jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing

[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

Woah, I totally didn’t mean to disappear for six months?? Sorry! Anyways, enjoy something not Marble Hornets for once, lol. Also posted on my AO3! I’ll start posting there more at some point in time, probably.

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“Gasping, but somehow still alive, this is the fierce last stand of all I am.”

Her breath is ragged in her ears, the agitating sound making a concerning wet rumble reverberate in her lungs, reminding her too closely of a death rattle. Every ache and sting of pain across her body thrums in rhythm with the thundering of her heart.

It’s quiet, it’s so quiet and the soldiers who she’d spat at had taken Steve instead of her.

Like this was her true punishment. Isolation. Forced to wait for her fear to consume her.

Then her ringing ears pick up the faintest of sounds.

A shout, a yelp. Dead silence.

Robin was certain that sound had been Steve, god knows what was happening to him or how far away he was.

And then the screaming started.

It was nothing like she had ever heard before, not from a movie, not from another person, and never from Steve.

It was so loud and visceral, it sounded less like a human and more like a caged, cornered animal being beaten.

The sound was so sharp and sudden it made Robin jump, breath catching in her throat as her eyes lock onto the steel door keeping her trapped in the cold, metal room.

That was Steve. Steve was screaming like a fearful, pleading animal. Robin couldn’t even begin to imagine what was happening to him, every fleeting thought worse than the last.

They weren’t just torturing him, they were killing him.

They were killing Steve and making her listen.

She was getting Steve killed.

Blinking away her tears, Robin sniffles, shutting her eyes so tightly that swirls of color dance across her eyelids.

She can’t block out the sounds flooding into the room so loudly it sounds like Steve could be right next to her, pleading and screaming in pain.

She should’ve known better than to play tough in the face of actual sadistic psychopaths. Because now Steve was paying the price with his life and she couldn’t even get to the door because her arms were still bound behind her back and everything felt like a one big bruise.

”ROBIN!”

Robin’s neck pops audibly with the force of her head twisting at lightning fast speeds, stunned as reality crashed into her. Had Steve just-

Steve was shouting her name, pleading for her help and she swore her heart stopped as irritating, hot tears rolled down her cheeks.

This was all her fault and Steve was screaming for her and she couldn’t save him, let alone save herself.

Robin shouted as loud as she could, whether to let Steve know she was there, or to try and draw away those monsters from Steve, she wasn’t sure, but she screamed back for what felt like hours, voice cracking and wavering as she openly begged to whatever person may be listening to stop hurting him, to take her instead, please, just stop hurting him, kill her, beat her, she’d do anything.

Just don’t take her only friend away.

She’s in the middle of pleading with unseen forces when the next terrifying sound rings out, making her shrink back.

Something heavy and blunt cracking bone and smacking against skin, Steve’s cries of pain and exhausted screams.

What the hell were they doing to him? If they wanted answers they could’ve gotten them hours ago, but Robin couldn’t think beyond the sound of snapping bone and Steve’s sharp yelps that join the symphony of migraine-inducing chaos bouncing through Robin’s skull.

“STEVE! STEVE!” She swears she can’t get any louder and her throat stings in protest, wrists and ankles burning and wet with blood from constantly yanking against the binds holding her in this stupid chair, keeping her in this stupid, horrible room.

The door unlatches with a great push of the metal and it stuns Robin into complete silence for just a moment.

But then Steve is crumpling to the ground like a puppet without his strings, right in front of her, and the fear and rage ignite within her tenfold. “What did you do to him?! What did you do!?”

The old man from before, the one who had called her a сука, doesn’t answer her, merely stares at her like he knows something she doesn’t and it makes her body go cold.

Her gaze flicks to Steve again and she wants so desperately for Steve to do something, but he’s not moving, and it doesn’t dawn on her until the guards have already stepped towards her, ignoring Steve like he doesn’t even exist.

They undo the binds and she tries her best to fight, but her limbs are heavy and numb from lack of circulation and the men carry her with bruising grips.

Steve still doesn’t move and as the men carry her out of the room, that’s when she finally notices.

Steve’s Scoops outfit and face are grotesquely drenched in blood, hair clumped and matted with clots of crimson, he’s hardly recognizable.

Steve isn’t breathing.

Robin screams.

- - -

Her welcome back into consciousness isn’t exactly quiet or peaceful, it’s jarring and disorienting, with Robin’s body jumping up from her place on the spare mattress in a flurry of movement.

It’s so dark and she can’t tell what’s going on. Where’s Steve? Where is she?

She’s dead. Steve is dead. Her chest heaves as her eyes take too long in adjusting to the darkness, she knocks into something hard that digs into her back and it bangs against the wall like a steel rebar cracking bone and she shrieks in panic.

Robin doesn’t hear the mumbled question coming from Steve’s bed over the overwhelming smell of blood flooding the room, the feel of phantom pain squeezing her body as she trips over the mattress laying on the floor, painfully slamming into the ground with a gasp.

Steve is up and moving seconds after, concern and urgency in every movement, but she doesn’t notice him, scooting as far back as she can until she’s flush against the wall, eyes blown wide with her hands clutching her head; a desperate mutter of Steve’s name between heaving breaths as she cries.

“Hey, Robin, hey, breathe. Can you look at me? It’s Steve, I’m right here, it’s okay.”

The sound of his voice is jarring. His soft, calm tone blends with the sounds of him screaming and begging for her help and Robin can’t discern what is real anymore.

She just saw Steve’s dead body, but that couldn’t have been him because Steve is right in front of her, clean and injury free and crouching in front of her.

They haven’t worked at Scoops Ahoy in well over a year because Scoops and Starcourt burned to the ground after they battled a creature straight from Hell. But she just saw him-

Does it matter anymore? If she’s dead and he’s dead, what does reality even mean?

She can’t get enough air into her lungs, her eyes water and it feels like Steve is slipping away, and she wants nothing more than to latch onto him; scream, kick and bite to ensure that nobody is going to hurt him anymore. Steve is her friend, her best friend and he will not be hurt ever again as long as she is able to fight.

But none of that happens, and she doesn’t realize that it’s her who is slipping, tilting to the side, ragged breaths becoming choking gasps as her eyes roll back into her head and her body shakes without her control.

Everything goes blank as her headache reaches a crescendo.

- - -

Feeling herself once again coming back from the black nothingness isn’t awful, but it does confuse her when she can hear Steve frantically trying to get her attention. She groans to see if that will shut him up, a horrific migraine ripping through her skull.

Steve, in fact, did not shut up, instead, he got louder; desperate.

Robin can’t even scowl because every action sends a stab of agony through her brain and suddenly her stomach is doing flips and everything becomes too much, gagging and fighting her own reflex as she pukes. Robin hardly registered the feeling of cold wood pressed against her cheek.

She is on the floor. She’s laying on her side, a puddle of vomit so close to her face the acidic smell was making her nauseous all over again.

What the hell was going on.

She’s not quite sure whether she was dozing off or things had finally started to go quiet, when there is a distinct, loud thud of something smacking the hardwood floor.

Her heartbeat picks up so quickly, it feels like a hummingbird is darting around her chest, and it jumpstarts her back into semi-awareness in the worst possible way.

She barely notices that she’s been lifted up from the recovery position on the floor, coddled in Steve’s arms like a little sister being consoled by her brother after a nightmare.

Which, isn’t that what this is?

Her heart pounds so hard in her chest it feels like the beats are skipping, but she’s not experiencing heart failure so she isn’t sure if she’s dying, she’s not sure of much anymore.

Slowly, feeling comes back to her in disjointed pieces, like the computer she and Steve have to boot up for ten minutes every time they clock into work.

