Oneshots, imagines, and ideas, oh my! *discontinued*

Hades Imagine

Hades x Persephone Reader Imagine--Kiss like a funeral

Note: Hello everyone! I'm sorry I'm slow, I've been busy this week! It will probably be like this until after Christmas...so I apologize. I also apologize for sitting on my hands and not giving you your requests...*cough Scarlet cough*....but I swear I'll keep working on them! This one is spawned from an earlier one I wrote (unpublished). If you notice any errors, I'm extremely sorry. You can't win them all.

I really want to become a better author, so anyone who wants to offer tips or criticism should either comment or IM me. I'd really appreciate it. :)

HowDULL

Request for: My own damn self

Warnings: Uh, a smidge of scary imagery? Kissing. I think that's all.

And remember, even if I'm slow, anyone can request at any time and I WILL WORK FOR YOU

Hades x Persephone Reader Imagine

You, with a basket over your arm came into town, long cloak draped over your figure. Your white dress poked out at the bottom, splattered with spots of mud. A red rose sat at the corner of the (H/c) hair that spilled out around the shadow that covered your face as your called out, "Flowers, flowers, flowers for sale! Roses and Honeysuckles and daisies for sale!" The upbeat words were laced with distaste, but still people flocked to her. They knew that Persephone's flowers were always smelled sweeter.

"How much for a single red rose?"

"I'd like a bluebell!"

"Any weed will do, dearest Persephone!"

Most of your customers were male, all sales accompanied by pleas to court you. All of which, you declined. Instead, you peddled flowers, and always found your basket empty within the hour. It was always this way, once a week you walked into town with a basket of flowers and left with a full purse of coins. Every time someone made a large sale, they begged you to show her face. You never did. A few brave men say they've seen your face, which radiates a beauty like no other. No matter how true your beauty, none of them had seen more than a glimpse of your profile.

When the time came for your to go that day, you walked by the shrine in your village, and took the red rose from her hair to set it on the ground. As an afterthought, you flicked a coin to the shrine, appreciated the gods as best you could. With that, you left, past the market, past the shacks, all the way out to the field where you picked your flowers. Many people say you lived there with your husband, or your mother, but no one dared to look and see.

You lived in a small, one room house, set haphazardly over a dirt plot. The insides were bare to the fullest extent, save a cook-fire and a straw mat. It was never understood what you spent your money on, as you always wore the same dress and cloak to market.

Once in your house, you nearly collapsed against the door, letting your cape fall to the ground. It was true, your beauty had no rival, but you paid no mind. In truth, you could easily marry a high aristocrat and live in the lap of luxury, but you refused to marry. You were kind, and generous, yet your heart was black as coal. You never found yourself in love, or smitten, and for this you blamed only yourself. You decided it would be better to live alone than to live a lie.

You seemed absolutely exhausted, mostly due to the long walk from the village to your blank home. The lonely you had little to do with herself, your home was bare and empty, the celebrations offered you no joy, and the only thing you could do to relax was pick up your basket and pick flowers. It was quite an innocent pastime for such a rough young woman, and yet you still retrieved your basket and set out.