Strawberry Lipstick
- LECTURAS 42
- Votos 1
- Partes 4
..strawberry lipstick state of mind..
♡Harry never expected what he believed was one of the best nights of his life to turn into a whirlwind of emotions..
He believed he met the woman of his dreams.
Having spent the best hour of his life with her in the pub, he never thought the night would end sitting in a hospital waiting room.
One unexpected thing leads to another.
The next thing he knows, his entire life is being flipped upside down.
All because he got lost in a pair of hazel eyes..
And honestly.. he's happy he did.
(Remastered. It used to be on my old profile, FruitWoman, but it was taken down after my account had issues with my email. Soooo, we started anew. Thank you to everyone who helped me bring this story back to life!)
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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.Concluida
𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃 not edited
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𝐍𝐢𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐚 : 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫 ✧ |𝟏𝟖+| ✔
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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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