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partiallycuriousartist · 14 hours ago

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This idea is so cool!! The thought of obsessing over someone for so long that they get used to it and then turning into the yandere when said obsession is gone is so fascinating to me! Plus the stories themselves are just so perfectly written that it's just an awesome combination!!

LUTALICA

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ YOU'RE A YANDERE, WELL, AN EX-YANDERE TO BE SPECIFIC. AFTER COUNTLESS OF TIMES OF KILLING YOUR BELOVED, YOU FIND YOURSELF SUDDENLY GAINING AWARENESS DUE TO SOME VIRUS DISTORTING YOUR CHARACTER FILES. NOW YOU FIND YOURSELF WEIRDED OUT WHENEVER YOU'D FEEL SO INFATUATED OVER THIS GUY, AND YOU SWORE TO STOP BEING WEIRD. UNAWARE THAT YOUR DARLING'S GAINED AWARENESS TOO.

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ MODERN AU. HIGHSCHOOL AU. YANDERE. AETHER, SCARAMOUCHE/WANDERER, XIAO, VENTI, KINICH, ORORON

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ CONTENT WARNINGS: OBSESSIVE/CONTROLLING BEHAVIOR: EXPLICIT YANDERE THEMES AND EXTREME POSSESSIVENESS. OBSESSION AND STALKING, INCLUDING BEING FOLLOWED OR MONITORED. PHYSICAL RESTRAINT & KIDNAPPING: DEPICTIONS OF PHYSICAL RESTRAINT, CONFINEMENT, OR KIDNAPPING. UNLAWFUL DETAINMENT (E.G., LOCKING DOORS, FORCIBLY PREVENTING ESCAPE). CYBERCRIME & DIGITAL MANIPULATION: HACKING, INTERFERENCE WITH PERSONAL DEVICES, AND DIGITAL BLACKMAIL. EMOTIONAL & PSYCHOLOGICAL ABUSE: MANIPULATION, GASLIGHTING, AND COERCION DESIGNED TO CONTROL OR ISOLATE. THREATS—IMPLICIT OR EXPLICIT—THAT UNDERMINE PERSONAL AUTONOMY. NON-CONSENSUAL ACTS: ANY NON-CONSENSUAL OR FORCED BEHAVIOR, EVEN IF MASKED AS “PROTECTION”. ILLEGAL BEHAVIOR & UNLAWFUL ACTS: DESCRIPTIONS OR DEPICTIONS OF ACTIONS THAT ARE ILLEGAL (KIDNAPPING, DOCUMENT FORGERY, THEFT, ETC.) MATURE THEMES IN GENERAL. MENTIONS OF MURDER. MENTIONS OF BEING AWARE IN A GAME.

: ̗̀➛ note that I DO NOT condone such actions irl, and this is a work of fiction. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. part 2 (xiao, venti).

-`♡´- PART 1

╰⪼ AETHER - Class Rep.

A man of virtue—helpful, funny, kind, caring, and breathtakingly attractive. He has it all. Who wouldn’t love someone like him? Who wouldn’t yearn for him, worship him, drown in the delirium of his existence?

No wonder you’ve always felt that electrifying rush, the intoxicating ecstasy that floods your veins with every slow drag of the knife across his flesh. No wonder you’ve felt that dizzying euphoria each time you spilled the blood of another—man or woman—who dared to steal even a fraction of his attention away from you.

He was yours.

But then—

Distortion. A glitched-out, shredded mess of memories, like a dying screen flickering between past and present. When you finally come to, you're curled up in your bed, hair tangled, your skin fevered and slick with cold sweat. Your lungs fight for air as images flash behind your eyelids—a grotesque, jagged onslaught of death, of red-streaked corridors, of bodies slumped in pools of their own warmth, all because of you.

What the hell was that?

Your hands tremble as you grab your phone, fingers slipping against the smooth glass. The calendar stares back at you, unwavering in its cruel simplicity. Not the beginning. Not a fresh start.

The middle.

Your stomach twists violently.

