first time doing a small freaky drabble tell me if y'all like it :3
cieo stared at the back of your head, day dreaming.
the first time cieo notices you, it’s because you yawn—just that. it was a sleepy little stretch in the middle of chemistry, the way your sweater rides up just a sliver over your hipbone, the soft sound you make when your jaw cracks. his pencil snaps in half between his fingers. he doesn’t even realize he’s done it until the lead stains his palm black like a bruise.
it’s not fair. it’s not fair how you chew on the end of your pen when you’re thinking, how your socks are always slipping down into your shoes, how you tilt your head just slightly to the left when someone’s talking to you like you’re really listening.
he wants to bite the curve of your ear. he wants to press his tongue between your molars and lick the hollow of your cheek until you gag.
cieo starts bringing extra underwear to school because he keeps ruining his. he’ll be halfway through history, staring at the nape of your neck where your hair’s a little messy from sleeping wrong, and suddenly his thighs are wet. he has to sit there, trembling, until the bell rings so he can bolt to the bathroom and stuff the soiled fabric into his backpack. he tells himself he’ll throw them away when he gets home but he never does. he folds them under his pillow instead and whines as he debates on sending them to your house as a gift <3
at home, his room smelled like sweat and slick, sheets tangled around his waist as he whined into his pillow. his fingers were always inside him, fucking in shallow thrusts, imagining it was you—your hands, your mouth, the way you’d probably furrow your brows like you were solving another impossible equation while he fell apart beneath you. “fuck,” he gasped, legs shaking, “fuck, fuck—” his hips jerked, chasing the ache, the sweet friction. he came with your name bitten into his wrist, teeth marks blooming purple.
it was pathetic. he was pathetic.
he knew it when he pressed his face into your gym shirt after stealing it from the lost and found, wet already just from the smell of you. knew it when he traced the shape of your drawn lips on his notebook, over and over, until the paper tore.
you lend him a pencil once. just once. your fingers brush against his and he has to excuse himself to the nurse’s office because he comes untouched in his pants like some kind of fucking middle schooler. he spends the rest of the day with his thighs sticky, the scent of his own spend thick in his nose, and he doesn’t even feel ashamed. he just presses the pencil between his teeth and imagines it’s your thumb.
cieo follows you home for the first time on a tuesday. he doesn’t mean to. he just—you take a different route than usual, and he’s curious, and then suddenly he’s ducking behind a tree as you unlock your front door. he watches you kick your shoes off through the window, watches you stretch your arms over your head, watches you scratch your stomach absently before wandering out of view. he comes so hard his vision whites out.
after that, it becomes a habit. he learns your schedule better than his own. you have a math test next week? he knows. you’re fighting with your mom about curfew? he knows. you found the barista at the coffee shop near campus cute? he knows, and he spends three hours crying in the shower about it before deciding it’s fine, it’s fine, he can share if he has to. (spoiler alert, he won't)
he starts stealing your things. just little stuff—a hair tie you dropped, a crumpled receipt from your pocket when you hang your jacket up in the hallway, a single sock from the laundromat. he keeps them in a shoebox under his bed and takes them out when he’s feeling particularly pathetic, rubbing his cunt raw with the heel of his hand as he presses your stolen belongings to his face.
it’s your fault. it’s your fault for existing, for breathing, for having hands and a mouth and a voice that makes his stomach twist into knots. he hates you. he loves you. he wants to crawl inside your ribcage and live there.
one day, he’s trailing after you like usual, biting his lip to keep from letting out a pathethic moan as he watches the way your ass moves in your jeans, when you suddenly stop walking. cieo freezes. you turn around.
“i know you’ve been following me,” you say, voice flat.
cieo’s heart stops. he just stares at you with wide, wet eyes, his breath coming in short little gasps.
he’s on his knees before he even realizes he’s moved.
(it’s not the last time you catch him and it’s def not the last time he cries into your thighs, begging for your fingers, your tongue, anything you’ll give him. you don’t even have to ask—he’ll give you everything.)
god, he’d let you do anything to him.
would y'all want more freaky yanderes ?? :3
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