A Hades/Persephone retelling. How often do you catch yourself wondering how somebody's touch would feel? How soft their hands would be as they caressed your entire form, how sweet their lips would taste when they descended down to yours, how diabolic the touch would become as the hands would drift lower and lower? Persephone often wondered the same thing. [...] She saw the nymph playfully push the satyr down on the soft grass before straddling him, the sheer fabric of her garment highlighting her graceful movements. She heard her giggling and the satyr's amused growls and her green eyes widened when she saw the satyr's hand wander underneath the nymph's skirt. Perhaps, she should have left the moment she realised what she had stumbled upon. Perhaps, she should have return to her field of lilies and picked some flowers for her mother, Demeter. Perhaps, she should have but she didn't. ❁❁❁ In which the dreadful King of the Underworld steals the daughter of Spring. All images belong to their respective owners. Source: Pinterest.

"I want to defile you, destroy you, corrupt you in the most sinfully beautiful way. Break you until you're completely mine." "And then?" "Then I'll piece you back together, of course." He took another step in her direction, closing the distance between them. "Love can be holy." He said but the look in his eyes promised anything but. "It can be kind and gentle. It can be the flutter inside your chest when you feel someone touch you, the blush staining your cheeks when someone brushes his knuckles over them." To prove his point further, he took his knuckles and brushed them over her sharp jawline, all the way to her lightly dusted cheeks and sharp cheekbones. "However, love can also be vile. Dark and all-consuming. The kind of love that makes you want to fall to your knees and let it destroy you." He let his palm rest on her soft skin and felt the warmth she provided so carelessly travel to him. "That's all I can offer you." Nathaniel Russ is a man devoid of passion. Cold, stern, a tragedy with skin. A wreckage just seconds before the crash. A writer. He spends countless hours teaching philosophy at the local university, waiting for something to make the words crawl out of him with the same vigorous appetite they once did. And he finds it, at the most unexpected moment. Guinevere Westbrook is a woman haunted by the sins of her past. And she just happens to be the muse he had been waiting for, even though she refuses to accept it. So, he orchestrates a game meant for two. A game. That's all it was. Until it wasn't. Adult themes, proceed with caution. All images belong to their respective owners. Source: Pinterest.

[COMPLETED] My grandmother is a witch. My mother is a witch. My sisters are witches. Even my daddy is a warlock when he's not moonlighting as a rat (a consequence of the aforementioned grandmother's temper). So you would think I would be a witch too, right? Nope. Not a spark of magic resides in my fingertips, and even worse, I'm beginning to think I'm allergic to magic. Kind of a big problem when you live in the middle of the most magical town in Mississippi. I'm just biding my time until I turn eighteen. Then, I can pack my bags and move out into the real world- with the normal humans. Until then, I just have to survive my grandmother's experiments, my sister's nasty temper, and the charms of the town's bad boy, Ash Goodwin. Easy...ier said than done.