Tell me, oh muse, of thy golden sword Hand forged by the gods themselves Smelt by the fires of Vulcan Douse in the waters of Neptune In truth spoke Apollo, for he cannot lie He who wields thy blade stands above all gods Such prospect, the sword was shunned from the heavens A flash of gold tearing through sky The clouds parted way in his descent, as did the earth Before sheathing him in her warm embrace From the fruits of their union bore child divine Aureate scion of Terra and Chrysaor Chrysos

"You're atheist," I remind him. "You don't believe in god." "I believe in you," He murmurs, letting the cigarette hang from his lips. "I believe in whatever you believe." He says, letting the confession roll off his tongue as if it were that simple. As if god, the devil, heaven, hell-as if none of it really had meaning to him. "That's not how it works," I mutter as we walk down a few more alleyways-the city of Manhattan coated in a light blanket of snow. Henry Vitiello had never had anything to pray for, that is, until he met me-the only thing that had ever opened his mind up to the possibility of religion "Isn't it?" He argues, taking the cigarette by his middle and pointer finger before blowing the smoke out. "I'II dip my hands in holy water if it means I could touch you." "You'd probably burn." 𓆩♡𓆪 𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐘 𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎, the reaper. He's a prick. An asshole. A pretentious son of a bitch. He's not perfect. He's not even decent. But he's hers. She could be a bottle labeled poison but he was an alcoholic, and he had drunk her empty. Now he was hungover. 𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒, the healer. She's known to be the perfect good girl, with perfect grades and a perfect life with a perfect family. They didn't know that behind the gated doors of their billion dollar estate, she was strapped down to a chair every night and picked apart just to be put back together in time for supper. 𓆩♡𓆪 star-crossed; adjective (of a person or a plan) thwarted by bad luck. 'star-crossed lovers' and that, they were. So they fucked under those very stars that tried so desperately to break them apart. 𓆩♡𓆪 ‼️DISCLAIMER ‼️ BOOK REFERENCES TO MARA DYER, SHATTER ME, MIND FUCK, ETC ARE ALL INTENTIONAL SO DONT BE RUDE. AS FOR TRIGGER WARN

"Natalie," he repeated, her name like velvet on his tongue. He seemed to like the sound of it because he repeated it again, his voice turning low. "Natalie." Leon Hughes was a mystery masked by bruised cheeks and bleeding knuckles. He was a wraith, a shadow on the walls - sometimes there, sometimes gone. Never set in stone. He showed up when he showed up, with his face bleeding, his shirt torn, his skin blistered. Natalie never knew when he'd come, but she always let him in. Originally a short story. Rankings: #2 in teenromance, #2 in goodgirl, #15 in badboy

Have you ever wondered if death had a child? What if I told you he did, and her name is Raven Reaper. Life as the future goddess of death isn't as easy as it sounds. Raven must go through the trials of not only being a reaper but of also being the daughter of death himself. She will face many different choices along her way, some that will change the future of the supernatural world. But when a boy named Luke is thrust into her path, will she be able to choose between the love of her duty? Or her love for the boy? There's only one thing I can say, don't believe everything you read...