Put Me In A Story Novels & Stories

“I told you, I won’t force you.” “But we must, I mean we can’t fake the-” “We’ll mark each other. It'll be enough to sustain our story. I know how you feel about it, but the mark will fade away eventually. We'll renew it once in a while.” By the end of this talk, he was only in his underwear. A small whimper escaped my mouth causing me to slap a hand over it. His laugh filled the room. Despite the turmoil of emotions that were ravaging my mind, I couldn’t deny the fact that his body was nothing less than perfect.

Lastly, I need ideas for a new story, if you have any you can write it down in the comment. Thank you for readings and I hope I get good reviews on this story.

"Hey, this is a story I hate But I told it to cope with the pain I'm so sorry if you can relate~" Author note: This is a special sneak peak for a story! I'll publish it here soon

“You scared the poor boy, dude.” That was the first response he got from Damien Lau after he finished telling the whole story. The doctor visited him today, and he served some mineral waters to him. He was just a bachelor who didn’t really care about food at home and only had mineral waters with him. Despite being a bad host, the painter still dared to pour his heart out by telling the story that bothered him since yesterday. Yeah, he had told his friend about his ‘experience’ with his student yesterday.

She nodded and then turned to me and said, “then why don’t you incorporate both into what you wish to show us?” Adding both together? That wasn’t an impossible request, but it wasn’t something I had quite prepared for. Still, I had to impress them so I quickly thought up something on the top of my head. Taking the centre of the stage, I took a quiet but deep breath in, as I had learned to do many times during practice. Then, with a clear voice, I spoke out some lines, “if there is a story to be told, why should I not be the one to tell it? Do we all not have that choice to tell our own tales?”

"What about these tulips—got any stories behind them?" She picks up a yellow one, holding it out. "These are my favorites. They remind me of spring back home, starting fresh. Want a closer look at the rest?" I nod quickly, and she comes around the counter, leading me to another display. As we move, our arms brush—accidental, but it sends that little buzz again. She points out different ones, explaining colors and meanings, and I ask questions to keep her talking. She opens up a bit more about settling into the city, how the shop's her way of making roots. I share a story about wandering the markets as a kid, skipping the royal parts, and she chuckles at the funny bits, her eyes lighting up.

“Then maybe that’s your answer.” Later that night, Ryan stood by his window. The streetlights blurred in the distance. His inbox pinged again a reply from L. Tansey, offering a call. He didn’t answer yet. Instead, he opened a blank page. And he typed: “A Story That Doesn’t Belong To You” by Ryan Calloway He stared at the title for a long moment. Then under it, he wrote: “This isn’t a story about revenge. It’s about reclaiming.” Two weeks later.

He brandished the book he was reading and said to Anna, "Look! Merpeople do exist! Sylvie is a mermaid. She was the one who rescued me from the ocean all those years ago…" "You've lost your mind, Connor." Anna snatched the book and tore out the page that spoke of merpeople before continuing, "Merpeople don't exist! You told me that yourself. You also promised that I'd be the only person you'd ever love. "Do you know that ever since the video of you and Sylvie went viral, I've become a laughingstock in Jewelton? Everyone is mocking me for being deluded and overestimating myself. They all say I'm just Sylvie's substitute!"

And they’re both already part of my story—whether they know it or not. Okay, so my plan? To twist this whole insane event into a story. I sit down, feeling the adrenaline still buzzing through me. My female lead will be named Alexa—someone strong but flawed, like me, only thrown headfirst into this dark, twisted world. With that, I begin to write, transforming what’s been happening into a narrative.

Emma's POV I tell him. Not everything all at once, because everything all at once is not a story, it is a collapse, and I have spent two years turning what happened to me into a story that I can carry rather than a collapse that carries me. So I tell it the way I have learned to tell things when they matter, which is slowly, in order, with the exact weight each part deserves and no more. I tell him about the marriage.