Just Some Guy Without A Mustache Novels & Stories

A man with dark, curly hair, a goatee beard and glasses smiled at her. He was shorter than she'd imagined. Neither of them had been very good at the conversion and she'd thought he was taller than this. He was taller than her, but not by much. He also didn't have the broad shoulders that she was used to from the sporty guys she knew at home. He was rather skinny, but he had an air of confidence and a huge smile on his face. She could really fall in love with this guy.

Apparently, they had trained elsewhere. “Hey sweetheart, how bout we have some fun after all this is over?” one of them snickers, his dark brown eyes roaming me from head to toe. I take an instant dislike towards him. He is tall, lean and sports a shaved head, unlike the rest of the men here who wear their crowning glory with pride. There is also a tattoo of a pup’s paw on his neck.

His expression indicates a man who rarely smiles, and even the social cut of his hair suggests a more closed personality. His eyes and hair are as black as night, and there's no sign of a beard on his face, revealing a dimple on his chin that might make some women sigh. His athletic body is well-defined, as he's wearing a button-up shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, showing no signs of a protruding belly.

Now, I should try my best to sleep or else I will have no power to walk to Siya? I wonder what she's doing now? George should not do this to her. I pray to God, that she will get a true love. I don't know what has happened to me nowadays? I have simply started talking with myself. The guy said in hesitation, "No, I know if I sit there you will try to unmask me." I assured him, "No , I will not try to unmask you, I am promising." The guy said, "Ok, I will but first eat you foods."

she murmurs. We watch as the man with the mustache approaches, his gait forced and exaggerated, with Donald coming from the field. A wide, strained smile stretches across his wrinkled face. “Sir Jonathan! What an honor it is to have you here unexpectedly,” The moustache man exclaims, his voice taut with tension as he extends a hand for a shake. It's funny how humble the inhumane idiot can be when faced by a more powerful person. "Where is Prince William? We haven’t heard from him in quite some time.”

The mustache one smiled and tilted his head. “Hey y’all! Sorry to walk up on you like this… we saw you guys at the other place and just had to come talk to you.” Emily turned toward Mr. clean shaven at her window and saw that he also had a friendly smile. At least that’s what he was trying to convey. “Can we help you with something?” Emily asked them. “Oh.. yeah sorry.” The mustache dude laughed. “We don’t meant to be creepy.” Too late. Emily thought.

I checked the apartment number twice before knocking. The door opened fast. And there he was. GlazedDonut69. Real name: Marcus. Shorter than I expected. Curly brown hair. A little older than his profile picture. Shirtless. Wearing plaid pajama pants and holding a glass of wine in one hand. “River?” he asked, like maybe I was catfishing him. “Yeah,” I said, hands stuffed in my pockets. “Hey.” He smiled. “Come in. I don’t bite. Unless requested.”

“That is not a super powerful magician.” Even though the guy is wearing sunglasses in a dark club, I can feel his gaze when it lands on us. He takes the glasses off and puts them in the pocket of his shirt before he gestures to the woman away and approaches us. There’s a ruddy tan on his Caucasian skin that suggests a recent vacation, and his sun-touched brown hair is cut short and styled to look like he didn’t style it at all. My douche-o-meter can’t handle the overload and explodes. “Werewolves,” he says, looking us up and down. “In my club.”

Of course, it was his own side of the story, and I wonder what bozo will support a Funker like him. Standing this close to him made me see his features well. If I didn't know him and saw him outside, I would mistake him for a respectable foreigner, but glad I don't judge by looks. Jet black hair with a brown bear plaited with beads attached to it, and a little mustache, goes perfect for a monster. Trying not to snicker, I jerked my face away from his grip. I yanked the metal on my wrist, the noise filling the room.

While tilting my head, I decided to take a photo of him secretly before I decided to post in on I*******m feed this time. Chuckling, I type my caption before thing a few seconds whether to post it or not but I still did so since the photo doesn’t show his face anyway and it don’t look like him—seeing how he is clothed. He is juts wearing a white shirt and a grey cargo shorts. I laugh when I realize that his back physique looks like he is a common fck boy from downtown. “What are you laughing at?”