Steve holds her, sounding just below complete panic mode, hand simply resting on her head while he gently, slowly rocks her as though she’s a fussy toddler who needed to be quieted during nap time.

Or, no. No, Steve wants to comfort her, he doesn’t mind if she’s acting like a helpless child, he’s here to help because that’s what friends do. They comfort and console and even slowly rock their friends to get them to see the danger and fear has passed.

Her thoughts are too fast for her physical body and when she tries to speak it comes out rough and slow. “D’ngus?”

The slow, rhythmic movement doesn’t stop but Robin can feel Steve’s chest expand and then fall as he sighs with relief.

“Hey Rob. You’re alright. You kind of scared me, there,“

Steve pauses, going quiet, as he looks down at her and watches her for something she can’t currently grasp. “Are you feeling better?”

How is she feeling? She’s mostly confused, so she tells him as much.

Steve gives a tight, delirious breath of laughter and he’s looking at her like she’s the most terrifying and amazing thing in the world.

“We’re at my place, you had a nightmare, you freaked and then had a seizure. It was scary. But you’re okay. I’m okay, too.”

A seizure? She doesn’t remember that. She remembered bits of the reality-bending night terror she experienced. She remembers being terrified of the darkness swallowing her whole, but now, held close to Steve, Robin can piece things together a bit more clearly.

Steve’s room isn’t so dark now, he must have flipped on his lamp light at some point without Robin’s notice. She can see that his heavy wooden dresser is slightly askew, his bed a rumpled mess of sheets and blankets like he carelessly kicked away the covers in his haste to get to her.

They’re sitting on the mattress Robin had tripped over, the energy from adrenaline and fear seeping away as Robin stays as still as possible, listening to the thump of Steve’s heart, which is strong and comforting, a reminder that Steve really is okay.

She doesn’t feel okay, though.

Robin knows Steve is willing to let her stay, silent and curled in his hold, as long as she needs. But she also knows Steve must have a good amount of questions that he’s holding back. So, as much as she enjoys the tranquil nothingness of safety and calm, Robin collects her thoughts.

“I dreamt, I thought-“ it’s hard to articulate exactly what she wants to say. How could she say that? ‘I heard you get beaten to death’? ‘I saw your body as I was dragged to my own demise’?

How could she ever admit that she’s terrified she’s never going to be able to protect him. That seemed so stupid.

Now who's the dingus, Buckley?

Steve runs a hand up and down her arm, the touch making her want to cringe away and yet cling to Steve all the tighter.

“Breathe, Robin, it’s okay, you’re safe; I’m here.” Steve gently reminds her, sounding so put together and assured in their safety it makes a pathetic sob rise from Robin’s throat as a shiver runs through her.

“It felt so real,” she breathes, like if she says it any louder their sense of safety will break and they’ll be right back in the thralls of danger. Steve just nods in understanding and waits to see if she continues.

“We were with those men. The Russians.” The old general’s face flashes in her mind the clearest and she burrows her face into the crook of Steve’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of his laundry detergent to ground herself.

Steve runs his hand through her hair for a moment before letting it fall back on the middle of her back, a reminder of his presence.

“I pissed them off, spat in one of the guys’ faces, but instead of taking me they took you, dragged you out and I was all alone.” Robin’s voice breaks as she tries to get her breathing under control, blinking back stinging tears and fingers clenching the soft fabric of Steve’s shirt.

Robin keeps her face hidden in Steve’s shoulder, voice dropping to a disbelieving, shell-shocked whisper. “They killed you. I got you killed and you were screaming and I couldn’t do anything and-“

Robin’s fragile composure collapses in a fresh wave of tears, hitching sobs racking her entire body as she wails I’m sorry through every stuttering inhale.

A soft hum has Robin quieting, shivering breath heavy and loud in the otherwise silent room. Steve rubs circles into Robin’s back that stitches her together and makes her fall apart all over again.

She never thought Steve Harrington would be a shoulder to cry on, an angel on Earth. She feels as though she doesn’t deserve this.

“It never would’ve been your fault. The situation was out of our control and there wasn’t much we could’ve done on our own. Besides, I’m still here, we’re both safe and you’re not alone, Rob. We got out, and we’re both here, alright? I’m not mad, but you scared me, Buckley. I hate seeing you scared, I hate seeing you in pain, you don’t ever deserve it.”

The doubts and fear and steadfast self-hatred scream at her and refuse to let go, but still Robin finds a weak smile upturning her lips as a sobbing laugh tumbles out, cramping fingers yanking at his shirt as she ponders just why Steve stays by her side; why he’s chosen her to have for a best friend, how they ended up clutching each other close on a spare mattress on the floor of Steve’s room, even after the screams of I killed you linger in the air like a shadow; a horrific thought verbalized.

Robin knows, as if it’s etched into her bones, that Steve could never hate her, never hurt her, never abandon her for things out of her control.

Steve could get angry; he could swear and punch and tackle, consumed by the heat of the moment, but Steve never was one to hurt, not truly. Anger always seemed awkward on him, like too small shoes that would press and rub against the Achilles tendon and make your toes cramp after awhile.

But Steve would never turn it on someone he cares about. He’d fume in frustration, maybe, but Steve swore he would do everything in his power to help and not harm.

How gently, how carefully he holds her, tells her that she’s right. She may not be deserving of his worry or his everlasting, calming presence, but Steve assures her, time and time again, that he’s not going anywhere.

He would stay right beside her as they traverse through places known intimately only to beings high above and far below.

“I have this constant nightmare about the time we T-boned Billy’s car to save Nancy, John and the kids. The swerve was… so violent, the sound of rubber screeching like the gates of Hell opening,” Steve slightly leans away from Robin, voice quiet and gaze far off, like he’s reliving an experience that never happened but still left it’s scars.

“I’d turn to you and you’d be there, sitting in the passenger seat, your tangled hair falling into your eyes, body slumped and kept up by the seat belt.”

“I’d replay the moment in my head, until I could process the sound of your screams going silent with a snap. Blood would splatter the window. Your head would flop without the muscles to hold it up.” Steve cuts himself off, slowly pulling his hand away from Robin’s back to run his fingers through his sleep-tousled hair.

Before Robin can speak, Steve continues.

Robin listens.

“When we spun, the force would make your head slam into the window and your neck would break under the whiplash. I don’t know why that is the moment that stands out clearest when having nightmares about then, but it tears me apart no matter how many times I have it.”

He relays it to her like it’s something he’d experienced so often that he's had time to mull over every detail and process it as a part of his messed up, broken psyche.

Robin pulls herself from Steve completely, eyebrows furrowed as she studies him. “Steve…”

Taking a breath, Steve looks at Robin with a sheepish smile.

“My point is, you’re not the only one facing nightmares and scary fake-memory shit about back then. We’re all messed up, some more than others, but the important thing is to know we don’t have to keep it all bottled up.”

Steve slightly shifts to take Robin by the shoulders, keeping her gaze with a soft look. “You can talk to me whenever you need someone to lean on; Joyce would welcome you with open arms, even emotionally constipated Hopper is good for advice when you get him to open up.”

Robin drops her gaze, not being able to handle looking Steve in the eye while she works out what Steve is telling her.

“You’ve… talked to them? About… all that?”

“Yeah. It’s… difficult, I’ll be honest, but it’s helped to know I don’t have to shoulder it alone. You don’t have to, either.”

Robin can’t help but give a mirthless breath of a laugh and shake off Steve’s touch. “Since when did you become an all-knowing therapist?”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say, Rob. I’m just saying what we’ve been through is really fucking terrifying and isolating, but you shouldn’t have to feel like you have to keep this from me; from any of us.”

