Nick| ✔️
- Reads 911
- Votes 52
- Parts 17
Complete Sat, Apr 6, 20192h 2m
When he caught me with him, all colors from my face were drained. His midnights eyes were starring daggers at me. Hurt was evident in his eyes. I stood up, frozen. What really scared me was his eyes. They were telling me his real feelings, then they went away. His eyes were blank. He turned away from us and started walking away.
"Nick! It's not what you think it is! Please, wait up!" I held my dress and ran towards him. He was fast, every step he took, I had to take twice as more. When I could finally almost reach him, I yelled, "Nick! WAIT UP!" He turned so fast, making me stumble. He was gritting his teeth.
"How dare you keep this from me." He deadpanned. There was no emotion in his voice.
"Nick, you don't understand." I try grabbing for his hand but he moved it.
"You know what? I told you every single thing that happened in my life. I gladly proclaim my love for you. Just how can you do that?!" He shouted. "I was taught to love a women at all cost." I stayed silent, not looking up to him.
"Is it because you don't t-trust me?" He said, sounding so hurt, so betrayed. When I didn't say anything, he nodded. "Noted. I guess, I got my answer." He turned back and walked the other way without another glance at me.
(Ok ok.. I'll just leave this up hehe).
•••••
Grace has never fall in love, nor even have the time to experience it herself with her demons and nightmares hunting her. When she travels to the countryside to find someone with a story to tell, recklessly she starts to feel something new. Her face fill with more colors as she listens to this known cowboy nicknamed "Prince".
- 06.11.18 -
- 07.25.18 - #11 genuine
- 07.28.18 - #155 flashback
- 07.29.18 - #304 violent
- 07.30.18 - #16 genuine
- 08.02.18 - #465 funny
- 08.03.18 - #78 country
- 08.04.18 - #964 hurt
- 08.05.18 - #177 violent
- 08.07.18 - #2 genuine
-08.08.18 - #64 violent
Finish: - 10.29.18 -
All Rights Reserved
#598
violent
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A scent. A scar. A slow-burning fucking romance dressed as nostalgia. It started with a fruit. Not love, not sex - a goddamn strawberry. The kind that looks like it's been kissed by every shade of red your childhood never had. He didn't share it. Didn't speak of it. Just tasted it once, and carried the ache ever since. Years later, she walked in - smelling exactly like that forgotten sweetness. Not perfume. Not fantasy. Just... truth. Sharp, quiet, terrifying truth. The kind that crawls under your skin and whispers remember me when you least want to. He lied to her face. About himself. About the million ways he'd already started unraveling. But she knew. Women like her always know. She stared at him like sin dressed in judgment - and touched his wrist like she already owned his pulse. And he? He was fucked. Because she wasn't just beautiful. She was red. That memory. That craving. And no matter how much he pretended to be in control - she was already in his bloodstream. This isn't a love story. It's a slow possession. By scent. By memory. By her. And it ends exactly how it starts - with him on his knees, and her smelling like fucking strawberries.
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