That means you’ve already committed crimes. That means, despite this terrible, newfound awareness clawing at your mind, the stains on your hands have already set. The walls are already splattered. The game—the world—will not reset this time.

At school, every breath feels like an alarm sounding in your chest. The walls seem to close in, and the weight of invisible eyes presses against your back. You are a criminal walking in broad daylight, masquerading as something human.

You consider confessing. Throwing yourself at the mercy of the police, the authorities—anyone who could lock you away before you slip again.

But you don’t.

Fear has its hands around your throat, whispering of consequences, of punishments, of the irreversible.

And then—

“Oh, [Name]! I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can come to your house to help you with math today. Maybe another time?”

His voice is golden honey, smooth and easy, like the way the sun filters through autumn leaves.

Aether.

Your body reacts before your mind does, stiffening, and recoiling. He stands before you with that same effortless charm, his golden hair meticulously braided, strands catching the light like spun silk. He is still beautiful, still perfect—too perfect.

And yet.

Guilt lurches in your gut, a sickness festering beneath your ribs. You manage a stiff nod, then turn sharply on your heel and bolt before your expression betrays you.

Strange.

Very strange.

Aether watches you go, his head tilting slightly, brows furrowing. He expected you to whine, to insist, to grasp at his sleeve and beg for his time, like you always did. But instead, you—ran?

At first, he brushes it off. A bad day, perhaps. A sudden bout of shyness.

And yet—

He thinks about it. And thinks about it. And thinks about it.

You were always there. Always orbiting him, always finding ways to entangle yourself in his life. You chased him, your obsession like a suffocating force, relentless, inescapable. It had been overwhelming—yes—but predictable. A constant.

But now?

Now, he barely sees you. Now, your eyes flicker away the moment they meet his. Now, there is distance where there was once unbearable closeness.

It feels wrong.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d grown used to your presence until it was gone. How the absence of your obsession left him… cold.

Had he done something? Had he driven you away?

Had you found someone else?

Aether’s fingers twitch.

The message arrives when you least expect it.

Meet me up later at the dorms. Yours or mine?

You freeze, staring at the words on your screen.

No. No, no, no.

You’ve been so careful. So diligent. So determined not to fall back into old patterns.

Ignore it. Ignore him.

Your dorm is a sanctuary—a place to suffocate beneath your own guilt, to drown in your shame without prying eyes. You push the door open, stepping inside, closing it behind you—

Click.

The sound is quiet.

Too quiet.

Your breath stills, your fingers going rigid against the doorframe. Slowly, you turn.

And there he is.

Aether.

Your blood runs ice-cold.

“I always felt safe when you were around,” he murmurs, his voice softer than usual, dangerously intimate. His amber eyes are heavy-lidded, laced with something unfamiliar—something raw, something hungry. He takes a step forward. You take one back.

“But lately… I don’t know anymore.” Another step. Another retreat. “You used to be so close. Now, you’re so far away.”

Your back meets the wall.

Aether tilts his head, golden strands slipping over his shoulder. His hand rises, ghosting over your cheek with a gentleness that contradicts the steel beneath his words.

"Do you hate me now?"

The panic clogs your throat. "No—"

"Shh," he soothes, pressing a finger to your lips before dragging it down, pressing it flat over your chest. Your heart hammers beneath his palm. His lashes lower.

“Your heart’s racing…” His fingers trail lower, his grip settling firm against your waist. “…Just like it used to. Whenever I looked at you. Whenever I said your name.”

Your breath hitches, your body locking up as he pulls you closer—too close.

“Like always.”

His arms wrap around you, caging you in. You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

“Don’t worry.”

His lips brush against your hair.

“I missed you too.”

╰⪼ SCARAMOUCHE/WANDERER - Outsider of the Drama Club. Rebel.

Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe you were always drawn to the unattainable, the cruel, the ones who stood above the world as if it were theirs to scorn. And he—he was the epitome of it all. A nightmare draped in elegance, venom wrapped in silk. Scaramouche was all sharp edges and hollow laughter, a phantom that commanded space with his mere presence.

He was unbearable. Unreachable. And utterly perfect.

