#mod.colby

[creepypastabilities]

Men.. so hard to draw.. have some Fem Brim & Hoodksy as a treat

[creepypastabilities]

HAPPY HORNETVERSARY EVERYONE!!

[creepypastabilities]

“ Stop   before   I   kiss   you. “ brim or timlex maybe.. also i love your writing.

Thank you so much anon! I couldn’t decide so I’m actually gonna do both pairings.. specially for you!

Prompt— Stop before I kiss you.

Pairing— Alex Kralie x Tim Wright (Marble Hornets.)

CWs— None.

“Stop before I kiss you.”

It spills from Tim’s mouth like smoke—dry, caustic, the ghost of something warmer if you get too close. He doesn’t look at Alex when he says it. Just sits there, cigarette tucked behind his ear like a lazy halo, boots tapping rhythm into the concrete like he’s scoring their standoff with percussion.

Alex snorts, all sharp teeth and cinematic lighting, the kind of grin that makes you want to slap it off and then kiss it back on. “You wish you had the guts.”

Tim finally glances over, lashes low, eyes dark. “You talk a lot for someone who wants it worse than I do.”

That shuts him up—for a breath. Half a beat.

Then Alex leans forward like a swing blade, the glint in his eye feral and fine-tuned. “If I wanted you, Wright, you’d know.”

“I do know,” Tim replies, like a death sentence. “That’s why I’m warning you.”

The wind rattles the music building’s tin siding. The air tastes like rain and rebellion. Somewhere inside, someone’s plucking at guitar strings too gently, like they’re afraid the world might hear them feeling something.

But outside?

Out here it’s two knives flirting with the idea of being spoons.

“You’re not that terrifying,” Alex says, resting his elbow on his knee, his posture loose but every line of him pulled taut. “You’re just angry in a pretty package.”

Tim’s voice is silk pulled taut around a garrote. “And you’re just lonely with a camera.”

They stare at each other like two wolves at the edge of a clearing, both daring the other to step forward.

Tim’s jaw ticks.

Alex licks his bottom lip.

Something coils between them, uncoils just as fast.

“Stop before I kiss you,” Tim repeats, lower now, teeth bared just a little.

Alex leans in. “Stop before I let you.”

It’s not a kiss so much as a collision. Teeth clack. Noses bump. Neither of them know what they’re doing and neither of them care. It’s hot, mean, a little stupid—like everything they do.

Tim’s hands slam Alex against the stair rail. Alex grins through it like he’s just won the lottery and a fistfight.

When they pull back, Alex looks wrecked and delighted.

“You kiss like you fight,” he says, breathless.

“Yeah?” Tim’s still too close. “You lose like you like it.”

“Fuck,” Alex mutters, half-laughing. “I hate you.”

Tim’s mouth quirks. “I know.”

And god help them both—

it means I love you.

[creepypastabilities]

There is still love.

Pairing— Brian Thomas x Tim Wright (Marble Hornets.)

There are rules, even for the mask.

Brian made them— quietly, carefully, like carving scripture into his own ribs.

Rule one: Don’t go near Tim.

Not when the mask is on. Not when the Hoodie persona takes over and the world blurs into red directives and static-soaked purpose.

Because Hoodie is ruthless. Calculating. Efficient.

And Tim—Tim is none of those things.

Tim is sharp, yes, but in a different way.

Not a weapon, but a mirror—reflecting all the things Brian never meant to become.

So Hoodie stays away. Brian makes sure of it.

He can follow the Operator’s trail through fire and forest and rot, can break bones without blinking and gut men like they’re made of paper—but when he catches a glimpse of Tim?

When he sees that tired, steady kind of bravery in his eyes?

Something in Brian stops.

Something remembers.

He used to think distance was the safest option.

That keeping the mask on meant Tim would never have to see what Brian had become.

That he could protect him best by vanishing—by being the ghost in the trees, the flicker in the static.

But then there are nights where Tim gets hurt.

Not bad enough to die, just bad enough to make Brian’s hands shake.

A twisted ankle. A broken rib. Blood where there shouldn’t be.

That’s when Hoodie slips in—silent as a knife, all shadow and tension—and crouches beside him. No words. Just presence. Just that raw, furious need to protect.

Tim doesn’t flinch anymore.

