constantcrying

[constantcrying]

y'know if i loved myself one tenth as much as these various yandere boys love the unfathomable Y/N, I could do literally anything. by jove i could buy a car

[constantcrying]

https://www.tumblr.com/constantcrying/774065233386979328/its-tet-now-yay?source=share

HELP IM BACK AGAIN MONTHS LATER 😭

Tết is Vietnamese's Lunar New Year :3🇻🇳🪷🎉

OHHHHH silly me!!! Tết Nguyên Đán !!! I definitely could've googled it, shame on me that I didn't. Thank you for explaining tho lol

It's already passed, but I hope you had a good time and ate a lot and I hope the rest of your year is healthy and wealthy

[constantcrying]

Yandere Shapeshifter x Reader

AN: I spent the last couple of days going through my drafts. I've fully edited about five of them :D

In the soft glow of twilight, the city looked like it was bleeding light—orange pooling in cracked asphalt, violet bruises swelling against brick walls. The air was thick with late summer heat, pressing against skin like a too-familiar hand. You walked home through the half-lit streets with your shoulders hunched, steps fast and decisive. You didn’t notice the man watching you from the other side of the road. He was tall, with broad shoulders and an indistinct face, half-shadowed beneath the flickering streetlight. He smiled when you passed, though you never saw it.

He’d worn another face yesterday. The barista. The one with the soft brown eyes and lopsided smile, who remembered your order even though you'd never given it more than twice. Before that, he was the man who bumped into you at the library. The girl in your dance class. The old woman on the bus who gripped your wrist too tightly when you offered her your seat. He was no one. He was everyone.

And he loved you.

You were beautiful. Not in the loud, obvious way others were—he hated those kinds of people. Their beauty was showy, performative. Yours was quiet, haunting. Something that sank under his skin and made him ache. You were all softness and edges, warmth and distance, always just out of reach, and it drove him insane.

He didn’t have a name anymore. He’d given it up long ago. Names tied you down, anchored you to one life. He didn’t want that. All he wanted was to be what you needed. Whoever you wanted. Whoever you would let in.

It started small. He made friends with your friends. Slipped into their lives with gentle lies and careful mimicry. He watched the way they spoke to you, the words they used, the nicknames they called you. He repeated them to himself like scripture. He became your classmate, your coworker, the stranger who handed you your dropped wallet and brushed his fingers a little too long against yours.

And you smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make his heart stutter.

He was careful. He could wait. He could change. He had changed so many times already.

You never saw his real form. No one did. Sometimes he forgot it himself. He remembered dark skin, an empty mouth, too many eyes. A body that bent in impossible ways. But he didn’t need that. Not when he could be perfect for you.

You had a crush on your neighbor once—he saw it in the way you lingered at your door, the way your voice softened when you greeted the man across the hall. So he killed him.

Not messily. Not dramatically. A little poison in his tea, a body that disappeared. Then, a week later, the same face moved back in. You never suspected a thing. The new version of your neighbor smiled more, cooked better. Helped carry your groceries.

You were grateful.

And he was patient.

But you didn’t fall for him.

It hurt. You saw him every day, and still your eyes wandered. Still you touched other people, confided in other people. He didn’t understand. Why wasn’t he enough?

One night, he watched you kiss someone else. A gentle kiss, soft and sweet, given to someone who didn’t know you like he did. He watched from the other side of the street, fingers curling into claws he didn’t know he still had. His form flickered—skin bubbling, bones cracking beneath a mask of flesh—and he had to press himself against the wall to keep from changing right then and there.

He killed that person too. Quietly. Efficiently.

The next day, he wore their face.

He touched you the same way, said the same things, but sweeter. Better. More attentive. When you looked confused, he lied. Said he was tired yesterday. Said he wasn’t himself.

He meant it.

And finally, finally, you started to fall. You let him hold you. Let him inside. You cried into his chest one night when things became too much. He held you so tightly he thought he might break your ribs. He wanted to bury himself in your skin. Crawl beneath it. Become you.

But there was still something wrong. He could feel it. Your eyes wandered. You dreamed of people he hadn’t killed yet. You talked about places you wanted to go—places he couldn’t follow. And worse: you talked about being alone.

“You ever think about just... disappearing?” you asked him once, as you lay together in the quiet, your head on his chest. “Going somewhere no one knows you? Starting over?”

He went still beneath you.