You wanted to break past his walls, to carve yourself into his life, to make him see you. And if the rest of the world had to bleed away for that to happen—then so be it.

The others didn't deserve him. The parasites who giggled at his words, who brushed against him so casually, so carelessly, as if they had any right. They did not deserve to exist. Their very presence was an insult, a smear on the pristine canvas that was him.

And so, piece by piece, you erased them.

The first one was easy. A soft thing with wide, innocent eyes that adored him too much, who lingered just a little too close. You watched as life drained from their gaze, as their breath rattled out in broken whimpers. It was almost beautiful—the way the blade slipped into flesh, the way blood bloomed like an offering, warm and thick and real against your trembling fingers.

Every cut, every scream, every shuddering gasp—it was for him.

Yet he never noticed.

No matter how many of them you silenced, no matter how much devotion you etched into the world in his name, Scaramouche never noticed. He walked through life untouched, uncaring, his gaze never once landing on you with the reverence you craved.

You returned home to your shrine—his shrine. A sanctuary of madness. Photographs lined the walls like sacred scripture, capturing every fragment of his existence. The way the sun kissed his pale skin. The rare, unguarded softness when he thought no one was watching. The harsh, unrelenting glare that you had come to love more than life itself.

Strands of his dark indigo hair, stolen in the quiet of passing moments, lay bound together with fraying ribbons. Fabric from his discarded clothes, the scent of him still clinging to the fibers, folded with trembling care. A single, crumpled note—his handwriting scrawled across the page, meaningless to anyone but you.

You had built a temple in his name. A cathedral of longing, devotion, and sickness.

And yet—when you stood before it, staring at the madness of your own making, something inside you snapped.

You saw it. Truly saw it.

Not love. Not devotion.

Obsession.

Your stomach twisted, nausea rising like bile. You thought you had been pure, that your love had been something sacred. But the truth was carved into the blood on your hands, into the grotesque altar before you.

You were filth. No better than the ones you had slaughtered.

You couldn’t face him. Not like this.

So you ran.

For the first time, you abandoned him.

At school, you became nothing—a wraith in the halls, slipping through shadows, avoiding his gaze like it burned. You erased yourself from his world, just as you had erased the others from his presence.

And Scaramouche noticed.

The absence of your eyes on him was suffocating in its own right. He had grown used to your presence, to the quiet weight of your obsession curling around him like an unwanted curse. You were supposed to be there—watching, waiting, hanging onto his every breath.

But now?

Nothing.

No glances from the corners of your eyes. No lingering in doorways just to catch a glimpse of him. No quiet, frantic movements in your notebook whenever he spoke.

It was almost... eerie.

A slow smirk curled at his lips, but beneath it was something dark, something unreadable. His fingers twitched, restless. A storm brewed behind his gaze, a creeping, unspoken rage.

Did you think you could leave? Just like that?

Oh, how naive.

You had crawled through madness for him, had burned your soul away in his name. You were his, a pitiful, broken little thing that had spiraled into insanity just to get closer.

And now, you wanted to turn away? To pretend it had never happened?

Scaramouche does not lose what belongs to him.

You would come back.

One way or another.

Scaramouche never cared to notice things beyond himself. People came and went, their voices drowned in the white noise of his existence. He never wasted energy on trivial matters—least of all you.

You, with your cloying devotion. You, always at his heels like an obedient pet. You, whispering sweet, obsessive promises as if they meant anything.

You had been everywhere. The moment he turned his head, you were there. In class, in the cafeteria, lingering outside the bathroom, loitering in the hallways, even perched at the rooftop, always waiting for a glimpse of him.

And then, suddenly—you weren’t.

It was silent.

At first, he didn’t question it. Why should he? It wasn’t his concern. It wasn’t his problem. He should’ve felt relieved.

But the longer it stretched on, the more something gnawed at him.

You were nowhere.

And that—that was wrong.

For two weeks, one day, three hours, fifty-six minutes, and thirty-two seconds—he counted. His mind involuntarily tracked every second that passed without the weight of your suffocating adoration pressing into his skin. He didn’t care, yet somehow, he noticed.

