY:
One of the aspects that I loved about Ning is that, whether it was life 1 or 2, she was very clear when it came to her objective. She pursues her goal with a single-minded focus and is capable of thinking ten steps ahead while keeping track of possible obstacles. In the novel, we have access to her thoughts quite a bit of it is just inner monologue) and they’re great insight into her character and her growth through the story.
Her arc in life 1 is a great example of just how dedicated she in when she sets her mind on something. Think about it, she becomes the empress with all of the cards stacked against her, with no backing at all, it was all her own doing. That is admirable and impressive.
Ning thinks that in life 1, she was too clever for her own good and all she wants to do in life 2, is stay under the radar and live a boring life. In most other stories, there would have been a perceivable shift in her thinking, like she would be more noble after being humbled in her first life, and that’s just not the case. She is still very much the same person, capable of being just as callous and cruel as she used to be. This aspect is more clear in the books because we have access to her thoughts. I was concerned about how they would pull this off in the show, but thankfully they did a great job.
She remains cunning and conniving throughout the story, it’s just that she chooses to focus her considerable mental resources to protect she comes to care about. And she is single-minded in that regard as well, even willing to put her life on the line if it means that she can save them (when she was willing to whisk away Shen Zhi Yi, while fully aware of what it would cost her.)
CONCLUSION:
Was Ning “evil” in her first life? She did what everyone around her was doing and continued to do throughout the narrative with the Xue family vying for control of the court, Xie Wei with his own vengeful vendetta among others. Are her actions somehow more heinous because she dared to be ambitious and work to make that ambition a reality?
Under that hardened shell was someone who was deeply hurt and let down by all those around her, it is any surprise then that she would want a modicum of control over the course of her own life? We have this idea in our heads that people, specifically women, should be kind to the people around them and I reject that idea. Ning didn’t have to be kind and if she did, who should she be kind to, her useless family, the people who mocked her or the women who tried to trip her up?
Ning tells us that, in the previous life, she reached the zenith of power by using people indiscriminately and she very clearly views this in a negative light. But I don't think that's necessarily true.
Let's review shall we, the person she dumped most callously was Yan Lin. After he loses his family and is exiled, Ning tries to convince Shen Lang to bring him back, in fact, this was something she always intended to do.
We can assume (like in life 2) that she actively took care of and protected You Fangyin which is why she stayed by her side. I think Fangyin is an inherently decent person, if she found Ning being genuinely evil (like the Xue family) I don't think she would have stuck around.
When she realised that she was at the end of her rope in life 1, she chose to sacrifice herself to save Zhang Zhe's life. She didn't need to do that. If she was truly as callous as she thought she was, she would not have spared another thought for him.
I think that Ning is her own greatest critic. Taking into account, the setting of the story, Ning sees her ambition as dishonourable. Women are meant to work behind the scenes and not make too much noise. Power struggle within the harem? Perfectly fine, because that is a woman's space. But the wider society? How dare a woman have ambitions beyond marriage and children! While Ning is fairly progressive, she's not immune to the subconscious social prejudices of her time.
It is no surprise then that Ning thinks she was evil but as the viewer/reader, we know that she’s far from that. She’s not the conventional, dull, do-gooder female lead we usually get. Instead, in Ning, we have a nuanced and complicated female protagonist who takes back the reins of her life. She is calculating and manipulative but she is also capable of being incredibly selfless. She uses her skills to protect her loved ones but also does not shy away from using those same skills to take down people who would do her and hers harm.
Louis XIV
Versailles
Words: 1.261
*Trigger warning* infidelity, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, religious guilt, gossip, emotional distress, sexual situations (Non-Explicit)
The invitation arrives not as a letter but as a whisper.
At supper, while courtiers parade their wit and the orchestra hums beneath the crystal chandeliers, a page leans in beside your chair and murmurs softly—
“His Majesty requests your company this evening. After vespers.”
No seal. No parchment. No explanation.
Only that single sentence, and the weight of its meaning.
You nod once, discreetly, before dismissing the boy. Around you, the feast continues—glasses clink, laughter ripples—but your pulse begins to mark time with the orchestra’s rhythm. The King’s glance finds you once across the table, an unreadable flicker beneath the candlelight, and you understand perfectly: this is no accident.