“No,” he said softly. “I only want to be where you are.”

You laughed. Not unkindly. But like you didn’t know what you were saying. Like you didn’t know him.

He had to fix it. Had to make you see.

So he started showing up again in other forms. The coworker. The friend. The stranger on the bus. All of them saying the same thing: how wonderful he was. How lucky you were to have him. He wove stories around you like a cocoon. Made it so that no matter where you turned, someone was gently reminding you that this was love. That he was good for you.

You started to believe it. You started to stay.

And still, still it wasn’t enough.

So he showed you a piece of himself. Not all. Just a sliver. One night, when the moon was full and you looked particularly sad, he let his arm shift—just a little. Just enough that you saw his skin shimmer, saw the suggestion of something not quite human beneath.

You recoiled. He didn’t blame you.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he whispered. “But I needed you to love me first.”

You didn’t speak to him for days.

It shattered him.

In your absence, he unraveled. Took a thousand forms in the mirror, screaming in voices not his own. The walls of his apartment became a collage of your photos. He slept in your old clothes, curled into your scent like a feral thing. He wore your face and kissed his reflection. He whispered your name into the mouths of strangers he consumed.

When you finally came back—shaking, scared, but curious—he wept.

“I don’t care what you are,” you told him, voice cracking. “Just stop lying to me.”

He swore he would. He swore on whatever name he used to have.

He showed you then. All of it. The writhing truth beneath the masks. The shifting, bleeding, endless change. He thought you might scream. You didn’t. You just cried.

And then you kissed him.

And for a moment, he believed you meant it.

But you didn’t. Not really. You were scared. You were trying to survive.

He could tell.

So now he watches you sleep. Watches the way your mouth twitches in dreams, the way your fingers curl like you’re holding onto something. He wonders if it’s him. He wonders what he has to be for you to love him fully.

He’ll find it. He’ll become it. Whether it’s the friend, the lover, the monster, the god. He’ll wear every face in the world if it means you’ll look at him like you mean it.

He’ll never let you go.

After all…

He’s whoever you want him to be.

Forever.

Masterlist

[constantcrying]

IM NOT A BOT

^^^ what a bot under scrutiny would say

♡♡♡I'm kidding, I will stay unbald thank u anon♡♡♡

[constantcrying]

I love you please don't go bald

Shit, well, I'll do my best

[constantcrying]

Okay I’m on my hands and knees here. right now I am obsessed with this trope?? concept??? of terrible man suffering because the one he loves was hurt by him and could never love him back. So if anyone has like. Recommendations for stuff like that. gimme. If you think you have read or written something with this vibe climb into my replies right now I’m NOT kidding!!!

[constantcrying]

Title: Hay Fever.

Pairing: Yandere!Spring Spirit x Reader (OC).

Word Count: 2.1k.

TW: Obsessive Behavior, Mentions of Death, Manipulation, Purposeful Endangerment, and Implied Kidnapping.

[Winter]

You met her in the garden.

Well, in your garden, technically. You’d been tending to it all day, weeding the primrose and cutting back the daffodils, but it was hard to think of much of anything as yours when she sat among the flowers as if she’d grown them herself, when the trees spared her their shade so willingly and every stalk seemed to bend to her in reverence. Her checkered blanket was spread over the grass, no wrinkle left unsmoothed. A bottle of red wine sat near the center, but the two glasses nearby were untouched.

It struck you, first, that there was a woman in your garden. A woman you didn’t know.

It struck you, second, that there was a very beautiful woman in your garden. A very beautiful women you still, unfortunately, didn’t know.

Her expression was distant, but not apathetic, falling closer to forlorn than unfeeling. Black hair fell in tight coils to her waist, dripping over her shoulders, melding with the dark tone of her complexion. It was hard to tell if she was dressed for a picnic or a funeral, her sundress pitch-black and long enough to pool around her legs, her jewelry all emeralds and rubies and other precious stones you’d only break out for the rarest occasion. It was only when she seemed to drift out of her thoughts and look towards that you noticed the harshest juxtaposition – her eyes, their color so bright and so golden, you blinked against it on instinct, like you’d caught yourself staring at the sun.

It never occurred to you to ask her to leave. She was not one of your flowers. You hadn’t planted her. And yet, she was here, and any nagging reminder that she shouldn’t be was quickly resigned to a closed-off, muted corner of your mind, all-but snuffed out entirely by the time she opened her mouth.

