Witch Poetry Novels & Stories

Her pupils are dilated as she looks at me with slightly parted lips. I nearly gasp when I realize the princess isn’t afraid, but aroused. The scent of it fills my nostrils, driving me to the very edge. All I want to do is gather her up in my arms and devour her mouth, taste her sweetness. I can understand Connor’s actions better now. Do all witches taste so sweet? With immense difficulty, I manage to stay put, knowing that the princess is too innocent and inexperienced to even fully understand the reactions of her body. It’s going to kill me to spend the night with her, but what choice do I have?

I can only hear the melody which slowly starts to turn into words. Beneath the azure crescent's glow, A wolf shall rise, with powers to show. Born of witch's blood, a moonlit heir, In her, two worlds unite, rare. From royal lineage, her path unfolds, A queen of shadows, as story foretold. In choosing mate, her power blooms, Their bond shall reign, the world consume. Through woods they'll roam, in shadows dance, A union strong, in wild expanse. With shared dominion, races blend,

Rhydian declared, his voice unwavering despite the apprehension that pulsed through him. The witch's eyes narrowed, her figure engulfed by the shadows as she raised her arms, summoning her magic. In an instant, the grove erupted with a dark, swirling cyclone of energy. The ground trembled beneath their feet as tendrils of shadow shot out in all directions, attempting to ensnare Rhydian and Amelia. Rhydian quickly conjured a protective barrier, creating a shield of shimmering light to ward off the encroaching darkness. Amelia, on the other hand, utilized her elemental abilities, calling upon the power of fire to counteract the witch's darkness.

He could not help but wonder how easy it would have been had his wolf been not suppressed by the dark witch. Suddenly, from above, a swarm of Wraithwings descended, their ghostly forms merging into a tempest of shrieks that reverberated through the air like a banshee's wail. Flameheart pivoted, raising his blade to meet their assault, slicing through the air as they swooped down, their claws poised to tear him apart.

Hope has been long gone in the eyes of soldiers. This has come too far. When night falls and the light of the moon comes and shines over us, that is the time we are being pushed back and even now we can't do anything. We witches and fairies are sorcerers that take life from the sun, while warlocks and werewolves take them from the moon. Our forces are weakening. Hope has been long gone in the eyes of the soldiers. I can't let this continue on. I can't let my kingdom, my world suffer when I could obviously do something for them. I must do something.

And before I am the Weeping Woman, crying. "I'm so sorry," she dropped to the floor and cried. "I just…I just wanted my Tomas back. I want Tomas back." Viola weeps. I sighed and looked at Zayn, who reached inside his cloak and handed me a chalk. I went to an empty wall and drew a rectangular door and characters representing runes. I placed my hand on the wall and closed my eyes as I spoke the ancient tongue of the witches before me. A warm, tingling feeling against my hand meant the magic was a success.

“I always get what I want eventually. Always.” Then he pressed his lips to mine in a light kiss. I tried to jerk away but he was inescapable. Having every inch of me effectively pinned against the slick tree while he toyed with my breast and used my thigh to stroke his cock. “Stop.” I gasped. “You’re a witch. You don’t tell me what to do. Warlocks don’t obey witches.” He pushed harder against me until he groaned deep in his throat and I felt fluid spurt along the inside of my thigh.

“Good job princess.” I looked around seeing others walking into the woods. One man, a tall slim man dressed all in a black robe was burning something in the fire. The smell seemed to be white. I don’t know why white was the word that first came to me, maybe pure. I looked up at Nikko, “Is he a witch?” Nikko looked down at me, “a warlock maybe. I don’t think he would take kindly to you calling him a witch.” He arched his brow, “why Samantha are you a witch?”

I'd done the very same thing many times on the street, but he seemed to master it. "It's a witches' bottle. Goat's blood. It's used by the whole coven from which it derives its powers. That's how they cursed your wife... You heard the spell yourself, didn't you?" "Yes," I conceded. I felt reprimanded, the mention of my wife sobering me. "It sounded... Semitic? I'm not even sure if that's the word, but that's what came to me," I said.

We hung there together in a vortex of possibility, floating in a balance of possible futures and worlds seen and unseen. I held him in my hand, exquisitely aware of ancient secrets. Yin and yang, sunlight and shadow - brave knight, fair damsel. As well, strength of arms dashed against crafty witchery - succubi and night walkers, brave men ravished by night spirits for their own amusement. The Witch of the Wind quested the points of the compass, poised in that instant between intent and action. The summer wind swirled, and my blood answered - another instant, and I would have been swept away by my own red tide. My mind swirled with possibilities, with personalities - every aspect of the Mothe