He just looks up at the mask, breathing heavy, and whispers, “Brian?”

And Brian—god, Brian—his whole chest folds in on itself because yes. Yes, it’s still him under there.

Even now. Even after everything.

He doesn’t say much. Hoodie doesn’t talk.

But he wraps an arm around Tim, careful of the bruises. Presses gauze to the wound. Leaves painkillers and water before disappearing again like smoke curling from the edges of a burnt page.

And Tim lets him. Always has. Because somewhere in the split between who Brian used to be and who Hoodie had to become, there’s still love.

Something ancient and aching and true.

A kind of vow whispered behind the mask:

I won’t hurt you. Not ever. Even if I have to become something monstrous to keep you safe.

[creepypastabilities]

Hmm, Tim The Judgmental Frog, Overseer of Mortal Arrogance

Hello Tim have some pictures of my frog, he’s just a little guy

he reminds me of what I think I look like every time Kralie enter’s the room.

[creepypastabilities]

I don't remember but do you think you could draw Tina (female Tim) and habit together? If not that's OK! Still love your art! - ( @tinawrightsblog )

(Couldn't remember if you took requests or not😭)

@tinawrightsblog

Here you go!! <3

[creepypastabilities]

They just are.

Pairing— Tim Wright x Brian Thomas (Marble Hornets.)

It isn’t love in the way people mean it when they say it at the altar or write it in greeting cards.

It’s older than that. Quieter. Stranger.

Tim and Brian don’t orbit each other—they share gravity. Two halves of one celestial mess stitched together with coffee spoons, shampoo bottles, and the soft hum of togetherness.

“Gotta take the dishes,” Brian murmurs in passing, a comet brushing atmosphere.

“I’ll come,” Tim replies, not out of duty, but reflex. Reverence.

They could carry their own. They never do.

Tim won’t go to the corner store alone. He just won’t.

He’ll say, “We don’t need milk,” even if the fridge is empty and sad.

Brian’s the same—pausing at the top of the stairs, thumb hovering over his phone.

“You coming down? I don’t wanna make coffee without you.”

Tim’s already halfway into his socks when he texts, “On my way.”

It’s not co-dependence. It’s devotion.

A hymn in the key of two people who never needed to explain.

They cook in tandem. Not one after the other—at once.

Brian hums until Tim takes the first bite.

Tim won’t sit until Brian’s plate is right. Balanced. Full. Touched with care.

They shower together, but not always to touch.

Sometimes Brian just sings off-key while Tim sits on the floor, eyes shut, breathing steam.

Sometimes Brian leans into Tim’s back like the warmth might anchor him.

They sleep together. Every night. No exceptions.

Brian, curled tight against Tim’s chest, like the heartbeat is a lullaby.

Tim, hand tucked into curls like it’s the only real thing in the world.

Sometimes they’re just tangled—thighs, ribs, dreams. A prayer in human form.

They once tried to sleep apart.

Tim spent four hours in a chair because Brian fell asleep on the couch and waking him felt wrong.

Brian won’t leave the bed until Tim wakes, because he knows.

Tim always knows.

They speak each other’s languages fluently.

“Want sushi?” someone asks.

Brian shrugs. “Tim doesn’t like seafood.”

“Salad?”

Tim chimes in: “Brian won’t eat lettuce. It freaks him out.”

They know it all. Every strange detail.

Tim can’t stand the sound of cardboard ripping.

Brian uses scissors, always.

Brian needs the light warm. Tim makes sure it is.

They dress together, which is to say—Brian throws a shirt at him and says, “This one,”

and Tim, steady as dusk, puts it on.

If Brian changes his mind, Tim shrugs and changes again.

Because Brian sees him in ways Tim forgets to see himself.

And they never run out of things to say.

Jay and Alex sometimes stare—like they’re watching the stars whisper.

They’ll ask a question,

and Brian will say, “Let me ask Tim.”

They’re not showing off. They’re not trying.

They just are.

And when a party goes loud and wild and sharp around the edges,

Tim already knows.

He pulls Brian aside like it’s muscle memory. “Not tonight.”

When Tim’s hands start shaking,

Brian steps into his space and presses their foreheads together.

Steady. Silent.

They don’t need to name it.

They don’t even try.

They aren’t obsessed.

They just are.

