Facts people tend to forget about in the creepypasta fandom
1. Slenderman is featured in many creepypastas but is not an actual creepypasta himself
2. Slenderman and The Operator are two different beings
3. The creator of Ticci Toby asked that Toby only be shipped with his canon girlfriend, Clockwork
4. Masky and Hoody are not creepypasta, they belong to the youtube series ‘Marble Hornets’
5. JEFF THE KILLER WAS 13 DURING HIS STORY
6. Jane the killer does not have a crush on Jeff the killer, nor are they in any type of relationship. Jane’s goal is to kill Jeff
7. There is no ‘creepypasta mansion’ or 'slenderman’s house’ in any canon of the more popular creepypasta
8. Many authors of famous pastas have either abandoned the fandom or let the internet take their characters because of how many people obsess over and misrepresent their characters (ex: the author of eyeless jack removed the story from the wiki and said there are much better things you could be reading)
9. Respect others opinions. With thousands of stories, both original and spin-offs, people have different opinions on all of them. (This goes for shipping as well, not everyone in this fandom ships pastas with other pastas)
10. THERE ARE MORE STORIES BESIDES JEFF THE KILLER. Read some and make some, keep the fandom circulating!
If you are a Marble Hornets fan and enjoy either cosplay or collecting memorabilia (or both!), you’re in luck! I’m currently auctioning off several props and clothing items that I wore/used in the series, and this is the post where I will be adding links to each eBay listing. Be sure to bookmark this post to check for updates! Just click the text beneath each photo to go to the eBay listing.
good morning all! i’d love to sip my morning coffee out of this marbled red-and-white clay mug — the inside is glazed for an almost grey interior effect. pretty sweet. this mug lover would totally dig one as an alternative valentine’s day gift.
No one made a move to help him, and she struck him once
more with her power. The red marble splintered where he hit it, spiderwebbing
toward me. With wave after wave she hit him. Rhys groaned.
“Stop,” I breathed, blood filling my mouth as I strained a hand to
reach her feet. “Please.”
Rhys’s arms buckled as he fought to rise, and blood dripped from
his nose, splattering on the marble. His eyes met mine.
The bond between us went taut. I flashed between my body and his,
seeing myself through his eyes, bleeding and broken and sobbing.
I’m just. Going to curl into a ball and cry myself to sleep okay? “No one made a move to help him” is just so…painful yet justified on their parts. Rhys has carved out this place for himself, this no-man’s land. And it’s what I talked about before with the question of how far he went and whether it was ever too far. And he walks an incredibly thin line here to truly fall in a neutral zone whereby no-one will help him…but they won’t help Amarantha either. But he’s alienated himself and I wonder about that over the last 50 years. With no allies but no real enemies either. Just emptiness. It’s not difficult to see how Feyre and Rhys bond so closely in ACOMAF with the similar experiences that they’ve had.
And I also love that the follow-up to this, to Feyre realising that no-one was helping Rhys…is to reach out and help him herself. Amarantha has shattered her bones at this point, tortured her far beyond anything she’s ever endured…and she lies on the floor, bloody and battered and exhausted and she asks her to stop…She asks her to stop hurting Rhys.
There’s some really painful parallels going on here? Rhys slaved for Amarantha for fifty years and didn’t dream of killing her for himself. He didn’t pick up that dagger for himself. He was content to let Tamlin have that final kill; he’d already told Feyre that. He picked it up for Feyre. He picked it up for his mate. Amarantha hurting Feyre was what pushed him into action. And that’s just. So important for their dynamic. Rhys saves Feyre in ACOMAF. But as I’ve said before, she’s already saved him in ACOTAR.
And I love that it’s at this moment that Feyre becomes fully aware of that bond and how closely it binds her to Rhys. She still thinks it’s the bargain, the tattoo, but she feels it in this moment. As they reach for each other. As these two neutral people, the ones that weren’t worth either helping or harming beyond what was happening, these two battered, broken souls made to feel worthless by the world, who won’t lift a finger to defend themselves, reach for each other, help each other and take that first step together down a very long road to healing.
Simon wasn’t sure why he decided to go out that night. God knew he had other things he should be doing—the essay he’d been putting off for weeks, a flat that was in desperate need of a good cleaning. But Penny had insisted, and in the end he had given in.
Embers was a nightclub in the heart of London. It was small but always packed with people. Simon wasn’t sure why. It was just like any other nightclub, he supposed. The lighting was dim, broken only by periodic bursts of colored light. Smoke hung thick in the air, permeated by the strobe lights. There was a blood-red marble dance floor and a small stage where the dj seemed to be lost in her own world.
Penny pulled him through the crowd, her hand dug deep in the fabric of his jumper.
“Come on!” she yelled over the music.
“Why do we have to go to the center?” complained Simon. People pulsed around him in waves, and he imagined that that was how it felt—waves crashing against him.
“It’s just what you do, Simon,” said Penny, turning to look back at him just long enough to roll her eyes. Simon decided to take her word for it.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like nightclubs—it wasn’t that at all. He liked certain aspects of them. He liked the unity of strangers all coming together to dance. He liked the music so loud he could feel it in his bones. He even liked the scent of cigarette smoke cocooning him. (He never told Penny this. He knew she wouldn’t understand).
But he didn’t like people tugging at him, trying to dance with him. He didn’t like strangers circling him like he somehow belonged to him. That the music and the dim lighting somehow warranted attention.
He didn’t like that at all.
