The Belief in Black Roses
- Leituras 226
- Votos 7
- Capítulos 12
MaduroEm andamento59m
Última atualização sex, dez 21, 2018
It was so uncharacteristic. A man such as he, could be seen with a vase filled with fresh flowers on his desk. Not taken from a graveside, not rotting, not dead, weeping from dehydration. Though, the color was most peculiar. Black roses. Why would he...? Black roses...? It's odd even for him to have flowers. What was this strange..belief in these roses?
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──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ──── ""I do not love you! We are not-! You are simply not-!" I stammer, unable to form a coherent reason for my lack of affection toward him. He flashes that infuriatingly handsome smirk, leaning with casual ease against the desk. "Now, look me in the eyes and say it again, sweetheart," he murmurs, his deep voice smooth as silk. Tilting his chin upward, he arches an eyebrow and waits with unshakable patience. I can only keep my gaze fixed on the floor, my fingers nervously tugging at my sleeves. "Oh, fuck you," I mutter. His rich, hearty laughter fills the room, tugging at the corners of my lips despite myself. {ᴀ ᴅᴏᴜʙʟᴇ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ} "Oh, please. You are unbearably full of yourself. I do not like you-never will," I scoff, twirling a strand of my curly hair around my finger. He merely shrugs, that sly smirk unfaltering, entirely unbothered. "You are right-you do not like me," he begins, his smirk widening into a full grin. "You are absolutely in love with me." ──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────
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