[creepypastabilities]

HAPPY HORNETSVERSARY MODS CAN WE GET SOME MH HEADCANONS UP IN THIS BIATCH?? Ok thank u bye

WHY OF COURSE WE CAN ANON, BUCKLE UP!

•Tim hums when he’s focused, Brian has a tendency to repeat it like a weird little echo.

•They grocery shop together.
Brian forgets the list. Tim buys four types of cereal.

•Brian's handwriting is absolutely heinous. Tim reads his notes like they're ancient runes.

•Tim chews on pens. Brian buys extra just so he always has one Tim hasn't desecrated.

•They share earbuds. Tim always gives Brian the busted one because he's evil.

•Brian texts "u good?" any time Tim leaves the room for more than 10 minutes.

•Tim talks with his hands.
Brian has been smacked in the face more than once.

•Brian insists on making the bed every morning. Tim messes it up immediately.

•They have matching phone cases. Tim pretends it was an accident.

•Brian’s a terrible liar so Tim makes him do all of their returns because it’s hilarious to watch him panic.

•Brian is painfully organized. His notes are color-coded, digitally backed up, and annotated with cross-referenced sources.

•He’s a surprisingly good cook, but only for three meals: spicy ramen, pan-seared salmon, and banana pancakes. Anything else is a gamble.

•He has a really gentle bedside manner. Even outside of work—if Tim’s having a meltdown, Brian’s voice goes low and steady, like: “Breathe for me, sweetheart. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

•Brian sings along to the radio when they’re driving.

Not well. But like, earnestly. Loudly.

•Brian is hopeless with instruments.

He once tried to help Tim tune a guitar and snapped a string like it owed him money.

•Tim plays music when Brian studies. Live concerts from the kitchen table. Brian swears it helps him focus, but it's probably just the Tim Effect™

•Brian has tried to learn guitar from Tim several times. He sucks. Tim is proud anyway.

•He's painfully ticklish. Like, one touch to his ribs and he's on the floor shrieking. Tim abuses this knowledge with zero remorse.

•Brian once broke his arm falling off a bunk bed. At age 19. It was in a college dorm. He lied and said it was from a "gym accident" for six months.

•He has a little twitch in his eyebrow when he's lying.
Tim uses this to his advantage constantly.

•Tim talks to himself in the mirror. Brian sometimes joins in like it’s a three way conversation.

•He can read body language like a second language. But often misunderstands tone.

•He hoards empty notebooks. Some he's filled with music theory scribbles or diary entries. Others he's scared to write in because “the pages are too nice."

• Jay leaves his socks in weird places. On the microwave. Under the couch. In Brian’s backpack once. No one knows why—not even Jay.

• Alex pretends to hate cuddling but falls asleep with his head in Jay’s lap like a Victorian widow every single time.

• Jay insists on making movie nights “educational” by picking documentaries. Alex pretends to hate it. Alex also cries every time a baby animal is involved.

• Tim and Alex have an unspoken competition to see who can roll their eyes the hardest. Jay and Brian are keeping score.

• Alex has a photographic memory for grudges. He remembers when Jay accidentally ate his leftover spaghetti. That was six years ago.

• Jay owns the most throw pillows of anyone in the house. He claims it’s for “aesthetic.”

• He has a weird talent for finding things no one else can. Lost charger? Jay knows. Mysterious blinking light in the woods? Jay’s already walking toward it.

•Brian gets drunk off one cider and tells everyone he loves them.

•Has ADHD but forgets he has ADHD. Wonders why everything’s chaos.

•They all got kicked out of a Walmart once. Mop swordfight. Jay won.

•Sleepovers involve one person on the floor insisting they’re comfy.

•Group chats are chaos. Jay sends 14 texts in a row. Brian reacts to everything. Tim types “ok.” Alex leaves the chat and denies it.

•Brian has an Excel spreadsheet of everyone’s birthdays. With reminders. And gift lists.

•Tim once got hurt on a shoot and Alex full-on panicked, but expressed it by yelling “Well maybe if you weren’t such a dumbass—” while bandaging him up like a pissed-off nurse.

•Brian can convince Jay to do anything with a “C’mon, dude, it’ll be funny.” This has never once ended well.

•Brian knows every song that’s ever played on the radio between 2005–2011. He’s a walking carpool karaoke machine.