“This is your garden, isn’t it?”

It was. Obviously, it was. There was still dirt on your knees from kneeling in your seedbeds, a spade in your left hand that you’d planned to uproot a spring of rosemary with. Still, you nodded frantically, like desperation alone would be enough to please her. “Y-yes. I’m sorry for the state of things. The property’s so big, and I only got here—”

“It’s lovely.” And then, with the same despondent melancholy. “Aren’t you going to join me?”

“I—” A pressure behind your eyes, a pin catching your throat. You forced a smile, and she let her head tilt to the side. “I really don’t think I should.”

Those strange eyes raked over you. After a moment, she picked up one of the two wine glasses and shook her head. “No, I suppose you shouldn’t.”

 It was like a spell had been dropped, a trance broken, a leash allowed to go lax. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you turned on your heel and retreated back in the direction of the mansion.

~

She told you her name was Bacchus. Or, she thought it might be, at least.

“Chloris rings a bell,” she said, watching from her rounded patio table as you searched for the hornworms that’d been harassing your tomato stalks, recently. “And Ostara. And Persephone. But no one’s called me much of anything in quite some time.”

You couldn’t imagine why. When you were in your garden, she always seemed to be just over your shoulder – sitting patiently and waiting for someone settle her golden gaze onto. It would’ve been impossible not to notice her, not to name her.

“I’m sorry. That must get lonely.”

“It doesn’t. The company I keep has no need for names.” She paused to take a long sip of wine. It was a white, today, not her usual red. She tended to favor richness over sweetness, but saccharine wasn’t a bad look on her. It matched the untouched bowl of strawberries sitting in her lap, too. “You’re very lonely.”

It wasn’t a question. She tended not to ask things she didn’t already know the answer to.

“I’m the only one here,” you explained, nodding back to the mansion – a sprawling, looming abstraction of wood and cement and paint. You occupied as much of it as you could, but if pressed, you’d only be able to describe a handful of its countless rooms. It was too big, too empty. If you hadn’t known it would end so poorly, you might’ve been tempted to invite her in. If only to fill that much more empty space. “I’m just taking care of it until the owners come back for the summer. The gardens honestly the only thing that needs attention, but—” You shrugged, managing an airy laugh. “A job is a job, right? It’s not like a lot of people need landscape artists, not after such a long winter.”

“Winter is a cruel and heartless tyrant. Those who attempt to rebuild after his annual rampage deserve worship equivalent to that of the divine.” It was the most you’d ever heard her say at one time, and yet her tone never changed. “The others are nearly as bad, in their own ways. Vile little parasites, the lot of them.”

Found one. Careful to avoid its barb, you plucked the caterpillar from its leaf and tossed it as far as you could into the nearest vacant plot of grass. You tried not to kill pests, when you could help it. “I wouldn’t call this ‘rebuilding’, ma’am. Like I said, it’s honestly just a job.”

“You keep using that word. Job.”

“Do you… not know what a job is?”

There was a long beat of silence.

Finally, she pursed her lips. “I believe it has something to do with receiving silver coins.”

For the first time in as long as you could remember, you laughed – genuinely, wholeheartedly laughed. Bacchus’ eyes widened, but she settled into herself quickly. Carefully, the strawberries were removed from her lap, her glass set beside them. She rose to her feet, her eyes flickering from spot to spot in front of her, as if considering where to step next. Eventually, she came to kneel next to you, her thigh nearly pressing into yours.

“Your stakes are weakly planted.” She reached out, fingers brushing gingerly against one of the wooden pikes set up by the previous gardener. “May I help you correct them?”

You couldn’t help yourself – grinning like an idiot. Of course, she wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t already know what your answer would be.

 ~

“Would you forgive me?”

Her fingers raked delicately through your hair, nails brushing against your scalp. You shifted where you laid – body stretched across the rocking bench, your head resting in her lap – to get a better look at her. “For what?”

“Burning it down.” The weight of her palm moved over the top of your head. “Making way for something new.”

You let out a deep breath. She was beautiful, even in her more homicidal moods. “If you had to, I might. I’d rather not get hurt, though.”

“A shame.” There was the hint of a smile in her tone, even if her expression held true to its usual state of downcast. “You’d make a lovely seedbed.”