Then, finally—he saw you.

You.

But you weren’t alone.

You were talking to someone else, laughing, smiling. Living.

Something in him snapped.

His smirk faltered.

You—his shadow, his puppet, his wretched little thing—were no longer circling him like a moth desperate to burn. You were free.

You had a life.

And for the first time, Scaramouche felt something eerily close to betrayal.

What happened to your promises?

Where were the feverish whispers of "I'd die for you, Scaramouche!" Where were the eyes that followed him in manic devotion, the trembling hands that clung to every word he uttered like it was scripture?

Had it all been a lie?

Had you really abandoned him?

The rage was instant. Consuming.

Without hesitation, he strode forward, cutting through the people surrounding you like they were nothing but fog in his path. Conversations halted, eyes turned, but he didn’t care.

Because there you were.

And you weren’t his anymore.

"You used to be all in—every moment, every breath, I knew you were mine." His voice was sharp, biting, loud. He didn’t bother to hide the venom in his words, his arms crossed in a defensive, possessive stance. His voice carried through the stunned silence. "Now it’s like you’ve just… vanished. Were you ever really sincere?"

You froze, your body going rigid.

A lump formed in your throat, suffocating, as you stared at him. He was livid, but there was something else buried beneath the rage—something worse.

"What—?" You barely managed to get the word out before he cut you off, voice rising, boiling over.

"You played me. You abandoned me! After everything you’ve done for me?!" His voice cracked slightly at the end, but it wasn’t weakness—it was fury. Frustration. A terrible, uncontrollable storm of emotions that even he didn’t know how to process.

His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palm as if trying to ground himself—to stop himself from grabbing you, shaking you, making you look at him the way you used to.

And yet—you didn’t.

Your eyes didn’t hold that obsessive gleam anymore. They held pity.

And then, you said it.

"Can you just please leave me alone?"

Firm. Cold. Unshaken.

And that—that hurt.

The words slammed into his chest like a blade. His breath hitched, his whole body stiffening. His lips parted, eyes blown wide, an expression of utter disbelief.

You had never, never spoken to him like that before.

And worse—you turned away.

You walked away from him.

The world blurred for a moment. He could barely hear the whispers around him, barely feel the weight of the stares pressing into him.

The air felt wrong.

His hands twitched, his heart hammered against his ribs, but his face remained eerily blank.

A slow, suffocating rage curled inside him.

No.

No, this wasn’t right.

You thought you could leave?

You thought you could escape him?

A smirk twitched at his lips, but his eyes were dark—hungry.

You’ll pay for that.

He’ll make you regret ever thinking you could live without him.

It wasn’t difficult.

You had made it easy for him.

Every whispered confession, every vulnerable fragment of yourself—you had offered them up willingly, blind with devotion. When you worshipped him, when you ached for him, you had bled your soul dry, spilling every truth at his feet like a devout follower praying to an unholy god. You had believed your love was unbreakable, that nothing could twist it into something ugly.

But love was a lie.

And now?

Now, those same truths would be the noose around your neck.

Scaramouche barely had to lift a finger. The dirt he had on you wasn’t something he had to dig for—no, you had given it to him, laid it bare in your desperation to be seen, to be acknowledged, to matter to him. And so, with meticulous precision and an insufferable smirk, he wove it all together, weaving your past into a beautiful, intricate cage.

A perfect blackmail.

The tapes spun between his fingers, glinting under the dim light, the cruel little wheel of fate turning in slow, damning circles.

Your sins, preserved forever.

Blood. So much blood. The camera didn’t shy away from the violence—how your blade had sunk into flesh, how wet, gurgling gasps had choked out their last breaths. How their fingers had twitched, grasping at the nothingness as they collapsed, lifeless. And you—standing above them, gloved hands stained red, chest heaving, lips parted with something too close to reverence.

Then, the photographs.

Dozens of them.

Some of him—captured in secret, stolen moments where he was unaware of your obsession clinging to him like a shadow. Pictures taken from alleyways, behind windows, through crowds. And some of you—uninvited, invasive, taken when you thought you were alone but weren’t.

