#cryhinh

[3rdgymbros]

Okay but that last anon is so true! I have a coworker who always forgets I'm married (cause I'm young) and one time they said "how does that even happen" and my response was "Fuck if I know I don't even know how I managed to start dating them" You can use that

I’M CRYHINH OMG

[certifiedsimpinggalore]

cryhinh

god reader who like breaking genshin boys hearts ✧ ೃ  ͜  ⑅

word count. 2.7k

characters included. zhongli, childe, al-haitham, xiao

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, power dynamics, religious + cult themes, sagau + cult au, kind of sad??idfk, in zhongli's its implied u were in bed with another iykwim, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl.

୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. i hope you don't mind the characters i chose!!

They’re far too easy to mess with, you think. 

A brush of your fingers, the faint heat of your breath on their ear. A soft, decadent hand on their shoulder, the feeling of your warmth in the crook of their neck— small, barely tangible things. Barely meaningful things, yet they still coo for you all the same; still cling to you and beg for your attention. 

Still hunger for your touch, ravenous for what little scraps you'll give them. A glance has them wrapped around your finger, and a word barely considered praise has them at their knees. 

It shouldn't be this easy. You shouldn't find it this fun. But you do, anyway. 

The look on their faces. The look of shock, and intertwined sorrow. The worship still swirling inside their eyes. 

You should feel bad. And you do, in a way— but not nearly enough.

zhongli

Zhongli is aware he has no reason to be hurt. Not really.

You have no obligation to him. Not in the way he does you. You don't have to like him, if you find his worship of you too flimsy, too little. You don't have to love him. You don't have to share even an inkling of the same breadth of emotions he holds for you. You don't have to look at him, breathe in his vicinity, if you thought he was too foul to be around.

He shouldn't expect himself to be special to you.

He shouldn't have, to be precise. It was foolish, to begin with.

What is he that you have not already seen? What is he that you have not already toyed with before? What unique experience does he give you?

The answer is none. Zhongli serves no purpose other than to worship you.

That is all that he's good for. Zhongli should not have expected to be yours, he should not have allowed himself to dream of the possibility. He poisoned himself with thoughtful daydreams of what it would mean to be yours, beautifully and entirely. To be your consort. To be your spouse.

Such a wonderful dream. One his heart ached for; longed for with such a yearning that it hurt.

He should've been embarrassed. And he was— he kept it his shameful secret, one hidden behind closed doors and locked gates in the palace of his mind. But he wasn't embarrassed enough, wasn't ashamed enough to keep himself from getting lost in them.

Zhongli should've let the shame sear him until it was enough to keep you out.

It's a cruel thought. One he despises himself for thinking— to deny you? To even think of depriving you of anything at all? Sacrilege. But he thinks it anyway.

Zhongli never should've thought that maybe he could be the singular person by your side. The only one worthy of standing there, tall and proud. Imposing, and as he realizes now, a thought as arrogant as the god of war he used to be.

Even in the brief moment where the two of you were two embers dancing together on a single flame, he knew the moment would have to end eventually. You had many suitors, and he was merely one among many. Though he believed himself to be the most suitable, it was ultimately your choice; and he knew how likely it was for others to be among your favorites.

Though he knew, and though he had tried to prepare himself for the inevitability of being second in your heart— it still stung. His heart still broke in his chest, still shattered when he saw your legs tangled with another’s.

You looked up at him, and Zhongli could see it on your face. You didn't truly care whether he saw or not— and why should you? You were God. He was nothing, merely a tool to be used and discarded. You didn't try to fake remorse or guilt, only merely made note of his presence.

Then you continued, as if he wasn't there in the first place. As if it was normal. As if the two of you had not spent time together, as if he had not bent at his knees and declared his eternal devotion to you. As if he was truly just a follower to you; nothing more, nothing less.

It was to be expected. It was, and it still hurt. He knew it would happen, and he still felt as if his heart had been ripped out of his chest and crushed. He had prepared for it, regulating himself so as to when it happened it would hurt less— and it still hurt.

It hurt more than he thought it would.

He was hoping you'd prove him wrong.

childe

Childe knew he alone wouldn't be enough for you.