The energy drains out of Robin with a choked sigh, as she slumps against Steve and places her forehead to his shoulder with a halfhearted shrug.

“Well, it’s not like we can ever tell anyone outside of our traumatized little band.”

Steve’s fingers quickly find their way back to her messy hair, as he gives a shrug back in return.

“No, maybe not, but I don’t think anyone else would ever really get it, anyways. Out of everyone I could’ve lived through these experiences with, I’m glad it was you. That way I know that no matter what’s going to happen, we’ll have each other, and we’ll have our friends to lean on and share this burden with.”

Robin smiles, slowly shaking her head, the texture of Steve’s shirt making her nose itch.

She takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “No, I guess not. You know what, Harrington? Maybe you’re not much of a dingus after all.”

Steve’s shoulders lightly bounce as he laughs. “Really? Wow, maybe we should have heart-to-heart conversations during the night more often.”

“Don’t push it, Dingus.”

“Okay.”

Even if they aren’t related by blood, by god does it seem as though they’re undoubtedly bound together by something untouchable by mankind, disconnected and imperceptible to everyone except for them and only them.

It’s woven securely in the milky twilight skies of the universe’s history, where they shall stay, truly and purely, soulmates.

As long as the stars burn and blaze, shining on to silently exist in the presence of others, basking them in light like unseen cosmic Gods, they will never cease to be, destined only to flick out when the universe beckons them to follow into the unknown night of nothing and witness the end of everything.

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This work belongs to Jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing, if you have read or come across this outside of this Tumblr account or AO3 account that means it was stolen and reposted without my knowledge or consent. Please do not support apps or websites that repost without permission and/or illegally profit off of other people's work. ♡

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[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

Random idea on Tim’s mindset after the murder of Alex conjured up by myself and @blood-covered-rabbit. Enjoy!

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“It’s all Alex’s fault! Him and whatever that is that follows him around!” - Tim, Entry #59

So, the idea of Tim waking up in the stairwell covered in Alex’s blood and his reaction is just: “Okay, what the fuck.” He snatches up the camera and fumbles his way out of Benedict Hall to his car, driving home in a numb shock.

Tim would also likely be a little bit messed up because, I mean, he very nearly overdosed on his medication, so obviously he’s not exactly in tip-top shape at the moment.

Once he manages to make it back to his place, he beelines for the shower, stripping from his blood-soaked clothes that stick to his sweaty skin.

As he stands there, scrubbing off the blood, desperately trying to make sense of what had happened right before he had passed out, it finally clicks and the realization crushes him. Tim shakes, breaking down at the realization of what he had done. He had committed murder.

He had killed Alex; Tim had taken another person's life, even if it had been in self-defense.

So much bloodshed, so much death has followed him in his life. Did any of them truly deserve to die? Did they deserve to die when he was the one with the disease? He’d dragged them into living Hell, and it had cost them their lives.

It was all his fault.

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This work belongs to Jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing, if you have read or come across this outside of this Tumblr account that means it was stolen and reposted without my knowledge or consent. Please do not support apps or websites that repost without permission and/or illegally profit off of other people's work. ♡

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[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

Jay and Tim joke around with each other by complaining about how bland the food is whenever they’re staying at less-than-stellar motels.

“I swear I’ve eaten cardboard taster than this tasteless thing.“

“I’m pretty sure I undercooked my waffle-“

(“How ... did you manage that? The machine times it.” “Ask my sadly undercooked waffle-“)

“Hand me the syrup, it’s the only thing that can save us-“

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・

This work belongs to Jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing, if you have read or come across this outside of this Tumblr account that means it was stolen and reposted without my knowledge or consent. Please do not support apps or websites that repost without permission and/or illegally profit off of other people's work. ♡

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[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

Not a story, just a random idea brainstormed by @blood-covered-rabbit and I about a year ago.

Disclaimer: this is based on my personal headcanon that Alex and Jay have different types of ADHD (Alex's hyperactivity and Jay's Inattentive)

This is in no way meant to be taken as canon, just a fun little drabble! Enjoy!

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Jay and Alex stim and have chewelry

Jay absentmindedly bites a lot (not in a bad way, the guy just can't stop chewing things he has in his hand [pencils, pens, wires for headphones, the straps on cameras, etc.]) and since Brian had noticed Jay’s pencils always having bite marks or how Alex would always mess with something in his mouth, Brian decided to get them some chewelry as a Christmas gift.

Both of them use it as a way to focus, but it's also something that just kind of... happens, and they don't even realize it. They just kind of zone out and suddenly now they're chewing away at a broken piece of a mechanical pencil they have.

Plastic cups and utensils are also not safe. They always chew on them by accident and break the cup, sometimes even while there is still some liquid in said cup-

Jay keeps his necklace even years down the road, but eventually, it gets forgotten in the depths of suitcases, and motel drawers during all the craziness of Jay’s situation.

Almost every time he’s trying to crack one of TTA’s codes, he absentmindedly chews on something; a pencil, a pen, his own shirt collar even.

Tim mostly just keeps to himself, but by the fifth time Jay ends up spitting out ink, a broken pen within his hand, quickly dying it blue, Tim sighs and is like: “Where’s- where’s that chew necklace thing of yours? Do you still have it? At this point, you’re going to accidentally poison yourself. And the motel will stop allowing us replacement pens.”

They then rummaged around the room for a solid twenty minutes before being able to find it, snugged away in one of Jay’s older suitcases.

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This work belongs to Jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing, if you have read or come across this outside of this Tumblr account that means it was stolen and reposted without my knowledge or consent. Please do not support apps or websites that repost without permission and/or illegally profit off of other people's work. ♡

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・

[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

“These miracles flooding me won’t ever make it leave, because I can still hear your voice calling out to me.”

Surprise! It’s not a Marble Hornets story this time, but FNAF Security Breach!

I was mostly inspired by that line pretty early on in the game that Gregory says, for Freddy to be careful and not “twist him into a meat pretzel” while Gregory is in his tummy hatch. Haha, well …

What if, instead of Freddy attacking Gregory if he looses power- he just shuts down for a brief moment, and until he gets charged Freddy goes on total shutdown mode- I imagine Freddy is consciously keeping the wires and springs and metal bars in his tummy hatch out of Gregory’s way whenever he’s inside- so when Freddy shuts down …

Not gonna lie, I honestly forgot I wrote this months ago, lol. Enjoy the angst!

(Warning: mentions of blood and child death)

Gregory knows they won’t be able to make it to a recharge station fast enough. If they get left out in the open like this … even worse, if he got stuck in Freddy’s stomach hatch? The security lady might find them, but then what?

And if she didn’t first … one of the other animatronics would …

Freddy is idly going on about their current predicament, but Gregory only feels a sickening rush of primal panic seize him as he tries to desperately grasp Freddy’s attention to let him out, feeling more than a little claustrophobic.

Freddy’s voice drowns out as Gregory stares at his watch, the ‘low power’ bar slowly blinking a visceral, damning red. All logic leaves him and Gregory skips explaining, now pounding on Freddy’s hatch with all of his feeble strength to be let out. Freddy has stopped moving, sounding concerned and calling his name.

A tiny voice in the back of Gregory’s mind tries to calm him; Freddy certainly hears him and was seconds away from opening the hatch so he could tumble out.

The bright red bar slowly blinks. The sound of a mechanical ‘pop’ resonates and all of the sounds Gregory normally hears while harboring away in the small hatch die out, Gregory’s pounding heartbeat swallowed by his shrieking screams. “FREDDY! DON’T SHUT DOWN! DON’T SHUT DOWN! DON’T SHUT DOW-“

. . .

