#crazy beautiful

[crazy-bikini-girls]

[sweetkrimxqie]

you can’t break up with someone who never accepted it in the first place[pt. one]....

did you really think he was gonna let you go?

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an original short story part 1. [warnings / context]: male stalker trope + psycho boyfriend + yandere ex boyfriend + named marcus + persistent boundary crossing + forceful + female reader + erotica + thriller + very light sexy smut + potential part 2(?)

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you step out of the taxi into the downpour, black coat pulled tight around your shoulders like a second skin, but it does nothing against the chill that sinks straight into your bones. rain lashes the city streets in silver sheets, heavy and unrelenting, soaking through your hair in seconds. you run, half sprint-half stumble down the block toward your apartment building, heels clicking wet against pavement, breath fogging in the cold night air.

by the time you shove through the lobby doors, you're breathless, strands of wet hair clinging to your cheeks and neck, mascara probably smudged like dark shadows under your eyes. you don't care. you're exhausted. all you want is the quiet dark of your place, the soft sheets, the oblivion of sleep. nothing else. no one else.the elevator hums upward to the fourth floor, and you lean against the mirrored wall, eyes half-closed, listening to the distant thunder outside.

keys jingle in your hand as you approach your door. the familiar scrape of the lock, the push and the smell hits you first. garlic, butter, simmering tomatoes. warm, domestic, completely wrong. your stomach drops.

he's there.

your batshit crazy ex boyfriend marcus was somehow inside your apartment. he stood in your kitchen, his tall frame leaning over the stove like he belongs, dark hair slightly tousled, falling into his pale face in that effortlessly haunting way. black long-sleeve sweatshirt hugging his lean shoulders, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, black sweatpants low on his hips. the soft light from the overhead lamp casts long shadows across his sharp cheekbones, the faint hollows beneath them. he stirs the pasta sauce with slow, deliberate circles, humming something under his breath like this is just another ordinary evening. like you never told him it was over. like the locks you changed didn't mean a damn thing.

"what the fuck are you doing here?" your voice cuts through the quiet, sharper than you feel.

water drips from your coat onto the floorboards. he doesn't flinch. doesn't even turn around right away. instead, that slow, coy smile curves his lips—the one that used to make your knees weak, now sends ice down your spine mixed with something darker. he sets the wooden spoon down, wipes his hands on a dish towel like he has all the time in the world, and finally faces you. his eyes those deep dark brown eyes lock onto yours. "pasta's almost ready, baby. your favorite. extra basil, just how you like it."

you drop your bag by the door, heart hammering. "get out. i changed the locks. i told you we're done. this isn't funny anymore." he tilts his head, that smile never fading.. soft and terrifyingly gentle. he shakes his head slowly, like you're the one being silly, like you're the one who doesn't understand.

"you say that every time," he murmurs, voice low and velvet-rough, stepping closer. "but you always let me back in. deep down you know this is where i belong. with you."

the rain pounds against the windows, thunder rolling low in the distance, mirroring the pulse in your throat. you back up a step as he closes the distance, tall and lean and pale like a ghost who refuses to stay buried. his scent wraps around you faint cologne, rain on his clothes from whenever he broke in, warm skin.it's all too familiar. too much.

"stop." your voice wavers.

he doesn't.

he reaches out, fingers brushing a wet strand of hair from your cheek, lingering there. his touch is cool at first from the apartment air, then warms against your skin.

"you're soaked," he whispers, almost concerned. "you'll catch a cold if you don't change. let me take care of you."

you shove at his chest half-hearted, because part of you still remembers how safe those arms once felt, how they used to cage you in the best way. he catches your wrist gently, pulls you closer instead. his other hand slides to your waist, damp coat and all, pressing you against him. you feel the lean muscle beneath his sweatshirt, the steady thrum of his heart, the way his body fits against yours like it was carved for this.

"don't—" but his mouth is already there, brushing yours in that coy, teasing way. soft at first. pleading. when you turn your head, he follows, kissing the corner of your lips, then your jaw, like he has infinite patience and your reluctance is just foreplay.

"shh," he breathes against your skin, smiling again so you can feel it. "it's okay. i know you missed me. i missed you so much it hurts. every night without you... i kept thinking about how you taste. how you sound when you're under me."

your back hits the wall near the kitchen entry. the pasta sauce bubbles softly behind him, filling the air with warmth while cold rain streaks down the glass. his hand slips under your wet coat, palm flat against your lower back, pulling you flush. he's hard already you can feel it through his sweatpants, pressing insistently against your thigh. the thrill of fear twists with something darker, liquid heat pooling low in your belly despite yourself.

"you can't keep doing this," you whisper, but your fingers curl into his sweatshirt anyway. traitors."i can," he says simply, delusional conviction thick in his voice. he kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue tracing your lower lip until you part for him with a reluctant sigh. he tastes like mint and obsession. his hips roll slowly against yours, grinding in that lazy, possessive rhythm that always unraveled you. one hand slides up, cupping the back of your neck, holding you there while the other tugs at the zipper of your coat, peeling the wet fabric open like unwrapping something precious.

"let me finish cooking for you," he murmurs between kisses, lips brushing your ear, voice husky. "then i'll take you to bed. warm you up properly. remind you why you belong to me."

outside, the storm rages. inside, his presence fills every corner he was inescapable, dark hair falling forward as he leans in to kiss your neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point he knows makes you weak. you hate how your body responds, your thighs pressing together, breath catching. he's was not supposed to be here. he's dangerous. and yet he's the only one who ever made you feel this alive.

and he knows it.

he always comes back.

and some twisted part of you keeps leaving the window cracked open just enough.

comment if u want me to continue this one! this is my first post so i'll be sort of putting out new content whenever i can ! hope u had a good read!

[barometric]

6/16/14 tornado in Wakefield, NE

[chalamet-chalamet]

TIMMY (IG credit to arach.nee) ✨✨✨

[christiangeistdorfer]

ALAIN PROST at the 1985 DETROIT GRAND PRIX || photo by PAUL-HENRI CAHIER

[dailybrittanysnowpics]

Brittany’s next role…🌹❤️

[scarlett-fire-cat]

Most Beautiful Brunette Actresses