Seventeen Fic Novels & Stories

[Author's note: All the dialogues enclosed within asterisk are commmunicated through telepathy. So, even if the words said, roared, etc are used it is to be assumed that they are communicated through telepathy!] R-18 was busy working on the new project, assigned to him by his master when his mate S-15 mind-linked. *Your hostage is causing a ruckus. She has come out of the cell. Unfortunately, F-20 has seen this. You know how much he hates humans. I am sure he will kill her if he reaches before you*

That intro was a little cheesy, but she decided to just focus on processing the information instead of grilling 001 about it. This world is a contemporary romance novel, pretty basic stuff. The female lead, Fiona, grew up in an orphanage and was a total coding whiz kid from the start. When Fiona was twelve, the hero, Ralph, adopted her. Ralph was fifteen years older than Fiona, and he owned the biggest game design company in the country. He was single, handsome, rich...the whole package. After being adopted, Fiona kept on rocking her coding skills. At eighteen, she designed a game that blew everyone away and made her a superstar.

“And won’t be visiting anytime soon. Until she's done with school.” “And when might that be?” His father had attacked. “She's in her third year studying ICT. So, in two years.” “Be very careful, Sev.” Angel's worries reflected his father’s. Both were very skeptical about the entire relationship but they knew enough to never interfere when someone is in love. “Like you said in one of your F******k posts: ‘we have no idea what the future holds,’ and that's all I can say. What do I know about adult stuff anyways?” Hearing Angel say those words made Seven's lips curve into a smile.

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.

She motions around us, “we’ve got time.” “I guess we do,” I chuckle slightly. So I tell her the story. All of it. From the first weekend to the ski resort, from the college frat party to the Halloween party and thanksgiving, to the summer after that first year when we left home and haven’t been back. I told her about our friends at the sanctuary, the Paris catacombs and our conversation about children, to Bora Bora and our engagement. I even told her about my abortion and how it was the right thing for us at that time but now it felt like there was something between James and I. When I’m done, Annie is silent for a long minute before finally saying, “wow. You should write that down, it would

“I mean—” “I don’t recall ever having you in my bed,” Damian interrupted her again, a smirk playing on his lips. “But perhaps if we were to refresh my memory, something might come back to me?” He picked up a snifter of brandy from the table, amusement flickering in his eyes as he watched Isabella’s face flush red. “I misspoke,” Isabella exhaled, composing herself. “What I meant to say was that the Hartess family has a child. Your brother fathered a daughter.”

Fen’s handwriting is a sin against paper—spindly, furious, shamelessly misspelled. She’s sixteen and already two inches taller than her mother; when she stomps in muddy from the meadow, she eyes the world with a wryness so sharp it could skin a squirrel, though she’d rather outsmart the thing than hunt it. Other girls bring dates to the valley’s summer formal; Fen brings her best friend, an orphaned raccoon, stuffed into a bow tie.

Simple yet tasking. Jeremy Cooper Finding out his mate is a thirteen year old isn’t exactly what he was imaging but he had to make it work because the Moon Goddess is never wrong. Reuben Anderson A thirteen year old who is too mature and good willed for his age. He wasn’t meant to find his mate but he somehow did and has to live with it.

Instead, he stood. “I’ll see you around,” he said, carefully neutral. “Yeah,” I echoed. He walked away before I could stop myself from turning back to watch him go. Something inside me cracked then quietly, invisibly but deep enough that I knew it would matter. Because this wasn’t nothing. This wasn’t coincidence. This was the beginning of something I didn’t know how to control, something heavy with expectation and fear and hope all tangled together. At seventeen, promises were dangerous things. And I had a feeling we were about to make some we didn’t yet understand.

I walked out of the kitchen into the cold morning, my satchel over one shoulder, my jaw-length hair against my cheeks in the wind, and turned my face toward the road that led north. Toward Valenor. Toward him. I did not know, not yet, what the golden threads would cost me. I had no way to know. I was seventeen years old with fabricated papers and a love that had survived seven years of silence, and the road ahead of me was cold and long and entirely, terrifyingly open. I started walking.