When did Freddy get back into his room? He was in the lobby near the restrooms just moments ago with Gregory leading the way, wasn’t he? Yes. That’s right.

Maybe Gregory had left him to go venturing on his own? That certainly isn’t a good thing, even less so like something Gregory would do, but still, he was just a kid.

Freddy quickly uses his thermal imaging to scan his room for any sign of the child (all of the animatronics, performers or not, have a thermal imaging feature for times where a child could possibly be running a high fever or where a lost child needed to be found- such as this very instance.)

No indicating sign of Gregory being in the room. Freddy would need to go find him-

Freddy’s eyes sweep over the mirror, just for a moment, but what he sees makes him stop in an instant.

His stomach is covered in a deep crimson, dripping and slowly pooling onto the carpet beneath him.

His stomach hatch. Oh no Oh no Oh no.

Without processing, Freddy presses a hand to his stomach hatch and listens in a detached shock how the sounds of the hatch opening aren’t of whirling knobs, but of a horrific squelch and the deafening crunch of bone.

A lifeless thud and Freddy is kneeling down to scoop an unmoving, bloody, tiny body into his arms.

Gregory’s face is one of panic, unseeing and lifeless yet fearful all the same. The right side of his head is … his remaining eye blown wide, tear streaks indistinguishable from the blood.

Left foot snapped the wrong way, his small hand a crushed mess.

Gregory is completely limp and far too heavy in Freddy’s hold.

This never was supposed to happen.

Not to his Superstar.

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・

This work belongs to Jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing, if you have read or come across this outside of this Tumblr account that means it was stolen and reposted without my knowledge or consent. Please do not support apps or websites that repost without permission and/or illegally profit off of other people's work. ♡

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・

[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

“My morning sun is the drug that brings me near to the childhood I lost, replaced by fear.”

So. This one is kind of a “next generation” story, following a brother and sister who are the children of Tim. Unfortunately for the Wright family, The Operator has decided to target Tim’s youngest child, Toby. Now it’s up to Tim to protect his family and keep his children safe. If only they weren’t so keen on running into the nearby woods.

Disclaimer: Toby Wright is not Toby Rodgers, there is no connection to the Creepypasta universe or Ticci Toby’s story, as Marble Hornets is a stand-alone ARG not connected to Creepypasta or other Slenderverse ARGs. I just like the name.

With all of that said, Enjoy!

Even as Toby heaves for breath, head spinning from lack of oxygen, cold fear envelopes him when he glances at the all-too-quickly setting sun. The dark, hopeless night only spells his doom. He was going to die.

No, the trees were getting thinner, he could just start to make out distant shapes beyond the stretch of nature, he would surely be found soon.

"MAMA! PAPA! EL! HELP, HELP ME!"

A thick branch slices at his arm and snags on his jacket sleeve. He keeps running. He was almost home. Toby could see the outlines clearer now, could recognize the surroundings better than before and, most importantly, he could hear the sound of his family calling out his name.

His arm stings.

His legs feel as though they were going to buckle.

He screams out just as loud, hoping with all his might his family would find him.

Breaking the treeline, Toby makes it a few more feet on the cold, dew ridden grass before he finally collapses. Gasping and sobbing for breath, Toby grips at his injured arm and focuses on the mind-numbing pain coming from it. Crimson seeps out from underneath the torn sleeve and makes splotches of the dark crimson stain his trembling fingers, dripping onto the grass.

Toby is exhausted, yet his instincts continue to scream at him to keep running, the ringing had faded, but he could still hear it, distantly. Primal instinct telling him he was still being watched; he was still in danger.

Heaving himself off of the wet grass with a pained grunt, Toby glances at the treeline behind him before letting out a strangled gasp. That thing was already there. Standing by the treeline, featureless face watching him and burning into his brain. His very soul.

With a jolt, Toby turns away and bolts as quickly as he can, heart hammering in his chest as the same cold fear consumes him.

Picking up speed, Toby stares back at the figure as he continues the run towards his home, head pounding and the ringing — or was that static — now deafening.

A terrified yelp leaves his mouth as he rams into something and feels himself violently yanked forward with a painful grip on his arm. With a scream, he struggles against the hold, pushing and scratching feverishly, yelling out words he couldn't hear beyond the ringing.

"--oby! Toby, it's okay! Ma and Pa are on their way!" A voice catches his attention as he continues to struggle, turning his head with wide eyes as he stares at his sister, worry and confusion clear on her face.

"Lena- '' Toby croakes in reply, legs buckling underneath him as he collapses into his sister's arms, lungs burning and body shaking, beginning to hyperventilate as he cries into Elena's shoulder. Carefully, Elena runs her fingers through his matted hair in an attempt to sooth her brother.

Heavy sobs wrack his body as every instinct continues to warn him to keep running, even if he felt safe in his sister's arms, he needed to keep running. Hide. Get away from that monster.

But his weakened body won’t respond and his burning lungs heave with his wails. His teeth chatter, making it a struggle to form words in-between sobs. "L-Lena...w...we..we..."

His chest burns like a raging fire.

"Elena! Do you have Toby?!" An approaching voice yells out in worry. It was Pa, running faster than Elena had ever seen, he expression haunted. Her mother wasn't far behind, looking just as worried sick.

"Yeah, I found him! He's breathing real hard, though, and his arm won't stop bleeding!” Elena responds as the man finally reaches the two siblings, instantly sinking down beside them to check over Elena and then Toby, who continues heavily gasping for breath, eyes shut tight, held close to his sister.

With a soft reassurance, Tim rests a hand on Elena's shoulder before scooping Toby up into his arms. The whimpering boy curls into his strong hold, gripping at his shirt with white knuckles.

"Toby, where did you go? We were all so worried, you can't run off like that, especially in these woods. It’s too easy to get lost, sweetheart." A woman's voice softly says, and Toby relaxes the tiniest bit, still shaking violently as adrenaline courses through his body.

"Let's get inside, I don't want any of us out here. Elena, follow your mother, we'll be right behind you." Tim says, quickly sweeping his eyes over the wood's entrance, looking for … anything. An animal, a hunter. He just prays he wouldn't see that nightmare-ish creature. It hasn't tormented him in years, if it decided to start targeting his family, he doesn't know what he'd do.

'Keep them safe’. The thought races through his mind, and Tim takes a deep breath before quickly turning around and beginning to walk towards his home, muttering soft nothings to the shaking boy he holds close.

"Bud, can you please tell me why you went to the woods? You know it's better if you don't go into them, right? It keeps you safe." Tim quietly asks a few moments after walking, the near silence being broken by the sound of noisy cicadas, crows and other birds inhabiting the woods. Tim notices Toby merely pressing closer, clearly unnerved by something.

"I … saw a thing, Papa. It … forced me to go." Toby's quiet whisper answers, sounding small and terrified. Tim's heart skips a beat in response.

"A thing? What kind of thing?" Tim prompts, trying to keep his voice from sounding too frantic, sparing a glance once more at the treeline and immediately picking up his pace.

Toby’s voice is just as quiet, sounding as though he were on the edge of tears. “It looked like … a man … but weird. Tall, like the trees, a-and he wore a suit. He … had no face and had really, really pale skin, kinda like-”

“Snow?” Tim quietly finishes, looking straight ahead with a troubled look on his face, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

Slowly, Toby lifts his head and looks at his father, careful to not glance at the trees. Confused, Toby raises an eyebrow. "Have you … seen it before, Papa?"

"Yes. It's followed me for a long time." Tim starts, giving Toby a soft look as he gently kisses his forehead, moving to open the gate with a free hand and nudge of his elbow. Toby rests his head against Tim's neck, the shirt collar soft against his cheek.