You burn like the brightest star. Your love is the heat of a hearth; Childe sinks in when snow frosts his fingers and lets your warmth melt him. Your wrath is like a tempestuous storm, like the rage of the sun. He fears when you will eventually turn on him, but for now, he basks in your light.

Your favorite, you called him. You touched him with fondness, curling your fingers in his hair. When Childe was with you, he was in heaven. His heart threatened to burst with so much adoration and reverence he felt almost dazed. When without you, he mourned the loss of your presence; tears cascaded down his cheeks like a quiet elegy, lamenting every moment not near you.

You don't come to him as often, now. Others have sparked your interest. Childe can't blame you. No, he could never blame you— you are perfection incarnate. You can do no wrong, no matter how hard his heart twists and churns in his chest. No matter how hard it is to breathe when he sees you show affection to another.

Sometimes, he thinks you do it on purpose. He always hates the thought when it visits, denying its existence. He feels sick at the mere implication.

You are kind. You are benevolent. You kept him company in the abyss, let him take comfort in your presence. You wouldn't do this to him. He knows you wouldn't.

Yet the thought takes credence. Every morning that goes by without you glancing at him is hell. You pretend like he does not exist.

“Why?” He manages to croak out. His voice is weak, throat raw from his cries. “Why don't you want me anymore?”

“You're not interesting now,” you say. Your expression does not change, not even the slightest tremor of your brows. You look at him, and Childe realizes he never really mattered to you, not in the same way he cared for you.

It breaks him. Your words haunt him. He should hate you, he knows— he should detest you. He should heave until he is free of you. Yet despite what he should feel, Childe’s heart still hungers. It still whispers for you, begging and pleading; it still thrums in his chest for your presence, for the echo of your voice.

Years of worship do not disappear within a moment. They do not disappear upon your rejection, upon your refusal of him; they burst at the seams and demand retribution. They burst at the seams and think that there is no way for this to be you.

Childe has failed you. He must've, in some way or another— he did something you didn't like, and now this is his punishment. This is his trial by fire. He hopes that by the end of it, when he is scorched by flame and smoldering, that he is finally worthy of you.

Cries erupt from his throat, and sobs shake his entire body. It hurts to breathe, hurts to exist when he knows he has angered you. As though everything he has ever known and loved is crashing down on him.

There's a sick feeling pulsing in his chest, like a separate heartbeat. It only beats to make him suffer. He chokes on it with every hum of its rhythm.

Childe doesn't mind that you have others. Have as many as you like, but let him be one. Even if he is nothing, even if he is disgusting to you, barely worth your effort, barely worthy enough to worship you— let him exist near you, let him breathe and know that the same air has tasted you.

No matter how hard it is to stop himself from harming whoever’s gained your attention, he will suffer through it. No matter how hard it is to keep himself composed, to stop himself from grabbing onto your legs and begging you to please let him be your favorite again, he will suffer through it.

He should be happy with this much.

al-haitham

He was a fool.

Al-Haitham thought it only rational that you chose him. He was intelligent, an erudite scholar; he had knowledge of many things, ready for you to inspect whenever you wished. He had kept himself well-read before, and his desire to please you only exacerbated it.

He had his insecurities, but Al-Haitham thought of them as nothing but intrusive. Nonsense. There was no one more suitable for you than him. There was no way you'd choose another over him— you had told him as much. You had whispered softly in his ear and told him that he was all that you wanted.

Why would you lie? And though he had thought of what it would be like to be just another of your lovers, just a singular out of a whole, he never let himself linger. His heart beats in his chest erratically every time, and if you knew how quickly his composure broke just thinking of being nothing but second in your heart— the shame would eat at him.

He realizes now that to ever assume just one would be enough for your appetite was foolish. It is shameful, humiliating to think of how long it took for him to realize; to satiate your hunger he would have to be perfect, not just a jewel that shines a bit brighter than the rest. He would never be enough by himself. You were a god, above all others, and he was merely a mortal, beside himself with pride.

And it hurt more to know that he could not unlove you. It was part of him now, stitched into the make of his soul— he could not erase you, could not scrub himself free of you. To rip you out would be an agonizing existence. One that he did not wish to live, despite how it churned his blood and burned his throat.