Later, when the last hymn fades and the corridors hush to velvet quiet, you walk toward the royal apartments. The guards at the door say nothing; they simply bow and let you through. The world narrows to the echo of your steps on marble and the thud of your own heartbeat.
Inside, the King’s private chambers are softer than you imagined—gold, yes, but not ostentatious tonight. The scent of woodsmoke and orange blossom lingers in the air, and the only light comes from a dozen candles burning low.
He stands near the window, coat undone, crown nowhere in sight. For a moment, he is not the Sun King—only a man, tired of carrying the sky on his shoulders.
“You came,” he says quietly, as though he half expected you not to.
“You asked,” you reply, managing a small, wry smile. “And one does not refuse the King.”
He laughs softly, the sound private and unguarded. “I was hoping you’d say Louis instead.”
You tilt your head. “Not in these halls. The walls might blush.”
He moves closer then—not enough to startle, only enough for warmth to replace distance. His gaze searches your face with an intensity that would terrify anyone less accustomed to attention. But with him, it feels… human.
“Do you fear me, then?” he asks.
“I fear what happens when I forget that I should.”
That earns another quiet laugh, though it dies quickly, replaced by something softer. “Then allow me to make forgetting a little easier tonight.”
You spend the first hour simply talking.
About France, about court, about the burden of being adored. He confesses that he sometimes envies his gardeners—the simplicity of their work, the way beauty blooms beneath their hands without scheming or deceit.
You tell him of your husband’s estate, the quiet forests that framed your childhood, the way you used to think the stars belonged to you before you came to Versailles and realized they already had an owner.
He listens. Truly listens. And when his hand brushes yours—lightly, cautiously—it feels less like seduction and more like relief.
The conversation ebbs and flows until words begin to falter, replaced by the rhythm of breath and the pull of proximity. He leans in, not commanding but asking—his eyes searching yours for permission.
You grant it.
The first kiss is almost chaste—unexpectedly gentle, reverent even. A stolen fragment of peace rather than passion. When he pulls away, he studies your face as though memorizing it for the inevitable future in which he will be forced to pretend he does not know it so well.
“Do you regret coming here?” he asks.
“Not yet,” you whisper. “Should I?”
His smile is small, almost melancholy. “If we lived in another world, I would say no. But in Versailles… regret is the only luxury we can’t afford.”
You rest your hand against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath brocade. “Then let us be poor, just for tonight.”
He kisses you again—deeper this time, though still careful, as if mindful of the ghosts standing just beyond the door. It is a kiss that tastes of restraint and longing, of every word never spoken aloud. When it ends, you both linger close, foreheads nearly touching.
“I could lose myself in you,” he murmurs.
“Then promise you’ll find yourself again in the morning,” you reply softly. “France still needs its sun.”
You leave before dawn. No one sees you go, or so you believe. The corridors are quiet, the marble cold beneath your slippers. You feel weightless, unsteady, not from sin but from the realization that affection—true affection—can exist even in a palace built on performance.
Still, guilt trails you like the scent of candle smoke.
Not for what you’ve done, but for who you’ve betrayed by omission.
The next afternoon, you seek the Queen. She is in her private chapel, a rosary wound between her fingers, head bowed. You wait in silence until she acknowledges you with a faint, knowing smile.
“You look troubled, Madame,” she says. “Has the court been unkind?”
“Only to itself,” you admit quietly. “I fear I’ve done something… selfish.”
Her eyes lift to yours, steady and calm. “You speak of the King.”
There is no judgment in her tone, only weary certainty. You nod once, unable to lie to the one person who already knows the truth.
The Queen sighs softly, turning her gaze toward the stained-glass window. “He is lonely,” she says after a pause. “He seeks light in many places. If yours brings him peace, then perhaps God sent you, not temptation.”
Your breath catches. “You forgive me?”
“I pity us both,” she answers simply. “And that is close enough.”
You bow deeply, humbled beyond words. When you leave, your guilt remains, but it is quieter now transformed into something bearable, something almost sacred.
By evening, however, Versailles has already changed.
The whispers begin as they always do—in salons, in corridors, in corners lined with gossip and perfume. The widow in black has found her consolation. His Majesty’s newest diversion. A rival for Montespan.