"I've hoped it wouldn't return, but I promise you, Toby, I'll protect you and your sister for as long as I live, no matter what."

With a tired nod, Toby’s eyelids suddenly grow heavy. He sniffles, feeling his nose start to run.

Abruptly, Tim stops and carefully shifts him, his father looking at him with wide eyes … a wild look of fear. “Toby?” Toby furrows his brows for a moment before his eyelids start to droop once more, dark spots dancing and clouding his vision.

Distantly, Toby hears his father say his name before he slips into the darkness completely.

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・

This work belongs to Jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing, if you have read or come across this outside of this Tumblr account that means it was stolen and reposted without my knowledge or consent. Please do not support apps or websites that repost without permission and/or illegally profit off of other people's work. ♡

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[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

“Breathe with me, you’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

As Marble Hornets goes on, we know for a fact that Jay’s health (mostly mental, but definitely also physical-) gets worse. How his memory lapses more and more, and how (by Tim’s say, I think-) after the events of entry #72, Jay was totally out of commission for almost a full week.

Coming out of full stupor like that is bound to leave someone confused. Last thing Jay knew, he and Tim were at Alex’s old house to investigate and then suddenly that thing showed up and they booked it out of there, now Tim is saying it’s almost a week later and he’s been in and out of it for days.

I feel, after that whole thing, Jay’s memory gets even worse as his own body and mind start to fail on him, not being able to handle the influence of The Operator and how hectic his life has become.

One night, a little while after Entry #72, Jay and Tim are simply resting in their shared motel room, when Jay tiredly looks up from his laptop, a perplexed, confused look on his face as he glances at Tim from across the room.

“Hey, Tim, do you... remember your family? Remember what they were like?”

Tim moves his arm from over his eyes, sitting up with a small stretch, mildly confused. “Uh, not really, no. The hospital I stayed at, I was pretty young when I was placed there. Most of the time it was just my mom and I; I don’t really remember my dad. Don’t think he was in the picture, to be honest. I do remember people saying I look just like my mom, though, that she’s where I got my looks. I remember she never smiled much, if that’s anything.”

Tim shakes himself out of blurry memories of childhood and looks over at Jay, still confused about the sudden question. Was he planning something? That sly birdie.

Jay’s eyes fall back to the laptop screen for a long moment, before Jay looks up again, body ridged like he’s trying hard to recall something, but can’t and is two beats away from complete panic.

I... can’t remember my parents. I- I don’t remember what they sound like. What they look like. I don’t- I don’t remember them. I’m trying, but I just... can’t. God, I- Tim, I can’t remember them, I don’t even know if they’re still alive, or if I have siblings. Do they- think I’m dead? How long has it been since I’ve talked to them- Oh god, oh my god-“

Well, this was unexpected. Tim moves swiftly from his bed and carefully makes his way to Jay, hunched over his laptop and looking closer to crying by the second.

Squatting down, Tim carefully tries to bring Jay out of his rising panic. A tiny, bitterly gleeful thought passes in his mind as he stares at the cowering man sitting in the bed in front of him. ‘Now he knows how you felt; let him suffer alone.’ Tim squashes the thought down, keeping his voice gentle and calm.

“Jay, hey, can you look at me? Just for a few minutes, okay?” Jay uncovers his face from his hands and looks at Tim, eyes glassy and bloodshot with unshed tears. “Good, good. Can you tell me where we are right now? Your full name, who I am? Just take it slow, alright?”

Jay pauses for a long moment, simply staring at Tim with a heartbroken expression, and Tim almost thinks Jay won’t respond, before Jay takes in a breath and glances at the dingy little room they’re in for a moment before answering, vaguely sounding unsure. “A motel room in Tuscaloosa, Alabama.” A comforting hand gently resting on his knee makes Jay glance back at Tim, who is nodding slowly, a soft look on his face. “Your name?”

Jay hunches into a ball even more, bringing a hand up to wipe away tears in mild embarrassment. Pausing, he closes his eyes, thinking. “... James ...James Wagner Merrick”.

Tim gives a small smile, even if Jay can’t see it, keeping his voice soft. “Good, that’s good. What’s my name?”

Jay moves his hand to stare at Tim for a few quiet moments, eyebrows scrunched together in focus, before Jay’s hand goes to rub at his tired face again, leaning forward with a tired sigh as a few tears roll down his pale cheeks.

“Tim...” Jay stutters for a moment, eyes screwed closed as he wipes at his tears.

“Timothy Wright. Right?” The last question is quiet, almost desperate as Jay’s shuddering breaths turn into a strong sobbing gasp. Tim carefully rubs his thumb on Jay’s knee, hoping to be comforting.

“Yeah, you’re right, bud, you’re right. Good job.” When Jay doesn’t respond and the shaking gets steadily worse, Tim moves to sit by Jay and awkwardly doesn’t know what to do. “Jay?”

Jay turns to him, tears streaming down his face with bloodshot eyes, looking like a depressed, kicked puppy.

“I don’t want to forget. I really don’t want to forget.”

Tim knows that feeling all too well.

Awkwardly, Tim moves his arms in an invitation for a hug, honestly surprised when Jay leans forward, wrapping his arms around Tim gently, melting into the kind embrace.

As if on autopilot, Tim’s hand starts gently carding through Jay’s short hair, carefully tugging at small tangles. “You won’t forget, you have me; we have each other, we’ll be okay.”

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・

This work belongs to Jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing, if you have read or come across this outside of this Tumblr account that means it was stolen and reposted without my knowledge or consent. Please do not support apps or websites that repost without permission and/or illegally profit off of other people's work. ♡

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[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

Old draft from 2020. Enjoy!

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“Time is dead and meaningless, go back to bed”

Scratchy black and white footage that has been horribly corrupted. White text pops up onto the screen in all caps. ‘Look at you’. Yeah, look at him; exhausted and fruitlessly combing through hours of stupid grainy footage because his paranoia had finally gotten it’s cold death grip on him. Look at him go.

A still image of a brain, with an arrow pointing at the temporal lobe. In white text it reads: 'You are who you are'.

Fading and flickering footage of people, all warped and melting together as the footage staggers on. 'You are you.' The video flicks through individual people. Nobody Jay recognizes. His head throbs with a sharp ache, eyes burning.

'But who are you?'

The video goes on, but soon it all begins to blend together as homogenous grays and blacks in Jay’s vision as his eyes unfocus, concentration drifting as he nods off.

Jay’s body slumps to the side as his eyes close, grip slacking on the laptop, causing the bright screen to tip towards the wall above him, and away from his tired face.

. . .

Switching the camera off, Hoodie sneaks towards the window and peaks through, silently scanning the mostly barren room, eyes falling upon a figure slumped in the bed. Jay’s chest raises and falls with every steady breath, his too-bright-laptop screen a flickering gray and white beam of light against the painted concrete titles of his room.

Carefully sliding the window open and moving the blinds, Hoodie steps into the small room and lets out a silent huff as he takes in the area around him.

Walking over to the sleeping form, Hoodie glances at the screen, seeing one of his own videos looping, volume low.

Skillfully, Hoodie eases the heated laptop from Jay’s slack hold and sets it on the nearby nightstand, plugging it in before shutting it off and turning back to the sleeping form.

With a shake of his head, Hoodie gently tugs at the blankets around Jay and over the man's body, glancing around for something to write on.

Bingo.

Mindful to be silent, Hoodie makes his way towards a drawer and carefully slides it open, finding a stack of sticky notes and a cup of pens and pencils.

Grabbing a yellow sticky note and pencil, Hoodie slides the drawer closed and walks back over to Jay, watching his sleeping form for a moment before sticking the note on the nightstand and quickly scribbling on the note. Standing up, Hoodie glances at Jay one last time before slipping through the window and into the night.

