Next Door (A Markiplier x Reader)

Welcome to the Neighborhood

 It had only been a week, and it seemed like someone was already moving into the house next to mine. Crazy Stan from next door had been giving evacuation notice the week before when it was discovered that he'd been making cocaine in his bathroom the entire time he'd been living there, which, for obvious reasons, was against his renter's agreement. The place was nice, I guess, but not so nice that there'd be people lining up to rent it. Folks from around here would have known all about it and avoided it like the plague, which meant that whoever was moving in would be an outsider. Outsider meaning new to the close-knit community we had here just outside of Santa Clarita.

I had only moved here five years ago, on my nineteenth birthday. My grandmother died and somehow I inherited her four-story brownstone. I was surprised --to say the least-- when it happened since I couldn't even remember ever meeting her. But not going to lie, I loved the rolling hills, the way you could walk down the street and see mansions next door to veritable shacks next to normal two-story homes. If you looked at it that way, my house would be the mansion. On one side was a small house, if you could even call it that, that I'm fairly certain was occupied by squatters. On the left of my house --sorry, mansion-- was the very definition of a nuclear family home. A classic white cookie-cutter home, probably two or three-bedroom, likely had the same number of bathrooms.

To say I was surprised to see the moving truck would be an understatement. Homes in this particular area have been known to remain vacant for months and when there are particularly bad rumours about them, even years. But there the moving truck was, parked directly in front of the porch. I thought I caught a flash of a reddish, almost pink colour disappear around the corner of the moving van at about the right height to be someone's hair. I didn't think anything of it, since people dye their hair weird colours all the time. Not that I ever would.

Nevertheless, the responsible model neighbour I was, I set off to prepare a food basket for the new arrival. I found the largest wicker basket I owned (Don't tell anybody, but I actually keep a collection of them...) and haphazardly started tossing random food items into it. I'd make it neater once I decided what I was going to put in it.

But I couldn't be a normal human being for once and stop at food. No, I just had to go overboard and throw in some assorted objects that I thought would be useful. Some brand new lightbulbs, a few mousetraps, a sewing, and first aid kit, one each. Finally, I decided I'd pen a letter to the new resident.

Dear new resident of 305, Golden Oak,

My name is Robyn O'Connor, and I'm your new neighbor. (A/n: I gave the reader a name because I believe typing Y/n disrupts the flow of a story. You're still free to imagine your name in place of the one I put. Sorry if you're into the Y/n thing, I think I use it in a different story. If I remember which one I'll link it at the bottom.) I live in 304, right next door to you. I decided to give you this welcome basket on behalf of the entire community. I hope you like it, since I still haven't broken my habit of small-town hospitality. I remember what it was like to be new in the community. Don't worry if the natives seem a bit cold at first, they're just wary after what the old resident was doing. Hint: think cooking something less-than-legal. This basket should contain everything you need to get started here, but if you ever need anything don't hesitate to knock on my door. You already know where I live, after all! That was a joke, but seriously. If you need help moving or unpacking or anything, just give me a holler. I'm not being weird, please understand. I just like getting to know new people, especially if they've lived places other than here. The people of this town are nice and all, but eighty percent of them are from legacy families and ten percent are squatters... It would be great to see a new face that's neither. That's all I wanted to say.

Sincerely, Robyn Sapphirah O'Connor III.

I clicked my pen repeatedly, trying to think of more to write. The letter felt short, unfinished. After twenty excruciating minutes of failure to lengthen the note, I gave up and slipped it into the overflowing basket. I spent yet another twenty minutes trying to make the basket look semi-presentable. This endeavour was not in vain, and the wicker basket somehow looked more attractive than I did afterwords. Of course, I took personal offense at this fact despite it being my own fault and went to take a shower.

Another fifteen minutes of daylight were wasted washing my hair, and picking clothing took five more. I never realized how much stock I put in good first impressions before then. If you're counting, that adds up to an hour of completely wasted time after packing the basket. I completely gave up on the idea of makeup, and instead walked straight out the door, carrying the wicker basket and marching with an air of purpose about me. By this time, it was almost eleven o'clock, so I left the basket on the doorstep of the house. I had hoped to meet this mysterious new resident, but clearly, I'd wasted too much time.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, though, so I did ring the doorbell. But I left the basket there, alone on the steps. I didn't even turn to see if they got it, I just slipped into my back door and went up to bed. I knew that if they received the basket and its contents, they'd also get the letter and know who it was from. Recognition didn't matter to me, but I really wanted to meet this person and my short note seemed to be the best way to get that ball rolling. As I changed into my --very comfortable-- pajamas, also known as an oversized tee-shirt, I dared to hope that maybe they'd take me up on my offer and swing by the next day.

Word count(doesn't include author's notes): 1022

A/N: Hello, and welcome to my story. My name is Cinnamon_Twisted and today-- okay enough paralleling Mark. Either you understand what I was trying to do or you don't.

I'll keep this author's note pretty short since I doubt people read these anyways. This story is slightly based on an idea that I got in a dream, where reader-chan and Markimoo end up neighbors by accident. Reader-chan is a huge fan, but Mark just sorta wants to be alone because he's working through some things.

Yeah, I'll probably scratch the alone part... but it really does depend on you, the readers. I mean, not that I have any, but all great YouTubers --and thus YouTube fanfiction authors-- start by just talking to themselves, right? Anyway, I'm out. This chapter was as close to my personal word goal as I could get without it all becoming fluff rather than the story.

Stay twisted, my dudes.

~Cinnamon_Twisted