For when you need that quick fix.
A collection of romance short stories: including fluff, drama, and smut (18+; there will be a disclaimer on the respective chapters!).
***Taking requests! Just DM me a prompt/trope and any details you have in mind...
Themes: ex-lovers that can't stay away from each other; angsty; full of drama; "I'll do whatever you say even if it's not what I want"
*TW: Violence; Self-harm*
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Saudade (n): a nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that is distant, or that has been loved and then lost; "the love that remains"
-PART ONE-
Dear Lucio,
By the time you read this, you would have searched the house ten times over. Anxiously yanking doors open, screaming my name until your throat burned only to have your voice echo back in response. Your trembling hands would have reached for the doorknob that led to your bedroom, obsidian eyes darting frantically back and forth in a last effort rush to find me even though you knew I wouldn't be there.
Your hair would be ruffled from running your fingers through it- that same way you always do when you're panicked. The same way it was when I got back late from work that one time and I hadn't called since my phone died. I trudged through the front door to find the coffee table overturned. Magazines and papers were strewn across the floor. You had almost called the police. But then you'd be the one in trouble, not me.
You would desperately reach for your cell phone and find my name in your recents list- the only number there. You'd press onto the touchscreen so quickly that the phone fumbles. The outcome would be exactly as you feared- the phone has been disconnected. You would have called your friend- Alex -the only person you would let me talk to because he was the only one you truly trusted. You would have incoherently told him, barely getting the words out, that I was missing.
If only your men could see you now. Their forever stoic and cold leader knelt on the floor in tears. This is what they had warned you about. Women are a weakness, a liability—but neither of us listened. I haven't decided whether that's a good thing or a bad thing yet.
I watched you. I watched through the crack in the basement door as you sneered in that man's face, slowly revealing the knife from behind your back. The shadowed hallway swallowed me out of sight as I peered around the heavy, oak door. Fear flitted in the stranger's eyes as you brought the blade to his fingers, up his arms, down his body, and across his face. At first, I thought you were simply teasing him, your victim, by dragging the tip of the knife along his skin. But the crimson liquid began to steadily flow out until he looked like a creature birthed by a nightmare.
To this day, I can still hear his piercing, pleading, and desperate screams. I never wanted to know what kind of sounds a man makes when he's within an inch of his life, but now I can't forget them. They ring in my ears, and whenever I close my eyes, I can see his mutilated body chained to the wall. I can feel the door digging into my hands as if I was still gripping it in a desperate effort to remain conscious. But I think the worst part of it all was the sinister smirk on your blood-spattered face, the evidence of your enjoyment.