•Cries at Pixar movies. And dog videos. And Tim when Tim does something mildly kind.

•His screen time is 11 hours and 42 minutes. He claims it’s for med school. It’s 98% memes and texting Tim “u ok?” 500 times.

•Jay’s password for everything is something painfully easy like “jay1234.” He is begging to get hacked.

•Carries mints everywhere. Not gum. Mints. Like a grandmother.

•Sucks at lying. Blinks too much. Voice goes up three octaves.

•Alex spend hours editing videos that look like they were shot on a toaster. Gets mad when people don’t “get it.”

•Has a complex about his hair. Will redo it three times before leaving the house, even if he’s just going to Walmart.

•Can and will gaslight someone over trivia night answers.

•Tim refuses to pay for parking. Will walk six blocks just to avoid it.

•Alex refuses to admit Tim’s cooking is better, so he critiques it with his mouth full. Tim takes it as a compliment.

•Alex can’t sleep if Tim’s not in the same house. He pretends it’s about safety. It’s not.

•Brian says “we” when referring to Jay’s video project. Jay never corrects him.

•“We’re not close,” Alex says, while resting his head on Tim’s shoulder on the couch, half-asleep.

•Jay has zero spatial awareness. Alex just sighs and pulls him out of the way of moving cars, open doors, and camera equipment without saying a word. He doesn’t even look annoyed anymore.

•Jay talks during movies. Alex hates it. But if anyone else tries to tell Jay to shut up, Alex will throat-punch them on sight.

[creepypastabilities]

HII PLEASE GO ASK ME STUFF!!!

Hey.

Name’s Tim Wright.

Yeah, that Tim Wright. Or maybe not. Depends who you ask.

If you’ve found this blog; Either you’re curious, lost, or you really don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into. That last one’s my personal favorite.

Ask if you want.

Maybe I’ll answer. Maybe I’ll stare at your message and reconsider my faith in humanity. Flip a coin.

Extra from the admin;

Hey there! I’m the admin behind this blog, I’m 20, She/Her pronouns. You can call me Admin, Mod, God, or your new best friend.

This is an in-character ask blog for Tim Wright, who I portray as:

→ 26 years old

→ Indigenous

→ A system (DID); Masky is an alter, who I will refer to as Ammon on this blog.

⚠️ This blog deals with horror themes, mental illness, trauma, and the occasional eldritch situation in a Circle K parking lot. You’ve been warned.

Ask away! He might even answer you.

Eventually. Begrudgingly.

(You can ask me stuff too if you like. I don’t bite!)

[creepypastabilities]

He who the flowers follow.

Pairing— Chris Redfield x Piers Nivans (Resident Evil)

The field does not exist on any map.

It exists the way memory does—fractured, golden, and full of ghosts that still hum with warmth. A half-forgotten Eden, grown not from seed but from sorrow. It unfurls with riotous sunflowers, each a flame arrested in bloom, all of them craning toward a single constant in the sky.

But the sun is not in the sky.

It stands in the center of the field, its name still shaped like Piers in Chris’ mouth.

Chris walks into that field the way a moth throws itself into a candle. Knowing. Wanting. Unwilling to stop burning.

The air tastes like hallelujahs never sung, like prayers that caught in the throat and curdled into silence. He doesn’t need to call out. Piers knows. The way a shadow knows the one casting it.

He stands with his back to Chris, his profile carved from war and aftermath. His mutated arm gleams like a serpent made of moonlight, curled but not striking. The rest of him is sunlight left too long on the windowsill—faded at the edges, but still warm enough to hurt.

“You always come when the flowers bloom,” Piers says, voice like rusted hinges on a chapel door.

Chris swallows the ache in his chest and pretends it isn’t shaped like forgiveness. “They only bloom because you’re here.”

The sunflowers sway as if agreeing. They lean in, greedy, hungry for the boy who once carried the ocean inside his lungs and didn’t drown. The boy who is no longer boy, no longer soldier, no longer human, but something beyond—and still, still Chris would follow him into hell if only he asked.

“I brought you something,” Chris says.

He offers a single sunflower. Not plucked. Not cut. Uprooted—roots exposed, raw, still dripping with earth like a wound. A gesture both violent and tender.

Piers takes it in his human hand, careful, as though afraid to bruise it with the weight of who he is. The flower droops slightly, not from fear, but reverence.

