Fiction Addiction Novels & Stories

/ Luna thought to herself. Luna was not sure when it started to happen, but she no longer found joy in the fictional stories that she used to binge on by sacrificing her sleep. She started feeling more cynical. Plot holes, plot conveniences, overly simplified plot, flat characters, and more, became increasingly glaring to her. Perhaps it was around the time when she started to have the dissociation-like experiences. Perhaps it was when she started to view her life in the same way she viewed those fictional stories. Some people are like the main characters of a story. They are blessed with talents and well-loved by all, sometimes even having a bonus tragic backstory. Some people are clearly c

How can we put an end to this if we don’t stay away from each other? We were not in any kind of relationship, but when I write my diary entry that night, it feels like I’ve been jilted. I strike through the whole entry, determined not to let him mar my sexy fantasies. Just because I stopped acting on these fantasies doesn’t mean I can’t write them. This time, I’m writing from experience. When Rhys touches me in my fantasies, I feel his touch as though it were real, the scent of his skin when he embraces me so unadulterated that the lines between imagination and reality start to blur.

I looked up. Max. Almost same age. Same blood- though that wasn't something either of us advertised. Jackson cheated on my mom with his. Now we existed. Two mistakes walking. But Max and I? We were tight. Brothers, in more ways than DNA could explain. He jogged up, hair tousled, smile sharp. "Yo, heard about the new girl?" I leaned back against my seat. "What about her?" "Total mystery", Max said "Scarf on her face, doesn't talk, keeps to herself. Makes her hot, don't you think. You know what I mean?"

A boredom so profound it threatened to unravel its own consciousness. In its despair, it used its vast power to perform an ultimate act of narrative control: it began to *fictionalize* itself. It started rewriting its own past, not to change it, but to label it. *This was a comedy,* it would decide, and the memory would become flat, a series of punchlines. *This was a tragedy,* and the pain would become a aesthetic object, stripped of its sting. It was turning the vibrant, messy tapestry of its life into a neatly organized library of genres. It was committing the final, quiet sin: treating its own existence as a story that was already over.

“How else would you have survived your mother’s lethal glares, the ladies’ attempts to fix your single status, and all the juicy gossip about your thrilling private life?” “Oh, I don’t know, darling. It wouldn’t be that hard,” he echoed, smirking. “I’d just say I pined for a dazzling socialite—Aurora, the charming lady who broke my heart in that one unforgettable night of passion…” “Oh no, you don’t!” I gasped in mock outrage. “Don’t you dare make up corny stories about me! At least make it exciting—like how the brave Aurora swooped in to save you from the blazing dessert—!”

************** Chapter 1: Desperation I rushed through the crowded streets, my heels clicking on the wet pavement. Another late night, another shift at the diner. My uncle's debt was suffocating us, and I was running out of options. "Ari, you're late again," Martha, my coworker, said as I burst through the diner's door. "Sorry, Martha. Traffic," I lied, grabbing my apron. The night blurred together—endless orders, tired smiles, and pocket change tips. As the clock struck midnight, I counted my meagre earnings. Not enough. Never enough.

"You are sick, Aria; you are sick for thinking everything is a fairytale, as you make your forty million followers think." There is a word called fiction, a world where nothing is real... Emotions are fake, and just because I write about the fake world doesn't mean I expect him to be like the male lead of my novel. "It's all fiction, Caleb. Everything I wrote was fiction, and as a human I have every f*ck*ng right to fantasise, so don't blame your betrayal on my books." "And you dare blame this on my womb?" This was the height of it; I took off the wedding ring from my fingers and held it tightly... I couldn't bring myself to return it.

“Then w-why were you and Gior…gio betrothed?” Her eyes lowered. “Well, being normal comes with its disadvantages. I’m not saying those in this business don’t fall into addictions and things, but when you’re normal and you begin to develop a gambling addiction then cross the wrong person, there’s nothing you can do to repay your debts.” “What?” I was frowning — hard — and Alyssa looked amused by my confusion. She cuddled Danny further into her chest as she slowly raised her eyes to the ceiling. “My mother had a bit of a problem. We already knew she was quite the gambler, then out of nowhere we find out she’s been going to the high-class places. The sorts of casinos where you only find trouble

Something has changed. I don’t know how or really even when exactly, but writing and reading my fanfic isn’t doing it for me anymore. It used to be everything, all I needed, what I lived for, and obsessed over in my limited free time but now it’s not enough. I read the words, and expect to get hot and bothered and ready to touch myself as usual, and the need just isn’t there. It’s not that it doesn’t turn me on, it’s just not as exciting. What I’m now obsessed with is having Bryce and Wyatt in real life.

I breathed. If at all she had read that, I was damned, she would tease and mock me until my cheeks and face turned pink and purple. A couple of months ago I had created an account in W*****d app. It was an app that published erotic romance stories and all types of fiction. i had been writing erotic stuff that I didn't think think I could. as soon as Cindy had found out she had began a wild hunt to find out what it was about. It was a small erotic book full of dirty secrets and stuff called, THE NIGHTS FULL OF SIN. It was fiction with a couple of truths and erotic sex inside.