. . .

A loud, rhythmic beeping wakes Jay up with a start, heart pounding as his body tenses.

Jay relaxes a moment later, realizing it was his alarm. Giving a tired glance at the numbers, he clicks at the buttons and stops the beeping.

"11:00 AM"

What? When had his alarm been tampered with?

heart leaping into his throat, Jay's mind races as he thinks of how his alarm could have been changed without his notice. Maybe he just set the alarm for the wrong time. Maybe .... he hoped.

With a groan, Jay stretches and regretfully sits up, untangling from the warm blankets before yet another moment of panic hits him. Where was his laptop?? He was sure he had accidently fallen asleep holding it--

With a sigh, Jay scans his room and sees his laptop resting on the nearby nightstand, closed and charging.

Had … had one of those masked people broken into his room last night? The thought alone makes his hair stand on end. But a hint of confusion also stirs.

Why hadn't he been attacked? Nothing seemed to be missing (not that there was much of his that was of value, anyways) and Jay notes his camera to still be in its correct spot, red light blinking slowly; untouched and still recording.

Stretching as he stands, Jay huffs and walks over to his laptop, moving to open it up, before something next to the laptop catches his attention.

A yellow sticky note simply reading:

"seil l eH. Backwards thinking.

-H.M."

Jay blinks. What in the-

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・

This work belongs to Jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing, if you have read or come across this outside of this Tumblr account that means it was stolen and reposted without my knowledge or consent. Please do not support apps or websites that repost without permission and/or illegally profit off of other people's work. ♡

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[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

The drive to the hospital as Jay bleeds out in Tim’s car

(Quick note, this little drabble was inspired by my friend @blood-covered-rabbit , so you can thank him for this, honestly xD)

Stumbling out of Benedict Hall and all but staggering away from the building, Tim soon notices a conspicuous path of crimson drops that registers in his shock-numbed mind as blood a moment later.

Against better judgement, probably thanks to the adrenaline and shock wrapped heavily over his mind, Tim follows the trail of blood that gets bigger and more puddle-like the closer he gets to the victim of said injury.

That’s how Tim finds Jay leaning against a tree, chest heaving but eyes closed, face too pale and sickly; bloodied hands shaking as they both press painfully hard against the wound on his stomach … Jay got hurt? Why is he all the way out here? Did Alex do this?

Getting Jay to the hospital is the only thought that actually registers in Tim’s mind.

At some point they fall into an uneasy silence, with Tim occasionally reaching over to reassuringly rub at Jay’s shoulder or knee, with silent pleas to whatever Gods might be listening for Jay to make it out of this aliv- Okay; Jay would be okay. They’d burst into the hospital, nurses and doctors would flock over, whisk Jay away to certain safety … and Tim would be there to pick up the pieces.

A groan, a choke of sharp pain and Tim suddenly finds Jay desperately tugging at his shirt sleeve, a frantic plea to make the pain stop. “Tim, I can’t…” another pained groan and a petrified whimper has Tim pressing down on the car’s gas pedal just a little more, knuckles white and fingers buzzing with lack of circulation from gripping the steering wheel so tight. Hadn’t he already, Tim would’ve murdered Alex all over again. Oh … right. Alex was dead. Tim had murdered him. Alex’s blood was still horrifically splattered all over him.

Right.

He had done that; he had killed Alex.

“It,” a shuddering breath and Tim’s focus is snapped back to the present, glancing to the side enough to watch Jay slump restlessly into his chair, uncontrollably fidgeting in pain, his eyes screwing shut to hide the tears that threatened to fall. “It hurts to breathe, everything hurts. It hurts, Tim. Shit, make it stop.”

A quiet, controlled exhale and Tim keeps his eyes glued to the road ahead, nodding softly. “I know, Jaybird, just hang on, alright? just a little longer, you’re gonna be fine.”

“Why’s’it so cold?…”

In the late Alabama summertime, it was near eighty-seven degrees, which makes Tim steal a full glance towards Jay, just to see what he meant.

Jay’s skin is so pale it’s almost an off shade of gray, constantly fluttering eyes looking so void of life it freezes the blood in Tim’s veins. From the torso down, Jay’s green shirt and a good portion of his jeans are drenched in blood, like someone had accidentally tipped over a full gallon of red punch all over Jay’s front. It trickled beneath him and dripped off the car seat, fabric and leather no doubt already permanently stained. Stained with Jay’s blood.

Jay was rapidly bleeding out all over Tim’s car seat as he raced to the hospital. This would be a good story for his sleep paralysis demon, for sure.

Tim already knows this will forever haunt him, asleep or awake.

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・

This work belongs to Jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing, if you have read or come across this outside of this Tumblr account that means it was stolen and reposted without my knowledge or consent. Please do not support apps or websites that repost without permission and/or illegally profit off of other people's work. ♡

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[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

“You put the knife right in my back and killed any history we had. Now it’s war.”

Even with his sweater, Brian’s back is cold with sweat from his body pressing firmly against the wall, struggling to calm his racing heart and suck in enough breath to take a moment and think.

After everything he did, he should’ve expected things to turn out this way; should’ve seen it coming. It’s not like he didn’t deserve it. Honestly, he didn’t blame Tim, how could he?

And yet, he had foolishly held onto the hope that Tim wouldn’t go behind his back and betray him like this. It stung, like the vicious sting of an angry hornet.

“Where are you?” Tim’s voice is heavy with an emotion Brian can’t quite place, slightly muffled and in the nearby distance; likely coming from the other room.

“You’ve hid for long enough, Bri, aren’t you tired of it?”

He is. Brian’s muscles ache from staying crouched in the same position, skillfully hiding out of sight while maneuvering around the house. If it meant Tim wouldn’t find him, he’d never move again.

He never should’ve expected the peace to last. It was only a matter of time. He should’ve known. After all, he was to blame in the first place.

Brian hears Tim’s slow, stalking footsteps creep by and the bathroom door open with a click of the doorknob. Tim is standing just across from Brian’s hiding spot. Brian’s mouth goes dry as he listens for … anything.

After a moment, Brian hears Tim give a soft sigh full of twisted disappointment and walk away, back down the other side of the hall. Something about that one sound rang through Brian’s head like church bells; it was as though Tim was sad he hadn’t yet caught his prey.

With primal fear settling into his bones and tugging at his nervous system, Brian glances around at the area he had taken refuge in.

The room was dark and mostly bare, with him squeezed into a dusty, dank corner between the old washing and drying machines. He needed to stay calm and focus on the task at hand: getting out of there in one piece.

Brian knows it was now more than just the danger of being caught. His life was on the line. Tim would never show him mercy; Brian doesn’t deserve mercy.

If he somehow got out of Tim’s range, maybe he could gun it to the front door and escape. Maybe …

Stricken with an idea, Brian ever so slightly shifts on his feet and grips the phone within his pocket. Careful to keep it out of Tim’s line of sight, he holds it up and watches with bated breath as Tim meticulously prowls around the old house, his weapon of choice silently taunting Brian, laughing at him; he could practically hear it: ‘Tim’s out for your blood, you traitor. What will you do now? What’s your move?’

Brian knows, even now, that he will not go down without a fight. He might not deserve redemption, but he does not deserve a meaningless death.

For a few moments more, Brian watches Tim through the view of his phone’s reflection and mentally maps out possible escape routes.

If Tim kept his back turned, perhaps Brian could slip from his current hiding spot into the nearby bathroom or the hallway just three feet further that leads to the front door. Both had risks, of course, because nothing in Brian’s life had ever been easy-coming.