Bacchus tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and you settled against her. Sleeping in the mansion’s guestroom had become impossible, the air too stagnant and the silence too stifling. That paired with the headaches you’d get whenever you spent more than a few minutes indoors made it hard to get much rest, to ease the death-dark circles under your eyes. If it wasn’t for her, you might not have been able to sleep at all.

None of it had anything to do with her, of course. She was too good for that, too kind, too nurturing. You were sure, despite everything, that she wouldn’t hurt. You were sure, and yet…

And yet.

“Are you going to kill me?”

Needles stabbing at the inside of your throat, stinging insects pricking at the branches of your lungs, your body fighting back against your mind’s betrayal. She only hummed, reaching to the side.

You watched from the corner of your eye as she took a pomegranate (Did you grow pomegranates? You had to, where else would she have gotten it?) in both hands, wrenching the fruit apart as easily as you might’ve been able to separate the segments of an orange. Violet gore and colorless pulp dripped from her fingertips, and from the mangled corpse, she took a single seed – perfect in its individuality. The rest of the pomegranate was allowed to fall to the grass. You would find it rotting the next day.

You felt her thumb press into your lips, and opened your mouth willingly. The seed slipped onto your tongue. “Close your eyes and eat. Nothing will harm you so long as I’m here.”

She didn’t have to promise anything. You were already splitting the seed between your molars, letting its bitter tinge wash over you before you stopped thinking altogether.

~

The garden was on fire.

The mansion, too. You were still trying to cough the smoke out of your lungs by the time you stumbled down the marble steps, your hazy vision impaired further by the black veil of night. Where there wasn’t darkness – inky, all-consuming darkness – there was flame, racing up the snapdragons, flitting over your azaleas. It was awful. It was everywhere. It was—

It was her fault.

You tripped over the last step, landing on your knees in the soil. On instinct, you shrunk into yourself, a hand darting to your collar to pull your shirt over your nose and mouth, but you weren’t left to your own devices for very long. Something hooked under your arms and dragged you back to your feet – not hands, but something else, something more solid. You started to turn your head, but stopped as soon as it breached your peripheral.

A man, well over six feet tall and made entirely out of gnarled, dirt-encrusted tree roots stood behind you, slowly pulling away. You snapped forward, but it didn’t do any good. You could see the dancers clearly, now.

Treading over the remains of forget-me-nots, circling the foxglove, forming tight rings around the bonfire that’d once been your prized dogwood. Stags and wolves on their hind legs, swarms of insects and piles of forest debris coaxed into more humanoid forms. In the center of it all, of course, was Baccus – sitting cross-legged on a throne that shimmered gold in the firelight, dressed only in the draped fur of some black furred, green-eyed beast. Her chin was propped on her left fist, and in her right, she clutched a half-empty bottle of wine so rich and so red, you might’ve mistaken it for blood. The sweeter variety must not have been to her tastes, after all.

She didn’t stand up when she saw you. Rather, with some vague gesture on her part, the root creature hooked an arm around yours and dragged you to the foot of her throne. You collapsed in front of her, still fighting against the smoke, the exhaustion, the shock. You should’ve expected this, you should’ve expected her, but really, how could you ever have been asked to?

She’d always been so fucking beautiful.

Bacchus leaned down to meet you, golden eyes wide and bright. “My seedling, my blossom, my dear,” she muttered, cupping your cheek. “You’ve kept me waiting.”

“The garden, I couldn’t—”

“Pay it no mind. Come next Spring, I’ll make something wonderful grows in its place.” For the first time, you watched as her lips split apart, forming the widest of grins. She brought the rim of her bottle to your lips. “Drink and be merry, love. Be with me.”

It wasn’t much of a choice. The rim was lodged between your teeth, her hand positioned under your chin to better hold you still. Wine poured down your throat, slipping past the corners of your mouth, flooding your senses with bitterness and burning. Relief only came after the final drop had been drained, and Bacchus let the bottle fall to the ground below.

She cupped your face in both hands as you gasped for breath, pressing her forehead into yours. There was no nuzzling, no caresses, no attempt at comfort – only the heat of her skin where it met yours, the bitterness on her lips as she pulled you into a sharpened, burning kiss. Despite yourself, you melted into it, shutting your eyes and going limp in her embrace.

It wasn’t as if you’d ever been able to resist beautiful things.