He liked these.

He liked the way you looked in them—unsuspecting, fragile. He liked knowing the tables had turned, that he was watching you now, that your obsession had left you vulnerable enough for him to tear apart.

But the best part?

The confrontation.

Scaramouche didn’t need to hunt you down. He didn’t need to lure you in. You walked straight into his web, oblivious, thinking you were safe.

The door creaked open.

A sharp inhale.

Then—stillness.

You stood frozen in the doorway, the color draining from your face as your breath caught in your throat.

Scaramouche.

Lounging on your sofa as if he had always belonged there. One leg draped over the other, fingers lazily tapping against the stack of evidence in his hands, violet eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Something triumphant.

You felt the air shift—suffocating, cloying, thick with the unspoken understanding that this was no longer your space.

This was his.

Your voice broke, barely above a whisper.

"What are you doing here?" The words wavered, shaking under the weight of panic. "How—how did you get in?"

Scaramouche didn’t answer. He only tilted his head, watching you, letting the silence drag on long enough to coil around your ribs, squeezing. Then, ever so slowly, he lifted the tape, letting it spin between his fingers, his smirk widening.

"More importantly," he murmured, voice smooth, slow, deliberate, "what do you think I’m going to do with this?"

The world tilted beneath you.

Your pulse roared in your ears, the blood draining from your limbs as your stomach twisted into knots.

It was all there.

The evidence. The obsession. The murders.

Your sins, reflected back at you in sickening clarity.

You barely managed to breathe, barely managed to whisper out a choked, "I—I should just go to the police." The words left your lips before you could think them through, raw with desperation. "Tell them—tell them there's a criminal on campus—"

His laugh cut you off.

Sharp. Cold. Mocking.

"Oh?" He leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, eyes glittering with amusement. "And what do you think happens next? Do they rush in, sirens blaring, guns drawn? Do they drag me away in chains?" His smirk widened, teeth flashing like a predator playing with its food.

His voice dropped, honeyed with false sympathy.

"And what do you think they’ll do when they see all of this?"

Your stomach lurched.

He didn’t need to say it.

You knew.

His expression softened into something almost pitying—almost.

"Face it," he murmured, letting the words settle into your skin like poison. "You're finished, no matter what you do."

A pause. A moment stretched too thin.

And then—casually, effortlessly—he leaned back, arms stretching along the sofa, as if this was all just an idle conversation.

"Or," he drawled, "you could be a good girl and go back to being my pet."

Your breath caught.

The words slithered over you like a collar snapping into place.

His voice was soft—so soft, so sweet—but beneath it was steel. An unspoken command. A leash tightening around your throat.

"It’s your choice, really," he continued, tilting his head. "But let’s be honest—there’s no different outcome. Either way, you’re never leaving me."

The finality of it crushed the breath from your lungs.

The realization clawed its way through your mind like a slow, sinking weight.

You had never been free.

You had never been in control.

And as Scaramouche's smirk widened, as he watched the last ember of defiance flicker and die in your eyes, you realized—

You never would be.

ONG I COULDN'T CONTAIN MY EXCITEMENT OF WRITING :(( AAAH

#dark content #yandere #genshin impact #aether #wanderer #scaramouche

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nerdylittlefox · 2 days ago

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Meme I drew last night. I just really love memes.

#myart #my art #genshin impact #arlecchino #wanderer #childe #capitano #freminet #lynette #lyney #fatui

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otontogi · 3 days ago

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#scaramouche #wanderer #art #artists on tumblr #digital art #genshin impact #genshin fanart

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parlamiamore · 2 days ago

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liminal space °˖𓍢ִ໋🍃✿°.💚⋆ scaramouche!

summary: trapped in a space where time doesn’t make sense, an aspiring streamer and academic struggles to find their place in newfound fame and love and struggles to answer the age old question: does anything even matter anyway?