“It’ll die,” he says. “Everything I touch forgets how to live.”

Chris steps forward, until the breath between them feels sacred. “Then let me be the one thing that remembers.”

The words land between them like a vow carved into wet bark. Irrevocable.

The flower leans. It does not wilt. It bows—to him.

The field shifts. One by one, the sunflowers begin to turn. Not toward the sun. Not toward the sky.

Toward Piers.

Because he is not the monster they feared. He is the miracle they waited for.

And Chris?

Chris watches the whole world bend for him, and thinks:

I would grow roots in his name. I would split myself open just to be the soil he stands on.

[creepypastabilities]

‘Im not sure that’s true’ but w literally just Brian or hoody

Prompt— I’m not sure that’s true.

Characters— Brian Thomas (Marble Hornets.)

There’s a hum in the room. Low and constant, like the kind that sinks into your bones before you notice it. Brian sits with his back to the wall, knees pulled up, thumb brushing over the seam of a tape he doesn’t remember labeling. The ink’s worn to smudge. Just like everything else.

He’s trying to remember.

But memory’s a kaleidoscope now—turn it once and it shifts, colors bleeding into places they don’t belong.

“Tim has green eyes,” he murmurs. It catches on his tongue like thread through a needle. “I think.”

The silence answers him like snowfall. Weightless. Dense.

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

It might’ve been brown. Or hazel. Or something that only looked green when the sky turned grey and the rain hadn’t started yet. Something that made him look twice. Something that made him stay.

“Alex used to call me an idiot,” he tries again. “Said I always forgot to charge the batteries.”

A breath. Shaky.

“I’m not sure that’s true either.”

Maybe it was a joke. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Alex laughed after. Maybe he didn’t. Brian remembers the feeling of it—heat rising in his chest like praise or punishment—but the details stay just out of reach, dancing on the edge of his vision like shadows he can’t quite catch.

“Jay—Jay had that stupid striped hoodie,” he says, softer now, voice frayed around the edges. “Said it made him look cool. He was wrong.”

And yet—

He smiles.

“I don’t think that’s true,” he whispers, more to himself than anything.

Because maybe Jay was cool. In his own way.

Maybe they all were. Or maybe none of them were.

Maybe that part doesn’t matter anymore.

The mask sits a few feet away, tilted toward him like it’s listening.

Like it knows.

“I used to have a favorite song,” he says, head tipping back against the wall. “I used to… sleep. Dream.”

A pause. Long enough to hurt.

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

Because what is true now?

What’s real, when everything feels like an echo of something someone else lived?

He closes his eyes, and for a second—just a second—he sees it all: green eyes or maybe brown, laughter like static, a camera in his hands, the heat of a touch he can’t name.

Gone again. All of it.

He opens his eyes and looks at the mask.

Then past it.

Then nowhere.

“I think I loved them,” he says.

And this time, he doesn’t say he’s not sure.

Because that—

That feels like the only thing left that’s real.

[creepypastabilities]

hey, guess whos back.. back again.

hm. i was thinking (ik for once) and something came to mind. of course I am a bit brim-pilled rn, but I think you might like this.

an accident happens, right? you can choose what it is, brian ends up having to go to the ER or hospital. none of those “other friends” show up but Tim. Tim’s there even though he physically cant stand being in the hospital. Gets uneasy around doctors, and yet he’s still there to help brian.

optional prompt:

“I look like a mess,”

“the prettiest mess.”

from yours truly - 🪿

My betrothed has returned to me from the war (A Timezone difference) and has bestowed upon me a gift so glorious!

Especially Now.

Pairing— Tim Wright x Brian Thomas (Marble Hornets.)

Hospitals are too white.

Not clean, just bleached. Like someone tried to scrub the grief out but left the ghosts behind.

Tim’s been here for hours.

Not pacing. Not talking. Just… here.

He sits in the hard plastic chair like it owes him something, like if he presses his knees close enough together and clenches his jaw tight enough, he can pretend he doesn’t hate every second of it.

He does.

Hospitals crawl under his skin like mold.

But Brian’s here.

So Tim is too.

The drip of the IV is a metronome. Brian’s ribs ache with every breath. His mouth is dry. But his vision clears just long enough to see Tim hunched beside the bed, stiff as stone, fingers tapping out a rhythm against his own thigh like he’s holding back from bolting.