“Dance with me, Simon!” said Penny as they reached the center of the dance floor. She turned to face him, bobbing energetically to the music. Her purple hair rose and fell as she jumped, and her smile was almost bright enough to cut through the dim lighting.
Simon found himself smiling (really, Penny’s smiles were contagious), and before he knew it, he was dancing as well.
Baz wasn’t sure why he went to this particular nightclub. He had been there before of course—everyone in his year had gone. It was basically a rite of passage. But that didn’t mean he liked it.
True, there were certain things he fancied about Embers. He liked the music, and the smoky lights and feeling like he was part of something. What exactly that that something was, he wasn’t sure. But he liked it nonetheless.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for when he went to the club that night. He wasn’t sure what he would find.
But then again, he never did.
“You dance like an old man,” said Penny, a laugh bubbling from her throat. She spun like a top.
“I thought you liked the way I danced,” said Simon.
“I do,” said Penny breathlessly. “You dance like an old man in the best possible way.”
“How is that supposed to make me feel?” asked Simon, feigning irritation. “You know it makes me self-conscious—”
His voice caught in his throat when he felt the slightest pressure on his waist. He turned to see a boy there, looking to be about the same age as him.
“Sorry,” he said, taking his hand away. Simon felt like the place he’d been touching had caught flame. “Would you like to dance?”
Simon blinked (rather stupidly, he thought) and glanced over at Penny. She gave him a sideways smile and a shrug before disappearing into the crowd.
Simon turned back to the stranger. He was taller than him, he noticed, by about three inches.
“Uh—yeah,” he stuttered.
Normally he would have declined. He didn’t know why this time was different. A voice, whispering from a far corner of his brain decided to pitch in. It’s because he’s hot, Simon. That’s why.
“Why do you look so confused?” asked the boy. “Has no one ever asked you to dance before?” Simon couldn’t read his expression.
“No. No. Just not—a boy,” said Simon. He felt himself blushing, but miraculously the lights flickered off. He felt rather than saw the stranger stepping closer, placing his hands on Simon’s waist.
“What’s your name?” he asked, bending down to speak into Simon’s ear. Simon shivered.
“Simon,” he said. “You?”
“Baz,” he said.
“Strange name isn’t it?” asked Simon, struggling to keep his sentences coherent. It was difficult—much too difficult—with Baz pressed against him, close enough that Simon could feel the warmth of his skin, could smell the heavy scent of him. He smelled like smoke and musky cologne. It was overwhelming.
“I suppose,” said Baz. One of his hands left Simon’s waist, trailing up to his shoulder and then along his arm. Simon imagined that embers followed Baz’s fingertips. Hell, it felt like it.
Baz’s fingers found his. His hand was curiously cool to the touch, his fingers long and slender.
“Is this okay?” asked Baz.
Simon nodded, blinking quickly.
The music slowed to a dull throbbing pulse, and Baz moved against him, his dancing almost…silky.
What the hell is wrong with you? Simon thought to himself. Someone can’t dance silkily.
However, it was becoming ever-clearer that Baz wasn’t just anyone.
He had never danced with anyone that made him feel like this—like he was drowning in the sensation of them. Like his skin glittered with sparks.
He hadn’t meant for this to happen. Truly, he hadn’t. Usually he danced with strangers. It was…interesting. Almost like an experiment. It never meant anything. It didn’t need to.
He wasn’t even sure what had compelled him to ask Simon to dance. Simon was plain. Nondescript. Christ, he’d come to a nightclub wearing an oversized jumper. But there was something about him. Something that made Baz feel dizzy. Like he was being swept away.
He liked it.
He liked Simon, and he didn’t bother to question why. All that was important now was this—them, moving together as one, their fingers interlaced. Simon’s breath on his neck, raising goosebumps.
The song ended, but Simon didn’t want to step away. It seemed as if Baz didn’t want to either.
“Do you want to go outside?” asked Simon suddenly, without thinking.
Baz blinked. It the dull light his dark eyes seemed to burn.
“I’d love to,” he said.
Baz led the way, and Simon followed. The crowd parted easily around Baz. His presence was a sharp knife—beautiful in a dangerous sort of way, impossible to ignore.
Outside it had begun to sprinkle, the city shrouded in mist. They walked around the side of the building, where a few people milled about, talking or smoking. The pair of them went unnoticed.
“You’re a good dancer,” said Simon. He felt a flush of embarrassment but forced it down.
“Thanks,” said Baz, a smirk occupying his lips. “You’re not too bad yourself.”
“Yeah, well Penny says I dance like an old man,” said Simon. He pulled a hand through his tangled curls and leaned against the wall.
“Penny…your girlfriend?” questioned Baz, raising a single dark eyebrow.
“No. Best friend,” corrected Simon. He realized at that moment that he had completely forgotten about Penny. “I should probably get back to her soon—”
“Well, if you must go, take this,” said Baz. He fished around in his pocket for a moment before retrieving a pen. He took Simon’s hand (gently, so gently) and began to write.
“What’s this?” asked Simon.
“My phone number,” said Baz with a devilish grin. “Text me, yeah?”
“S-sure,” said Simon. Baz took a step backward, then, as if thinking better of it, stepped back and placed a kiss on Simon’s cheek.
Before Simon could even process what had just happened Baz was gone, like a plume of smoke scattered by a gust of wind.
All Simon was left with was a number scrawled on the back of his hand, and the lingering ember of Baz’s kiss lighting his cheek aflame.