Crossing Writing Novels & Stories

They write with unwavering determination, fully aware that their written words will serve as a bridge between them and their beloveds, carrying their unspoken sentiments across the vast expanse that separates them. Hours pass by, marked only by the fading glow of bioluminescence streaming through the small moonhole. Joe and Bryan persist in their writing, each word meticulously chosen, every sentence carrying the weight of their longing. With every completed letter, their hearts grow lighter, knowing that their unexpressed words will finally find their way to the hands of their cherished ones.

Yet, I still crossed it. I know I had to find Lily. I had no choice but to find the girl. I shifted once I crossed, knowing that my black pelt will make it more obvious I was not part of their pack, but I will be easier hidden in the shadows. I ran through the trees, picking up the faintest scent of Lilacs. It led me further and further away from safety but closer to Lily. That was… up until my senses got overwhelmed by the smell of coffee. O crap…

Just the ghost of his mouth on my skin, the echo of his name in my chest, and the undeniable truth of it all: Nathan Cross fucked like a weapon. But when he said come home? It wasn’t a command. It was a confession.

“Down at the crossing. Real trouble.” She followed, boots crunching grit, heartbeat surging at the prospect of a fresh adrenaline. The city had always run on simple principles—might, memory, and whoever was crazed enough to outlast the storm. But with each day under Carolina’s rule, the rules seemed less like scripture and more like a game that desperately needed breaking. The “crossing” was two blocks of no-man’s land where the old subway spat out into the surface. Briony waited by the crumbling mouth, one hand jammed in her pocket, the other clutching a battered radio against her shoulder.

At seventeen, Damien Delta severed all ties with his best friend. Without a single word or explanation, he cut Harrison Kane, out of his life completely. For years, Damien stayed on the circuit, masterfully calculating his schedule to make sure their paths never crossed. When dodging Harrison became too difficult, Damien quit driving altogether, stepping away from the track to build the cars instead. He thought he was safe behind the scenes. He was wrong. When the Delta empire faces complete ruin, Damien is forced to break his own golden rule. Dragged out of retirement for SLAT—the most prestigious, brutal racing tournament in the world—he has to step back into the driver's seat.  And

Cameron Cross didn’t usually write in public spaces. Studios were easier—soundproofed, temperature-controlled, stocked with guitars and keyboards and everything he needed to coax lyrics into existence. But lately, everything he wrote came out polished, predictable, shaped for what people expected from a Cross brother. He needed something raw again. Human. A melody that didn’t care about chart positions. So he put on a hoodie, sunglasses despite the overcast sky, and slipped into Eastside Brew, a downtown café that smelled like burnt espresso and freshly baked cinnamon bread.

Narrative POV Dai and Lia step out of the elevator with their hands roaming over their bodies, breaking the intense kiss to unlock the door as they continue their assault on each others lips. Kicking off their shoe at the living room as they make out. Dai getting impatient, picks up Lia bridal style to the bedroom.

Third-Person POV Meanwhile, Xavier had his head down as he tended to Tiffany's arm after her allergy flared up. Red rashes covered the entire length of her arm, and she'd even scratched some spots to the point that they were bleeding. Xavier held up a cotton swab, his movements gentle. "Does it hurt?" "A little," she replied. "Hang on a little longer, okay? We're almost done." His phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and glanced at the screen, noting the message from Serena that read, "Let's break up, Xavier."

I had come here to learn how to write better sex scenes. Instead, Damien Cross was turning me into the living, moaning, begging inspiration for every filthy word he put on the page. And I was becoming addicted to being his muse.

She shook her head, not even bothering to read the paragraph below it as she continued flipping. Eventually, she returned to page 47, finding nothing more on this place called the Crossing. Lyda turned the page over to the first blank parchment, sighing to herself as she rested her head back against the tree to stare up at the stars. As frustrated as she was, the spray of the streams on her face was soft and peace-inducing, like the touch of a million tiny fingertips. It was only in this tranquil state that Lyda's upward gaze fell upon something she had not noticed before.