Creepypasta,Marble Hornets & Slenderverse Oneshots w/ Male Reader

: Jeffrey Woods X Male Reader : "What brings you here?"

((Neurodivergent reader, by the way))

•

It was late in the evening - perhaps around half past 8 pm, or so. You had a hangover looming over from last night, you were getting over the death of a few pets that all died at once. They were all (insert favorite animal here), and it was nearly traumatizing for you.

You were reclusive and seldom drank alcohol. Living in a 1 bedroom 1 bathroom apartment in a complex that was nearly empty, you rarely made contact with ANY human beings. It wasn't because you hated people, you were plagued by a severe paranoia disorder along with OCD.

You couldn't afford mental health care anymore that you were moved out, so you didn't know what else could've possibly been wrong with you. Besides the fact that EVERYTHING needed to be exactly how it was every single day, you were miserable.

You needed to wake up exactly at the same time, or else you'd have a mental breakdown; you needed to eat exactly at specifically designated times, with security cameras lined all along your home when you made your food. What if someone poisoned it? What if someone put razor blades in it? Gods, you were tired of being this way.

You had no choice; mental illness couldn't be sucked up or controlled, especially when you were THIS weak. Not to mention you were also very ill, but since medicine was cheap you were reduced to medication in stores to get rid of the pain. It worked but you were still dying and weak, and still aware you weren't making yourself any better.

You woke up as usual, at 9 AM sharp. You sat up; usually you were quick to get out of bed and get dressed into something, but today was different. A sharp pain had appeared in your lower left abdomen, which made you cry out in pain as it got worse when you moved upward. Then came nausea, as per usual; the sharp pain was new.

Tears pricked at your eyes as if you were squeezing water from a small hole in a balloon. You repeated and whined the same phrase, "Ow!" Over and over as you limped weakly to the bathroom, sliding everything off the counter and grabbing every pill bottle you knew without even needing to read the labels.

You downed them all quickly, falling back against the bathroom floor while curling up as tears ran down your eyes. Against the schedule, something new, horrible - it wasn't planned. You started to hyperventilate, holding a hand over your mouth as you could feel your throat becoming numb from pure fear.

Going to die, going to die, going to die; the words repeated over, the whispering began, you couldn't make it stop as you rolled onto your stomach to hide your face into the tiles. "Stop it... it hurts..." You felt as if you begged out loud that some higher power would make it stop, but if there were a higher power why would you be suffering the way you were now?

The door to your apartment opened after the sound of the lock being shot off echoed. You couldn't do anything, the pain was getting worse and you were too mentally unstable to stand without falling back over like a cat without its whiskers. You felt more fear, looking over at the bathroom doorway; the door was wide open and you were on the floor, with blood leaking down your nose from when you hit the counter on your way down to the floor.

Footsteps were quiet, little to none but the floorboards creaked every so often which indicated how close this intruder was. It seemed to stop right in front of the bathroom door, as you could feel the weight of the old floor sinking in slightly where someone was standing.

"The hell happened to you?" You knew that voice; you wish you didn't, but you did. The owner of the voice knelt down beside you and pushed you over onto your back. You looked up with bloodshot eyes, from crying and from pain.

Jeffrey Woods stared down at you with the eyes of someone who was curious, he was a serial killer and a legend in the underground of the city where the mafia ran. He wasn't a don nor a crime-lord, but he knew his way around. The story he made up was quite amusing, but it was partly true.

He didn't burn his eyelids, lest he'd be blind; he had lost the pigmentation in the color of his eyes from some rare disease he refused to share with anyone. You knew he had vitiligo and that's why his skin looked the way it did.

You knew him from elementary school up to 9th grade in high school, past then he'd went missing until later through college he ran into your apartment when you first moved in to hide from police. The scars on his mouth were new then, and nearly killed him from infection if you weren't there to help him.

He grabbed you by the back of your collar and pulled you upwards, cringing at the considerable bruise on your lower abdomen. It was blood red, like a blood spatter except in bruise form. "You're dying.." He said this angrily; why angrily? Why was HE angry? You were the one dying!

Suddenly he grabbed a hunting knife off his belt, which promoted fear to shiver all around you. "I know what you're doing - no! No no no-" He covered your mouth with a lump of cloth and responded: "Pancreatitis, do you think I was born yesterday? It's either you die or I removed it. Sure you'll become dependent on insulin but you'll be ALIVE! Dumbass..." It was going to hurt, you were scared; that didn't matter, because the second he raised the knife you were out like a light.

- - - - - - -

Light poured in through the cracks of light-blocking curtains, you woke up with your eyes covered in heavy bags. You instinctively went to sit up, only to have a firm hand push you down to where you were laying down. "Don't move, twitchy. Your stitches'll open. Got it? I know you got a schedule and all, the mental torment 'n all that. But trust me, physical pain's your big priority right now."

His Boston accent was the easiest thing you could point him out from a crowd; it was distinctive from anyone else's voice in the area you lived in, at least right now. You weren't in your home-town, rather you were in a downtown city that was depressing and miles away.

Instead of responding, you looked away and merely went silent. You felt his stare now, as if he'd been staring you down like he was expecting you to do something - to refuse so that he could hold you down back onto the couch you were laying on. For some reason he liked a struggle, he liked the problems in life unlike you; you despised problems and tried to avoid them at all costs.

"You'll have to eat.. I stole a bunch of that insulin, I asked around in a hospital. Stabbed the lady at the front desk," He seemed so calm saying that he killed someone, "Hope you ain't afraid of needles, cause you'll be getting shot up every day with this stuff."

Sitting up slowly, with his help, you stared at a microwavable meal that was taken from your freezer. It was placed on an ottoman pushed close to where you were once laying, now sitting, with a fork sitting close beside it. "Wow... what effort for a meal," You sarcastically said this, cringing as you grabbed the fork.

You could see your reflection on the plate in which the little tray of food was sitting on. You had dyed (f/c) hair, and (e/c) eyes. You could see the bags under your eyes, and focused so much on your reflection that Jeff had slammed his hand beside the plate to catch your attention.

"Sorry.." You mumbled this, taking a forkful of the food. It was hard to eat with nausea, but it wasn't as bad as before. It was so better now that you were practically stuffing your face now with the food. "Don't apologize, dude. I'm only mad now because if you would've told me now I could've stolen you a doctor to fix it before it got bad, I have friends in high places." He watched you intently, this time he was frowning.

You took it upon yourself to look up at Jeff all the way; compare yourself to him. You were (y-h) and he was 6'4". He was of Asian descent, you were of (insert descent/heritage here). It was a bit different, you and him. "I.." You looked away, trailing off as your hands shook badly; your anxiety was acting up, right now due to the change in schedule and routine. Jeff reached out and grabbed the fork, holding it in front of your mouth.

You rolled your eyes at the gesture, yet accepted it. "You don't have to do this... shouldn't you be out somewhere bashing people's heads in?" Your voice was hoarse, and muffled between every time you were force fed a bite of food.

"Who's to say I don't like a bit of peace and quiet every so often? A murderer's gotta find his happy place too you know."