004. friends only minecraft server

🌿🍵🎧⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

previous 🌿 masterlist 🌿 next

omg ignore the time i was working on this i was going thru a crisis and needed an outlet >:)

also this is kind of filler, it’s gonna start picking up next time. just for curiosity’s sake and no reason: xiao or alhaitham?

taglist: @sl-vega @help-whatdoimakemyusername @axquella

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin smau #kunikuzushi #streamer au #genshin x you #smau #wanderer #scaramouche smau #scaramouche x you #scaramouche x reader

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reblogingscarastuffuntiligethim · 2 days ago

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MY FRIENDS WE HAVE FLUFF AMEN

Petty Compensation

prompt. you accidentally take the wrong drink order, and the actual owner demands a sip as compensation

characters. scaramouche / wanderer x gn!reader

tags. modern au, attempt at humor

warnings. none

You don’t notice your mistake at first.

The cafe is busy, and you're distracted. Probably by the group of students arguing over a project in the corner or the fact that you only got four hours of sleep last night. Either way, you hear your name being called, or at least, you think it was yours.

Without giving it much thought, you grab the cup from the counter, take a sip, and wince at the unexpected bitterness. Still, you don’t question it and head back to your seat like nothing’s wrong. The cafe is packed and the staff seem overwhelmed that the barista doesn’t even notice who took the drink.

It’s not until someone clears their throat in front of you that you realize something might be off.

“That’s mine.”

You glance up, only to be met with sharp indigo eyes staring you down. The guy in front of you has striking deep blue hair, sharp jawline, and an expression that somehow manages to be both bored and vaguely irritated at the same time. He gestures toward the cup in your hand. “You took my drink.”

You blink at him, then at the cup. Then at him again.

Oh.

In your defense, it looks like your order. You squint at the scribbled name on the side, and sure enough, it’s not yours.

Kunikusushi, it says.

Either his parents had a grudge against him, or the barista completely butchered the spelling.

Still, regardless of how his name is written on the cup, one thing is clear. You already drank from it, which means—

“Oops?” you offer sheepishly.

His brow twitches. “Oops?”

“order for [name]!” the barista calls out.

You glance toward the counter, where another identical cup sits unattended. Your actual order.

You stand up to take it from the counter and offer it to the stranger. His intense stare burns into you the entire time. Shifting under the weight of it, you clear your throat. “Um, sorry. You can take mine instead?”

He looks unimpressed, eyeing the cup with clear disapproval. “My drink is made exactly how I like it. And you’ve contaminated it. I’d take it back but what if you have some kind of disease?”

“I don’t,” you deadpan.

He shrugs. “Can’t be sure.”

“Are you serious?”

He exhales through his nose, gaze flicking to the cup in your hands. “Fine,” he says, holding out a hand. “Give it here.”

You blink. “Wait, what—”

“If I can’t have mine untouched, I want compensation,” he says. “You took a sip of my drink. I’m taking one of yours.”

You gape at him. “That’s literally the same thing you were just complaining about.”

“Yeah, but this time it’s my choice.” He scoffs. “Give it.”

You hesitate but ultimately sigh, handing the cup over. He takes it, and without breaking eye contact, he lifts it to his lips and takes a slow sip.

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

As he swallows, immediately, his nose scrunches in utter disgust. “Ugh. How do you drink this?” He sets the cup on your free hand and glares at it like it personally offended him. “It’s sickeningly sweet.”

You raise a brow. “No one forced you to drink it, asshole.”

“Tch.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still grimacing. “Consider yourself lucky. I’m feeling merciful today.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Merciful?”

“You should be grateful I didn’t make you buy me a new one.” He smirks, sharp and infuriating.

You roll your eyes, but before you can throw a retort, he steps back, grabbing his actual drink from your hand.

“I’m taking this back. Try not to steal from me next time, thief.”

You sputter out incoherent words in disbelief. He could’ve just taken it from the start. “Petty!” You say back but he ignores you.

And just like that, he walks away, leaving you flustered, annoyed, and (frustratingly) just a little bit intrigued.

Wait. Next time?

You glance down at your drink and feel a small scrap of paper, torn from what looks like a receipt, clinging to the cup’s condensation. Scribbled across it in messy handwriting and bleeding ink is a string of numbers. His number.