“You’ve been here a while,” Brian rasps.

Tim doesn’t look over. “Yeah.”

Brian smiles, crooked. “You hate hospitals.”

“I do.”

There’s a pause. Then Brian shifts, winces, breathes through it. “I look like a mess, huh?”

Finally, Tim turns. Eyes sharp but soft at the edges, like he’s mad at the world for hurting Brian and doesn’t know where to put it.

“The prettiest mess,” he says, deadpan. Like it’s gravity. Like it’s fact.

Brian huffs a laugh. “Jesus.”

And then it lands—somewhere deep, somewhere stupid and tender.

Because no one else came.

Not the classmates. Not the party friends. Not the people who say “love you” in passing texts and don’t show up when the crash actually happens.

Just Tim.

Tim, who doesn’t just hate hospitals, he fears them. The sterile smell, the way the walls hum, the way memory clings like smoke.

Brian blinks hard. “You stayed.”

Tim doesn’t answer right away. Just reaches out, and for once, his touch is deliberate. Fingers lacing with Brian’s under the stiff blanket, grounding.

“You’d’ve stayed,” he says.

And Brian’s heart does something it can’t afford to do with cracked ribs.

He squeezes Tim’s hand, breath caught in his throat.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “But I wouldn’t have done it this calm.”

Tim snorts. “This isn’t calm.”

Brian laughs, and then winces, but he’s still smiling.

Because this—Tim’s presence, his steadiness, the hand wrapped around his like it’s holding more than skin—this is the kind of love Brian always thought he’d have to beg for.

But Tim?

Tim just gave it.

Even here. Even now.

Especially now.

[creepypastabilities]

why if course we can, *bats eyelashes.

ahem, anyway. i dont want to spam your inbox, but do not fret i will be back with more prompts in a day or so after this one. this is just something ive thought about.

so hear me out. “ What kind of monster raised you. “ right? yeah ik. ROUGH. but. but. someone says it in response to tim not taking their crap. it obviously affects him.. but You know.. doesn’t say anything, possibly, poSSIBLY making brian step up for him like tim steps up for brian. i say as im dragged away.

love ya wink wink

-🪿

*Hurriedly stuffs a ring box back into my pocket after I drop it on the ground* Uh uh don’t mind that umm it’s not like we’re gonna get married or anything, I swear.. wink wink

Prompt— What Kind of Monster raised you.

Pairing— Tim Wright x Brian Thomas (Marble Hornets.)

It happens in the soft drag of a Monday afternoon, the kind where everything’s grey and too loud. They’re in the quad, all cracked concrete and half-dead grass, the cold biting in that way that reminds you your skin is real. Tim’s standing with his arms crossed, weight on one hip, jaw set like a clenched fist. His shadow is long and still behind him, stretching like it wants to disappear.

Someone says something stupid. They always do.

It starts as a joke. Doesn’t stay that way.

Something about how Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile. About how he looks at people like he’s already measured out the worst parts of them. About how he’s cold. Sharp. Mean.

Then:

“What kind of monster raised you?”

Tim’s mouth doesn’t move.

But it lands. Heavy. Like a stone dropped in still water, sinking so fast it doesn’t even leave ripples.

He doesn’t answer. Just blinks once, slow and unreadable. Like he’s flipping through pages of memory he’d rather leave stuck together. Like he’s remembering the Christmas photo. The bruises. The static silence of being eight years old and too much for a woman who didn’t know how to hold anything with sharp edges.

He’s halfway to turning away when Brian gets there.

And Brian—Brian’s never been good at quiet. He crashes into moments like sun through stained glass: loud, fractured, beautiful.

He steps up, planting himself in front of Tim like a wall built out of pure intention.

“Say that again,” Brian says, too softly. His hands are curled into fists, but it’s his voice that shakes. “Go on.”

The guy backs up. Smirks like it’ll save him. “Jeez. What, are you gonna cry about it?”

Brian doesn’t blink.

He just says:

“Nah. But you might.”

The kid walks off. Always do.

Tim exhales like he forgot he was holding his breath. Doesn’t say thanks. Just lights a cigarette with fingers that don’t quite tremble, and looks at Brian with that unreadable calm he wears like chainmail.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Brian shrugs, still vibrating with leftover adrenaline. “Yeah, well. You do it for me.”