And at the heart of it all stands Madame de Montespan, serene and smiling, the very picture of injured grace.
“She is charming,” she tells her circle sweetly, voice dripping honey. “So innocent. I do hope she remembers that innocence cannot be worn forever—it creases so easily.”
The words spread like smoke, curling through courtiers’ mouths until the entire palace smells faintly of scandal. You learn of it the next morning, from a maid too loyal to lie.
“Madame,” she whispers, “they’re saying you spend the nights in his chambers.”
You close your eyes, steadying yourself. “Then let them say it,” you answer quietly. “Versailles always needs a new story.”
Still, it stings. Not for your reputation—you’ve long accepted that rumor is a kind of currency here—but for him. For the King, who must now stand before ministers and nobles and pretend that love is beneath him.
When you see him that evening, his expression is calm, unreadable. Only when you pass him by in the gallery does he speak, so softly no one else could possibly hear:
“Do not let them shame you. They envy what they cannot possess.”
You lift your chin, composure restored. “I do not fear envy, Sire. Only forgetting who I was before it found me.”
He smiles, that same gentle curve that first unmade you. “Then I shall remind you. Always.”
And so you continue, bound together by silence and scandal, affection and duty.
He walks as a king; you walk as his shadow of warmth.
Montespan schemes, the Queen forgives, the court whispers—and still, you find him in quiet rooms and candlelit halls, in fleeting moments where the world ceases to exist.
Louis XIV
Versailles
Words: 1.313
*Trigger warnings* infidelity, power imbalance, manipulation, emotional distress, religious guilt, surveillance, jealousy
The days lengthen, stretching gold across the courtyards, and Versailles hums with a new rhythm—one that beats quietly beneath the music and masquerades. It is the sound of proximity, of something delicate but unmistakable blooming between you and the King.
Weeks have passed since that evening by the reflecting pool, and though nothing has been spoken aloud, everyone knows. They always do. You are not the first woman to capture the King’s gaze, nor, they whisper, will you be the last. But still—there is something different. The courtiers feel it in the way he pauses when you enter a room, in the silence that falls before he addresses you, in the faint, private curve of his mouth when your eyes meet across the Hall of Mirrors.
And Versailles notices everything.
Montespan, ever the strategist, begins to circle.
Her laughter grows louder, her jewels brighter, her prayers more conspicuous. She plays the devoted mistress to perfection—the devout sinner, the brilliant poison dressed in gold. But beneath the layers of lace and wit, you sense her tension.
She watches you at every gathering. Sometimes it is subtle, the flick of her fan masking her narrowed eyes. Sometimes, not at all.
At supper one night, she leans in too close, the scent of amber and calculation between you.
“His Majesty seems particularly radiant this evening,” she says, her tone velvet with thorns.
“Versailles itself seems to glow when he enters,” you reply evenly, cutting your meat with a precision that feels almost surgical. “Surely you’ve noticed that long before I ever arrived.”
A flicker—barely perceptible—but you catch it. A small, bitter satisfaction hums in your chest.
Still, you know better than to make her your enemy outright. Madame de Montespan is a woman of extraordinary cunning and unrivaled vanity; she would rather destroy you than let anyone believe you could eclipse her. So you tread carefully, smiling where you must, retreating when necessary. You do not fight her war. You make her fight shadows instead.
The Queen, however, is another matter entirely.
You had expected her disdain. Her coldness. Her quiet suffering turned sharp and sanctified. But to your surprise, she shows none of it.
It begins one morning during mass. She requests your presence near her pew, the murmured command passed through an attendant who seems just as startled as you are. You stand beside her through the sermon, your hands clasped, your veil drawn low. When the final Amen dissolves, she turns to you.
“Do you believe,” she asks softly, “that God punishes us for loving the wrong people?”
You hesitate, heart caught between devotion and danger.
“I believe He judges hearts, not titles,” you say carefully.
The Queen studies you, her eyes like winter sun—gentle but piercing. “Then you understand more than most who dwell in this palace.”
From that day, she treats you with quiet courtesy—no, with warmth. When you walk beside her in the gardens, she asks your opinion on the new chapel. When you dine with her ladies, she ensures your cup is filled. And though neither of you speaks openly of the King, there is an unspoken understanding between you. A truce. Perhaps even an alliance.