Moving to the bathroom would mean backing himself into a corner, where Tim was sure to catch him within seconds. No windows, small and enclosed, one way entrance and exit. There was a lock but Tim knows where the key is. The bathroom had no escape. Brian wouldn’t be able to hide there, not forever.

The hallway leading to the front door is closer to Tim, who is currently only around ten feet away; if Brian made a run for it, he’d have maybe six seconds or less to make it into the hallway and to the door. Did Tim lock it? If he did then Brian would likely only have about three seconds more to unlock the door and swing it open. Nine seconds is too long; it’s nothing more than a death sentence.

Tim is fast, strong and powerful. Tim would catch him before he could ever open the door and make a run for it. Brian would need seconds he doesn’t have. He can’t run.

He could continue waiting, but his muscles and joints are already burning and starting to cramp. If Tim found him now he wouldn’t be fast enough to dodge the line of fire. Sooner or later, he would be found.

He can’t hide.

He can’t run.

He can’t wait.

That only leaves one option.

A glance into the reflection of his phone lets Brian see Tim pause in his prowling. He turns with an unreadable expression, weapon raised and ready to fire at any time.

Something about this rings familiar bells in his head, but he can’t recall what that is. All Brian knows is that it screams ‘danger’.

It was now or never.

Slowly unfurling from his crouched position, Brian steals one last glance towards Tim and books it, ignoring how his muscles scream in protest.

His pounding footsteps quickly catch Tim’s attention, who turns to look right at him with wide eyes.

Heart fluttering in his chest, body aching, Brian lets out a small yelp when a harsh thud of impact happens right by his head just milliseconds after he moves across the hall. He tries his best to block out the mental image of his brain matter splattered on the wall.

Tim is going to kill him.

Skittering to a stop and desperately panting for breath, Brian ducks into a side room and listens as Tim stops at the entrance of the hallway.

Tim had blocked off Brian’s path to the rest of the house. Now he was waiting. Tim knew he had Brian pinned.

If Brian took one step outside of the room, it was over. But he had no other options.

“Come on out, it’s over. There’s nowhere to go, Bri.” Tim’s voice is clear and stern. The hunter was tired of chasing its prey. Now it was time for the execution.

Well, this wouldn’t be the first time he faced his personal Grim Reaper in the face.

Sealing his fate, Brian carefully inches open the door, silently cringing at every slow creak the door makes.

Taking a shakey breath, Brian takes a step and runs.

Tim takes the shot with no hesitation, stopping Brian right in his tracks as he stumbles back in shock, slamming hard against the front door and sliding down with a groan of pain.

Brian coughs, spitting the flour out of his mouth as he wipes at his face, unable to stop the small chuckle from escaping him. “That was unfair, Wright! You backed me into a corner!”

Tim gives a snort in response, wiping his flour-covered hands on the back of his shirt and moves forward to help his friend off of the ground. “You backed yourself into a corner at least twice, that’s on you. Hoodie never gets caught.”

Brian glances up at Tim, trying his best attempt at a sour scowl, his resolve cracking as he grins. “Not getting caught in the crossfire is kinda his thing, that’s different and you know it.”

Rolling his eyes with a lightheart huff Tim helps Brian to his feet, recoiling seconds later when Brian leans forward and playfully ruffles Tim’s hair with both hands, effectively coating his hair in the messy flour.

“That’s for making me crouch uncomfortably between the washer and dryer for ten minutes!”

Tim gently pushes Brian away, cringing as he tries shaking out his hair. “That was your idea, I never said anything about you having to hide out in the laundry room”

Brian playfully gawks, lightly shoving Tim. “You came after me with fistfuls of flour! What was I supposed to do? Not run for cover?”

Tim gives a smile and raises his hands in surrender. “You’re the one who suggested we make pancakes at, what, six in the morning. I had my right.”

Brian gives a playful huff and rolls his eyes, slinging a flour-covered arm around his shorter friend. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, let’s get back to the pancakes now, hm?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Tim nods, already making his way towards the kitchen. Brian bursts into laughter at the sight of Tim covered head-to-toe in flour. So much for that tense battle, they were both a kitchen-made mess.

Hurrying to catch up to Tim, Brian lightly elbows Tim with a bright smile. “Can we split the batter into half banana and half chocolate chips?”

Giving a small smile, Tim grabs the mixing bowl and spoon. “Whatever you want, Bri.”

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・

This work belongs to Jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing, if you have read or come across this outside of this Tumblr account that means it was stolen and reposted without my knowledge or consent. Please do not support apps or websites that repost without permission and/or illegally profit off of other people's work. ♡

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・

[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

Greetings, welcome to my side blog where I’ll post all of my stories! Most, if not all, will just be one shots.

I write for a range of fandoms, but currently I’m most interested in Marble Hornets, so you’ll see a lot of that for a while.

Marble Hornets based stories are tagged #Marble Hornets drabbles

You can also find me on my main and Marble Hornets AU blog, where I post some things sometimes.

My main is @jay-is-not-alwright

My Marble Hornets AU blog is @hiraeth-au

You can now find me on A03 at Jay_isn’t_Alwright_at_writing

Hope you enjoy your stay!

I will not write anything NSFW/18+ as I am uncomfortable with that. Please don’t interact with me if that’s what you’re looking for here, thank you.

- Jay

[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

Dear…

Dear Jay Merrick,

I miss you and I'm sorry.

I wish things had been different. In another time, I'm sure they had been. Do you wish that too?

I hope you can hear me. I cling to hope because it's all I have now. Nothing else … really matters anymore. It's over, but I'll never forget.

I'll never forget how Jessica and I are the only ones left.

Hope is a shot in the dark, though, because … I don't even know where you are.

I just hope it's not too far.

It's been months since I've last heard your voice, and even though I've almost forgotten what you sound like, I don't think I want to hear you. Not with the lingering pain that always follows.

But I'll never forget your small smiles, or your raspy lullabies that helped keep the darkness of demons at bay. It helped me too, you know.

I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't forgive me, either.

I still have your camera, your keys and your phone. I hope you don't mind. I just … wanted to feel at home.

I sometimes think I hear you or see you when I'm walking the streets. It hurts. You never seem to leave me alone.

I miss you.

I've kept your things stacked in the attic. I couldn’t leave them to rot in a dumpster. They're your things, your tiny treasures, exerts and pathetic memorials of your sad life. I almost wish I had your dorky hat to hold close, just to have that feeling that I'm not alone. I don't want to be alone again.

You might think your searches for unforgiving answers meant nothing in the end, but I hope you know it all mattered. You deserved better than the hand you were dealt.

I hope you know I'm not mad.

I miss you.

Even though you're not here, you're never really out of sight. Your presence still lingers, festering in the birdsong of Blue Jays, in the purrs of a kitten wandering the sidewalks, in the warm smoke from a late-night cigarette, in the thin sheets of a shared motel bed.

The Earth never forgets. You walked its roads, faced its storms, escaped a doomed fate more than once. You're just a foolish warrior who went unknowingly into the fields of a battleground, facing a corrupted life head on without a single doubt.

I'm sorry.

I hope you know I'll never forget.

Jay Merrick, I miss you.

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・

This work belongs to Jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing, if you have read or come across this outside of this Tumblr account that means it was stolen and reposted without my knowledge or consent. Please do not support apps or websites that repost without permission and/or illegally profit off of other people's work. ♡

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[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

In where Skully is a mentally manipulative prick and they sure know it

Idea: what if Skully could only communicate with things ToTheArk has said before in videos?

At first after meeting each other, Skully doesn't talk; they stay silent and slightly unnerving. Deep in his bones, a gut instinct keeps Tim from completely lowering his guard. Uneasy and tense.