Tim looks away, up at the sky like he’s waiting for it to crack open. His voice comes low. Flat. Burnt at the edges.

“She tried. My mom, I mean. She just… didn’t try hard enough.”

Brian nods. He doesn’t say I know. Doesn’t say I’m sorry.

Just:

“You didn’t turn out like her.”

Tim huffs a breath, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. “No,” he says. “Guess I got worse.”

Brian leans on the rail beside him. Lets their arms brush. Doesn’t move away.

“You didn’t,” he says. Quiet. Steady. “You turned into someone I’d bet the whole world on.”

Tim doesn’t answer. But his hand flicks ash off the edge of the railing, and for just a second, the set of his mouth softens. Barely. Like it’s trying to remember what gentleness feels like without breaking.

And Brian?

Brian stays quiet. Lets him be.

Because sometimes the loudest kind of love is just refusing to leave.

[creepypastabilities]

“ you can yell at me later. just let me help you. “

i dont know what pair this fits, but i could definitely see this with someone and tim, ship or not.

Prompt— You can yell at me later, just let me help you.

Characters— Jay Merrick and Tim Wright (Marble Hornets.)

CWs— Blood & Injury

Tim’s hunched over the sink, blood dripping off his arm in a steady little rhythm, like a ticking clock in a house no one lives in anymore. The gash is long—deep, cruel, like it meant something. A dishtowel is pressed tight against it, soaked through, as if cotton can shoulder the weight of a wound like that.

Jay stands in the doorway, still as a guilt-ridden ghost.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to do. Doesn’t know how to carry this silence between them.

Tim doesn’t look up. “No shit,” he mutters, voice dry, low, mean like a dog backed into a corner.

Jay flinches, but doesn’t move. “You need help.”

A breath. Sharp. Like glass in the lungs. Then Tim lifts his head and pins him with a look that could strip paint off the walls.

“You offering?” he snaps. “What are you gonna do, Jay? Cry on it?”

“I’ve got hands.”

“And what—magically they’re gonna stop the bleeding? Or are you just bored again, and figured I’d be a fun project?”

Jay doesn’t answer. Just steps forward like the floor might crack beneath him.

“You can yell at me later,” he says, soft but steady. “Just let me help you.”

Tim stares at him for a second too long. Then another. Like he’s testing whether this is pity or performance.

And then he exhales, long and shaky, like he’s been holding his breath for years.

“Fine.”

Jay works quietly. The gauze soaks red. The iodine stings. Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look. Just watches the wall like it’s safer than looking at someone trying to care.

The room is filled with the sounds of breath, of cloth, of silence stretching like a bridge between cliffs.

“You ever gonna tell me what happened?” Jay asks, not really expecting an answer.

“No.”

A beat.

“I figured.”

Jay finishes the bandage. It’s crooked. Tim could’ve done it better. But it’s clean. It holds.

He doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t say anything.

Jay rinses his hands in the sink. Blood down the drain like it never mattered. He turns to leave.

“Jay.”

It’s barely a whisper.

Jay turns.

Tim’s eyes stay fixed on the floor, but his voice is different now. Softer. Like gravel under rain.

“You should get better at tying knots.”

Jay smiles. Just a little. “Yeah. Working on it.”

Tim nods once. Doesn’t smile back.

But as Jay steps out the door, he hears it—a breath caught in Tim’s chest, like a laugh that never quite made it out.

Like maybe, just maybe, the bleeding has started to slow.

[creepypastabilities]

Ladies of the Bench

Characters— Luis Serra (Resident Evil.)

The orange tree beside the plaza bench dropped a blossom onto Teresa’s lap, which she brushed off with a flick of her fan—more occupied with the sin pouring from Pilar’s mouth than any fallen petal.

Luis sat cross-legged on the stone edge of the fountain nearby, fig in hand, eyes glinting like he already knew he’d have to pretend to be shocked by what was coming.

Pilar leaned in, voice low and full of delicious doom.

“Te digo yo, Marta. El padre Julián no es tan santo como parece.”

I'm telling you, Marta. Father Julian isn't as holy as he seems.

Luis’s eyebrows shot up.

