Hades and Persephone

"That's a lot of sexual tension and Twilight in a Tom Ford perfume novel corset buster," Samael winks, flipping the page.

"Yergh."

He continues:

Hades reeled at my words. A single tear fell down his face.

I left him then, retreating to my corridors. They were achingly beautiful, walls painted to look like the fields and forests of home. The windows had been magicked to look as if I were gazing out father's palace on the peaks of Olympus. Prometheus, the maker of man, had even crafted facsimiles of plants. But they were hollow, like the dead-spirited things in Hades' gardens. Stillborns that had been allowed to bloom.

I sunk into my decadent, bowered bed, crying. After a time, there was a knock at the door.

"Let me be, you slovenly oaf!" I howled. "I hate you! You, my father- everyone that has done this to me-"

"Persephone," Hades voice said urgently, opening the door.