Then, one day, when the two are simply sitting together, something changes. Tim isn’t really enjoying Skully's company. (He's a tired man who thought he was done with all of this madness. Now he's right back where he started.)

Skully, after a tense moment, turns to face Tim, looking as though they were trying to piece together a tricky puzzle. The mask bores into Tim’s soul.

"You are broken."

Tim pauses, looking at Skully confused and a little stunned. Skully can speak. "What?"

"You can be fixed."

Tim can hear a soft breath of laughter behind the mask. He has a feeling the other is grinning behind the painted teeth.

Eyes narrowing, Tim squares his shoulders, now more than a little annoyed. "Stop that."

"How much do you hate?"

Without thinking, Tim quickly reaches up and grabs the mask, pulling it away from the person’s face.

That person is Jay. He looks so very tired. So bad. But exactly the same, as if he hadn't aged. His eyes are cold, holding no remnant of that tired warmth that made Jay human. A wicked grin is on his face, eye's narrowing as he seems to test Tim's mental limits.

"Is it not enough?"

"Stop it!" Tim physically steps away, mask still in his hand. He tosses it onto the couch, next to the supposed dead man walking. Masked person? Skully? Tim doesn't care.

Jay's head tilts back with a chilling laugh, looking straight at Tim as his head tilts to the side, mocking grin widening as his eyes stay narrow.

"Bleed more." Skully barks in vicious laughter.

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This work belongs to Jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing, if you have read or come across this outside of this Tumblr account that means it was stolen and reposted without my knowledge or consent. Please do not support apps or websites that repost without permission and/or illegally profit off of other people's work. ♡

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[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

“The night isn’t dark; the world is dark. Stay with me a little longer” - Louise Glück

Jay and Tim definitely shared a bed sometimes while staying in motels.

They’d get the two beds in one room, but it always ends with Jay or Tim climbing into the other’s bed. There’s something ... lonely about motels, you know?

____

Jay wakes up late one night dehydrated, which leaves his throat dry and scratchy. Trying his best to stay quiet enough and not wake Tim, he’s careful to sneak about the small room to get a quick drink of water from the sink tap.

However, moments later, Tim blinks awake without even realizing he’s conscious. That is, until he spots a tall, skinny silhouette moving about in the darkness by the other bed, illuminated only by the light outside the window.

Tim feels his body jerk as panic claws at him, before logic catches up and he realizes it’s just Jay, getting something to drink and checking the camera set up by his bed.

At that point, Tim shifts with a low groan and sits up, moving the covers and scrubbing a hand over his face, tired. The two move in silence for the next few minutes, silently acknowledging each other’s presence but too tired to really have anything to say. It’s not until Tim is flicking off the bathroom light and the door shuts with a careful click that he notices something nagging at his being.

Loneliness.

Jay was right there, not even three feet away, checking something out for the last time on his phone before snuggling back under the covers.

Tim feels slightly embarrassed as sudden nervousness rushes over him, like a young school boy talking to his crush. All because he doesn’t know how to ‘water down’ the question so it’d sound less stupid. Still, he fumbles with the words in the silence of the dark.

“Hey, Jay, you wanna?...” Tim trails, feeling all the more stupid. “Could you- join me? God, sorry, that’s stupid, nevermind, I’m just-“ Tim catches himself. He should be used to this, really. He’s been on his own for as long as he could remember. The emptiness still fills him. He doesn’t want to be alone. “-lonely. I know I’m being stupid, I just can’t shake the feeling and—“

Jay gives a surprised noise of acknowledgment and clicks on the lamp sitting on his drawer, his side of the room now bathed in dingy yellow light.

“Tim. If you want me to join you, that’s fine, I really don’t mind, I get it, you know? I get it-“. Jay stops himself, a deer in the headlights, looking like he just said something rude, as though he crossed a line.

Instead of continuing, Jay works his way out of the covers and gets up off the bed in a hesitating motion, shuffling forward the measly two steps and sits on Tim’s bed, scooting away to make room and tosses back the covers for Tim as he slides quietly onto the bed, resting on his side, facing away from Tim, tugging his share of the covers tight around his shoulders like a makeshift shield.

Without turning to face Tim, Jay carefully mulls over his next words, speaking carefully. “You’re not alone, Tim. We’ve got each other now, ya’ know? You don’t- have to go at this alone. I’m- I’ll be here ... even if you don’t exactly want me to be. I’m here for you ... I promise that.”

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This work belongs to Jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing, if you have read or come across this outside of this Tumblr account that means it was stolen and reposted without my knowledge or consent. Please do not support apps or websites that repost without permission and/or illegally profit off of other people's work. ♡

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[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

Jay faceplants onto his laptop due to exhaustion

It's late again. Or early, Tim can't tell. (A quick, bleary glance at the vexatious red numbers on the clock says it's 1:32 AM, but that's not what he was looking for.)

Jay is sitting on the other motel bed a few feet away, fully hunched over the blindingly bright laptop that gives Jay's tired face a cold, blue-tinted glow, leaving Jay to eerily resemble a living corpse. One of Tim's flannels is wrapped around Jay like his own version of a blanket.

Tim's vision is shit in the dark, but even he can see how the bags under Jay's eyes have gotten significantly worse, and how his eyelids droop lower and lower with each passing second.

Tim silently watches Jay for a few more seconds, contemplating whether or not to move from the warm bed and go tell Jay to sleep before he--

Too late.

Jay's body relaxes for a moment and he falls forward like a puppet with its strings cut, face slamming comically hard onto the keyboard of the old laptop that was surely giving him skin cancer.

Jay pops back up not a second later with a sound of tired startling. Tim can't decide whether to snort or feel pity.

In the end, Tim moves from his crappy but warm bed and shuffles over to Jay, quietly murmuring at him to go to bed himself, mentioning the time and saying that one of them needed to be able to drive without the risk of falling asleep at the wheel.

Jay is ... stubborn. No. Not stubborn. Desperate. Paranoid that if he didn't solve ToTheArk’s latest code something bad would happen. Even though they both know the code will just be nonsense loopholes of things they already know.

Tim is worried about Jay, about his mental state. He knew these things got to Jay much more easily now, but he also knew Jay was tired and that trying to solve a cryptic code while tired simply would not work. No matter the amount of coffee. (He knows Jay hadn’t had any recently; nothing to suggest it, anyway.)

Eventually Tim has to take Jay by the wrists and tell him it can wait. Twice.

("I need to figure out this code. ToTheArk, they--"

"It can wait."

"...."

"It can wait. What you need to do is sleep, Jay.")

Tim is bone-tired, but now Jay looks even more paranoid and like a deer caught in headlights. Hunched and looking pitifully small and scrawny in Tim's flannel. So Tim doesn't let go of Jay's wrists as he carefully guides Jay to the bed, tugging back the covers before pointing at Jay to go lay down.

Tim doesn't really think when he follows suit a heartbeat later and silently pulls the thin cotton covers over them, before suddenly Jay is staring at him, half in confusion, half in tired awe; bashful.

Tim thinks of hurriedly sliding out of the bed, having just realized what he'd done, but Jay slides close, hands gripping at Tim's shirt and slightly tugging him closer by an inch. A whisper of “Stay. Stay, please.” Reaching his ears.

And that Tim does, hesitantly resting his arm around Jay and watching as Jay doesn't even open his eyes, merely curling up against him.

Tim doesn't exactly remember when Jay started wearing his clothes.

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・

This work belongs to Jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing, if you have read or come across this outside of this Tumblr account that means it was stolen and reposted without my knowledge or consent. Please do not support apps or websites that repost without permission and/or illegally profit off of other people's work. ♡

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・