[constantcrying]

held on til may. now what

[constantcrying]

I'm not exactly even-keeled but today at 6 am I found out somebody I live with ate my fucking breakfast (saved from last night) (something with high protein content and a bearable texture that i looked forward to eating) and the grief and anger I felt when I saw the telltale tinfoil in the trash is insane. I was sitting on the kitchen floor feeling like I have to cast a malevolent curse. I have to go to work

[constantcrying]

Platonic Yandere! Changling x reader drabble - 🪺🪲 (Trigger warnings: implied/referenced abuse, death, general creepiness)

There's something wrong with your brother.

Yelling has turned into soft murmurs, slamming of cupboards now only being accompanied by a quick apology and a meal soon placed in front of you.

Turned over a new leaf, he says. Hah. It might be nice if it was even slightly believable.

Your mother is overjoyed with the change, she smiles so much more. He does too, but there's something strange about it. Even on the rare occasions he'd smile, it never looked so out of place on his face. The kindness in his eyes wasn't there before, there's no way it's real.

You aren't dumb enough to fall into whatever ploy this is, you aren't that willfully naive.

The other shoe has to drop eventually.

"Are you sure you don't want to come with me?" Jeremiah lingers in the doorway, completely ignoring the glare thrown his way. "Spring is almost here, the flowers are getting ready to bloom-"

"I said no already, go by yourself."

With the way he flinches you'd think you had struck the older boy, he'd have deserved it at least.

"P- Please? Listen, I know our relationship hasn't been.. the best, but-"

"Hasn't been the best?" The outrage you feel has you sitting up straight, hands clenched into fists. "Fucking bastard, you think you can play nice for a couple days and that makes up for everything you've done-"

The door suddenly clicking shut sends a cold chill down your spine.

You're sure a smack is soon to follow, you end up bracing for nothing as Jeremiah drops to his knees in front of your bed instead.

"Please.." Tears are falling in steady streams down his face. "I- I'm a changed man, alright? I'm better."

He grasps your hands delicately, intertwining your fingers. The man sobs as you flinch at his touch.

"I- I'll prove it, just come with me.." He really does look pathetic, eyes shiny as he pulls you to stand up. "Come on.."

It's silent as you walk besides the occasional quiet sniffle, he keeps ahold of you the entire way.

You're lead into a clearing, the trees serenely swaying in the breeze as Jeremiah suddenly stops.

In the grass, your big brother's empty gaze stares back at you.

"I- I've kept it fresh a little longer than usual, wanted to make sure I got all the features right, you know..?" A nervous chuckle, "i- i did a good job i think."

His arms wrap around you from behind as he buries his face in your shoulder. "It's better, right? I'm better."

[constantcrying]

It's Tet now yay🎉

anon come back and explain this to me??? I don't understand this sentence and I hate not knowing stuff

[constantcrying]

Writing is not even a hobby of mine u know. This blog is a compulsion. my actual idea of a fun time is weaving friendship bracelets or sunning myself like a lizard upon a rock.

[constantcrying]

Pookie no... Jai is a place for every kind of character, your character writing is beautiful and I would love to see your characters in Janitor AI because I totally was not obsessed with them at all ^^

You are very kind! I think, though, I want more practice really writing before I go using tools that I barely understand

[constantcrying]

♡ Remember to take your meds ♡ Remember to get your prescription refilled ♡ grapefruit is the devil ♡

[constantcrying]

Kabocha pumpkin in the stew fucks massively. 10/10 ingredient that I would put in a lot more meals if not for the harsh reality of cutting a kabocha pumpkin.

[constantcrying]

Whats your opinion on AI chat/roleplay bots like JanitorAI? Do you make them?

I've never used or made a chatbot because I am a boring person lol

Upon reflection it seems like the kind of amusement designed for me: 1) I'm a person who struggles in the face of rejection or conflict, which is 90% of the process of internet rps in my experience. 2) I am an adult with responsibilities and limited energy. I understand, very deeply, the appeal of a creative writing machine that you program yourself, with no life of their own to conflict with your schedule, and no personal tastes that you must accommodate.

I think maybe one day, i could make a chatbot, if my character writing becomes more refined. Idk idk

[constantcrying]

The indifferent march of time isn't always a bad thing. I just checked a notesapp journal entry from the 2010s, and I didn't even remember the painful event that it described. A full third of my adolescent angst has like totally evaporated from my desert-dry brain. In a few years I might even forget I went to high school. May all of us that just wanted to fucking forget wake up tomorrow brand new and confused.