You think, sometimes, that she knows everything—and chooses, mercifully, to forgive.
The King himself grows bolder.
He finds ways to draw you near without scandal. A council meeting where your family’s estates are mentioned. A new tapestry for which he requests your “artistic sensibility.” A midnight stroll where the guards, somehow, look the other way.
The first time he touches your face—truly touches it—is in the gardens at dusk. You are alone, though you both know that privacy at Versailles is an illusion. The fountains murmur, disguising your voices.
“You have made this court bearable,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “Do you realize that?”
You shake your head, afraid to move too quickly. “You give me too much credit, Sire.”
He smiles faintly. “If that were true, then why does my day end with thoughts of you, and begin with the same?”
You exhale shakily, heart hammering against the cage of etiquette. “Because you are human,” you whisper. “Even kings are not immune to that.”
For a moment, it feels as if the sun itself has stilled. Then he leans closer—close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath. It is not a kiss, not yet. It is something deeper. A promise shaped in silence.
When he finally steps back, his eyes soften. “Tomorrow,” he says again, as he always does.
And just like that, you are dismissed—not cruelly, but tenderly. As though he fears that lingering might shatter the fragile peace you both cling to.
Versailles, of course, talks.
The corridors echo with speculation. The ladies weigh every glance, every whisper. Servants invent stories and feed them to courtiers hungry for scandal. You are named in letters, in jest, in gossip—and though the King does nothing to deny it, he does nothing to confirm it either.
It is both protection and torture.
One afternoon, as you walk along the Grand Canal, Montespan joins you. Her voice is soft, her smile too composed.
“You seem quite content, Madame,” she observes. “And yet… contentment is dangerous here. It invites envy.”
You turn your head, meeting her gaze without flinching. “Then I suggest you protect yourself, Madame. Envy is a vicious thing.”
She laughs, light and false. “Oh, I intend to.”
When she finally leaves, her perfume lingers—a warning in sweet disguise.
You return to your chambers that night to find a gift waiting on your dressing table: a single white rose, dew still clinging to its petals, and a small note in the King’s unmistakable hand.
For the one who reminds me that even the sun must rest.
—L.
You trace the letters with your fingertips, a quiet smile curving your lips. You know that such gestures are dangerous—that every secret kept from the court is a debt owed to fate. But you cannot bring yourself to care.
When you close your eyes, you can still feel the warmth of his palm on your cheek, the quiet conviction in his voice when he says your name as though it were prayer, not sin.
Weeks turn to a pattern.
He finds you in corridors lined with portraits of forgotten kings. You meet in gardens under the guise of divine coincidence. Sometimes you talk of politics and philosophy; other times, of childhood and dreams—things the Sun King is never permitted to have.
You are his confessor, his reflection, his reprieve from the theater of power.
And in return, he gives you something far rarer than jewels or titles: his time.
The Queen watches this unfold in silence, her expression unreadable to most—but not to you.
You notice how her eyes soften when the King greets you at court, how she nods slightly when you kneel beside her at chapel.
One evening, as you help her choose a shawl before a gathering, she catches your hand.
“Do not let them destroy you,” she murmurs. “They will try. They always do.”
Your throat tightens. “Why warn me, Your Majesty?”
Her lips curve—sadly, knowingly. “Because I, too, was once new to his light.”
And so, you remain where you must—between devotion and danger, between crown and conscience.
The King’s affection grows, the Queen’s kindness steadies you, and Montespan’s shadow sharpens with every passing day.
You do not yet know which will consume you first:
The envy of the court,
The mercy of the Queen,
Or the love of the Sun himself.
But for now—
In the glow of candlelight,
In the hush of secret corridors,
In the quiet surrender of stolen glances—
you choose to stay close to the flame.
Thinking about chtonic Persephone and interaction with Hades
Like her "original" version. I just like imagine how Dread Ruler of Dead once discovered that there *another* ruler of Underworld. And he put *bureaucracy* in her cozy chaotic Underworld!
Well, I just want some palace romance (like office romance, but Bronze age palace economics) between Hades and chtonic Persephone.