“¿El cura? No me digas que—”

The priest? Don't tell me that—

“—lo vi entrar en la casa de la viuda Menéndez a las diez de la noche. Y no salió hasta las dos.” Pilar fanned herself like she was in church, not feeding a fire.

I saw him enter the widow Menéndez's house at ten o'clock at night. And he didn't come out until two o'clock.

Marta gasped.

“¡Y ella siempre con esos labios rojos! Como una actriz de películas sucias.”

And she always has those red lips! Like an actress in a dirty movie.

Teresa clicked her tongue.

“Eso no es pecado, es estrategia.”

That's not a sin, it's a strategy.

Luis laughed so hard he nearly choked on his fig.

“¡Dios bendiga la estrategia entonces!”

God bless the strategy then!

Pilar wasn’t done.

“Y eso no es todo. ¿Sabes quién más estaba en la panadería con Ana? ¡Gregorio! El carnicero.”

And that's not all. Do you know who else was at the bakery with Ana? Gregor! The butcher.

“¡El que tiene seis hijos!” Marta cried.

The one who has six children!

“Y una esposa con cara de hacha,” Teresa added, eyes wild with secondhand rage.

And a wife with the face of an axe,

Luis leaned forward like a child at story time.

“¿Y qué hacían?”

And what did they do?

“Hablaban bajito. Muy pegados. Y cuando ella salió, tenía harina en el trasero.” Pilar said, smug.

They spoke softly. Very close together. And when she came out, she had flour on her ass.

“¡Pero qué descaro!” Luis burst out, pressing a hand to his heart dramatically. “¿Creen que el horno estaba encendido?”

What nerve! Do you think the oven was on?

“Mi amor, seguro encendieron todos los fuegos,” Teresa said, cackling.

My love, I’m sure they lit all the fires.

“Si esa mujer sigue así, va a terminar con media villa en su cama,” Marta muttered, sipping her drink.

If that woman continues like this, she'll end up with half the village in her bed.

“¡Entonces que deje espacio para mí!” Luis teased, and all three women smacked him with their fans at once.

Then she better leave room for me!

“Tú ya tienes tu americano, sinvergüenza.” Pilar wagged a finger.

“Y menos mal. Porque si no, ya te habrías metido en ese horno tú también.”

You already have your American, you shameless thing. And thank goodness. Otherwise, you'd have gotten into that oven too.

Luis grinned wide, fig juice on his lips.

“¿Quién dice que no lo hice?”

Who says I didn't?

The gasp from the bench could’ve summoned a thunderstorm.

[creepypastabilities]

Can you do habit x Tina (female Tim if you didn't know) with "Why do I love you?" LOVE YOUR WRITING OK BYE RUNS AWAY ( @tinawrightsblog )

YOU ASK AND I DELIVER!

Prompt— Why do I love you?

Pairing— Tina (Tim) Wright (Marble Hornets) x HABIT (EveryManHybrid.)

Tina’s leaning against the edge of the bathtub like she’s smoked ten years off her life in one sitting. Hair half-tied, neck bruised where Habit got greedy. The light flickers like it’s scared of her. Of them.

He’s on the tiled floor with his chin tilted up toward her, blood crusted on one cheek and a grin that doesn’t belong in polite company. But then again, neither do they.

“You gonna kill me tonight?” she asks, voice like a blade that’s been dulled by use. Tired, sharp anyway. “Or just flirt with me ‘til my brain bleeds out my nose?”

Habit snorts. Licks his teeth.

“Why do I love you?” he says like it physically pains him. Like it’s a question that’s never once had an answer, just a scream echoing off ribcages and locked bathroom doors.

And Tina—Tina doesn’t laugh.

Just breathes in, long and shaky, and cups his cheek with the kind of care that always comes with danger. Like she’s holding a live grenade she built herself.

“Because nobody else would ever let you come undone and call it devotion.”

He grins, all teeth. She presses her thumb to the edge of it like she’s testing for sharpness.

Neither of them say it out loud—but this right here? This is as close as either of them will ever get to safety.

And Habit? He doesn’t love her because she’s soft. He loves her because she’s not. Because she’s jagged and exhausted and still doesn’t look away when he’s laughing through blood.

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning into her touch like it burns. “You make it real hard to be a monster.”

Tina smiles, slow and savage.

“Good.”

@tinawrightsblog ❤️