You are bright. What lured him to you was the comfort you brought, the peace of mind you elicited.

There is no more peace, now. Only quiet anxiety and sickening thoughts, a lump in his throat and pain in his heart. There is no more comfort, no serenity— only the constant, festering parasite of a thought that he failed you in some way. He wasn’t enough, and though Al-Haitham has enough self-awareness to know that the idea is illogical, he still clings onto it; he failed you, but perhaps he could prove himself again.

It is a thought without credence. It is an idea without reason. Al-Haitham resolves himself to do whatever he has to do, though he knows it is ultimately meaningless. It is a fight without adrenaline, life or death without the urgency; it does not matter, not to you.

You do not serve him the same attention. You do not smile at his little mannerisms, do not inquire about his well-being. He doesn’t matter to you, not anymore.

He should accept it. Better to do it now. Better to internalize it, better to let himself revel in it— better to let him forget the moments he had, better to let him forget how he was once special to you.

You are a god. He is not. He wonders if that is the reason why. If it was not a failure of his own, but an aspect of himself that he cannot change that made you turn him away. If it was some unchangeable, immovable part of him that he could never hope to dissect. Never hope to get rid of, never hope to alter— if it was just him that you were unhappy with.

It is a startling thought. And it hurts him in every way, as all the hours he spent to improve himself, to cater his very being to your likes, were all for naught.

Nothing he could do could make you choose him again.

xiao

Xiao thought he had finally received the peace he had longed an eternity for when you chose him.

When with you, he did not ache. He did not feel listless, like he was merely dragging his feet behind him— he felt alive; the way mortals feel, the way he had not felt for a millennium. Your touch sent gales of ecstasy down his spine, a certain serenity he had not found anywhere else. Your voice felt like a dreamer's happiness; soft and soothing, clouds dancing at your fingertips.

Safety embraced him when in your presence. You were love itself, blinding and scintillating. Xiao would lay down his life for you, his god— the only one who matters.

He had never felt so loved before. And Xiao knew he never would again, so he clung. He clung like if he let go you would disappear, disperse into the stars that hung in the sky. He clung like if he let go he would die.

Maybe that is why you threw him away.

Xiao knows he isn't your ideal. He is silent, aloof, and forbidding. He is never inviting, never warm and kind; though he melts when with you, it is never enough. He should be more. You deserve as much.

He is always fearful. Always straining his ears when you're with another, eyes piercing. Self-hatred curls in his chest and twists around his heart, but he doesn't stop himself— you are everything, and he is nothing more than a Yaksha; replaceable, easy to discard— the dread is endless, an incessant drive to be assured of where he stands inside your heart.

You are everything, and he is nothing.

When Xiao catches a glimpse of you with another, he tries not to let it get to him. He swallows down his bitterness, the choking feeling of betrayal. What is he that you could not find in another? He should've long expected it. He was foolish not to have seen it sooner.

But he can’t stop thinking of his time by your side. Those brief moments of absolute peace, where he felt nothing but love. Where he could only feel you, utterly and wholly, and how much he adored every second of it. How much he loathed every moment away from you. He thinks of your hands running through his dark hair, of your nails against his scalp— and how he will never experience it again.

Xiao is used to loss. He has had centuries of time to grow accustomed to loneliness. He has lost those close to him, suffered blow after blow. He is supposed to be used to disappointment. He is supposed to be accustomed to an aching heart, to no longer clench his jaw out of pain; he is supposed to be able to move on with ease, without thinking of what used to be.

But he can’t bring himself to do that, this time. His mind lingers. The ghost of your smile still hangs in the air, still suffocates him every time he tries to rest his mind. He still sees you whenever he closes his eyes, your face shining like stars in the dark. He still hears your voice, still feels the weight of your touch— and he still wants you, despite how much he should hate you for taking his heart in your hands and crushing it.

Xiao still wants to be the one you love. He still wants to love you, to kiss your hands and feet. He wants to worship you, to pray to you at the bottom of your throne. But you’ve thrown him away. You don’t want him anymore. You have others who you like more, who don’t tremble at the slightest of your touch. Who are more deserving of standing beside you.

He has lost again, though he still clings onto you.