Your cheeks flush and your mouth gapes.

Instinctively, your gaze flicks to the exit, searching for him. He’s already by the door, his own drink in hand, but just before stepping out, he glances over his shoulder.

The moment your eyes meet, he smirks. He knows you’ve found it. Then, without a word, he turns and disappears into the crowd outside.

You stare after him. Your heart knocking once against your ribs, skipping a beat.

Did he plan that from the start?

note. just a little something haha you can tell kuni is my favorite character to write. thank you for reading ^^ feel free to send asks! likes and reblogs are appreciated <3

#scaramouche x reader #scaramouche #wanderer x reader #wanderer #genshin impact x reader #scaramouche imagines #scaramouche oneshots #genshin wanderer #genshin impact #kunikuzushi #hes just so?????#scara

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meritski · 9 hours ago

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dangerously yours • wanderer x gn!reader

Wanderer never liked the stars, so it made his lips twitch upwards slightly when he noticed how the cosmos were trying to copy the shine of your eyes. It was doing a horrible job, and here you were— mesmerized by it. Hah, how amusing.

The lies of Teyvat could never outshine you. Yet you seemed unaware of that.

How could he tell you the truth, which would lead you to watch the stars through tears? Which would lead your eyes to lose their brightness? A trait of yours that he adored? Never. He could never do that to you.

“Look, a shooting star!” The excitement of your tone made him snap out of his thoughts. “Did you wish?”

“Oh,” He was too caught up in watching you instead of the stars, it seemed. “I didn’t have the time.” The words slipped between his lips before he could even think. "Didn't have the time", coming from him— compared to you? Very funny.

Sometimes he regrets it. Maybe if he had wished that you were two other people— two people who need not say goodbye; the universe would pity him and listen, just for this once.

And sometimes, he doesn’t. Because you looked breathtaking that day(you always do), even though he didn’t have the breath you could have taken. If he did, all of them would belong to you, he swears upon it.

Noticing your curious gaze, he guessed you’d ask what he could possibly wish for. But the question never came, which caught him off guard. Instead, you proposed an idea. A silly one, but still endearing nonetheless. Just like you.

“Next time, then.”

He never saw any of them after you, which made him believe you were his shooting star, the only star he believed in, instead. It was a shame that none of the wishes he made while looking at you came true. You were the brightest of them all, who shone across his memory with a warm light. One that he would never forget.

You would betray him, surely. He had known that from the start. Yet he also betrayed himself by not considering this a betrayal. Because how could someone as heavenly as you do something so sinful? How could someone’s words that sound like verses— he repeats them every night, engraving them into his memory so he will never forget them, as if he is a worshipper— be a lie?

He will live a long time— an eternity without you. This makes him wonder, is the only eternity he’ll gain from this cruel world a life without you? If so, he doesn’t want it. Even though it’s what he yearned for his entire life, you are what he will long for for the rest.

He will look into the faces of passersby, hoping to find something that will, for an instant, bring you back to him. Yet none of them compare with yours. Nor can they try to remind him of you. Yours was sculpted in his mind, he didn’t dare to dirty it with some forgettable facades that didn’t matter. You deserved much more than that.

Moonlit nights will feel strangely empty because there will be no answer when he calls your name into them. The sky you two once watched is starless now. He doesn’t have anything in his mind, other than you. And he doesn’t think he’ll in the future, either. His mind, thoughts, body, past and future, soul— everything belongs to you.

Always, the empty space in his chest will be aching for you. A cold reminder that he didn’t have a heart that could have belonged to you. If he did, all of it would belong to you. He, again, swears upon it.

You're something to believe in again— yet you are the type of person who has ceased to exist for him. He truly hates that.

𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑ notes!

☆ the artblock + uni combo soloed me i am afraid </3

☆ the dangerously yours quotes on my fyp and my unhealthy obsession with wanderer resulted in this haha, not really my best work and it's also not proofread— yeah, it might get rewritten !!

☆ i actually was editing one of my drafts for kinich last time i checked... how did it come to this >,:

☆ i hope you guys liked it, hehe <3

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