Fictionkin Meaning Novels & Stories

And no amount of playful teasing or literary verbal sparring could excuse the undeniable portent of those stirrings beginning to echo primal battle hymns and lusty war drums through every thundering pore and firing synapse. A precursor ionization peeling free of long banked layers now, as if sensing external catalytic forces lacing closer with each forbidden slipstream. One fraught question alone remained - how much willpower could I have to ask him to be my fake boyfriend?

she laughs "like they say these days faking it in style." I give her a confused look "what?" "You know, when you're in a fake relationship, these days that's what everyone's doing." "Well, I'm only doing this for mom, and trust me I will not develop falling for him." "My dear friend, you're saying that now, but when the time comes you'll be dying for his touch, his kiss, his scent, his di- ah" I shot her with Levi's water gun. That damn dirty mouth girl. "Charlotte you bitch," she curses, ask I continue to shot her.

I stared at Fennrick in silence. Seriously… how full of himself was he? However, I couldn’t deny my racing heartbeat. At this point I was convinced Fennrick had hit me with some kind of fae glamour spell. Because I was, unfortunately, just a little obsessed with him. I follow a ridiculous number of hot guy influencers, but none of them—and I mean none of them—looked like this fox fae. Fennrick’s physique walked that razor‑thin line between sensual and elegant. It was a feast for my eyes.

It was then Sia understood why he was so furious at his suggestion. Her face was burning with shame and anger. She vowed to make S-15 pay for this. She didn’t know how, but she would. *R, Is it necessary to…ummm…remove clothes to use the equipment? Can’t we just use it over clothes?* *I don’t know Sia. No one has ever tried that. It is just possible that the treatment backfires, and your skin becomes more blotchy.* Sia pursed her lips and asked *Will you stop loving me if something like that happens?*

It was simpler than all of those, an unguarded, direct openness that arrived so quickly she almost missed it before it settled into something more composed. "How do you know about follow-through mechanics?" he said. "I know about movement mechanics," she said. "Cheer and football use different vocabularies for the same principles." He looked at her for another moment. Then he turned back to the wall and threw again, same adjustment, same result, two inches higher and right. "Two weeks," he said, mostly to himself. "Follow-through," she said.

Inside was a dream; tall walls, open space, windows so big you could see everything yet nothing at all. The isolation of the property both excited and scared me, and the longer I walked around holding Armani’s hand, the more I began to feel a little hopeful again. My concerns over the last day felt silly — presumptuous. Though a part of my brain was still very aware that this could turn sour very quickly, I allowed myself to enjoy this simple few minutes with my fake husband and even smile, just a little bit.

I gather facts more than a reporter, search more than a detective. I take out my phone and open the browser. The internet is full of information. I am sure I can find one about this mysterious Mr. Fiction; I tell myself as I type on the g****e search bar. I feel the hesitation linger with doubt starts clouding my mind. What if I am not ready to find out about him? What if it is not something I am prepared for?