seventeen ✰ rodrick heffley x reader

✰ chapter one

Plainview, Massachusetts is the last place you want to spend your junior year. Unfortunately, your mother has other plans.

"(Y/N), come on! The movers left an hour ago!"

You groan and haul the last of your luggage, a beat-up red suitcase stuffed full of clothes, out the door and shoved it into your parents' minivan.

"Mom," you grumble. "It's way too early to be awake."

Your mom chuckles and glances down at her watch. "It's only 5:30, (Y/N). Early bird gets the worm, am I right?"

"Mom, what have we said about your catchphrases?" Your older sister Jess asks as she walks around the minivan, coffee in hand, looking straight out of a mid-2000s chick flick.

Your mom pouts. "I thought you loved my catchphrases! They're so fun!"

You pretend to gag for the entertainment of Jess and open the car door, sliding in and immediately resting your head on the window. Your only plan is to spend the next five hours fast asleep.

✰

You're startled awake by your mom pulling into the driveway of your new house. It's as picturesque as a two-story colonial in the middle of Massachusetts can be—off-white siding and painted shutters everywhere. The inside probably looks like Pinterest had a raging three-day bender all over it.

You groan and stretch as you get out of the car, looking around at your new surroundings. You're standing in the middle of quiet, quaint suburbia, cookie-cutter houses lining the streets as far as the eye can see.

"Pull some suitcases out of the trunk, would you?" Your mom asks.

You grab the handle of the topmost suitcase and pull, hard. It's wedged between heavy boxes and the ceiling of the minivan. Stuck.

Naturally, you pull harder.

Naturally, it comes loose.

Naturally, with it comes tumbling out the rest of the luggage formerly stuffed sardine-like into the trunk. You let out a shriek and jump backwards as the boxes and suitcases fall.

Behind you, someone starts laughing.

You whip around to see a tall, sickly-looking, maybe-slightly-underweight boy looking back at you. His hair is messy and he looks like he's either wearing poorly-applied eyeliner or hasn't slept in days—you're not sure which.

"What's so funny, asshole?" You grumble, trying (and failing) to compose yourself.

"For starters, I don't think you're supposed to take out all the boxes at once."

"Hilarious." You reply, deadpan. Who the hell does this guy think he is?

"Need a little help?" He asks, grinning widely.

"Not from you." You reply.

You move to pick up the boxes, praying to whatever deity is merciful enough to listen to you that nothing is broken.

"Fine by me," he replies, walking to the end of your driveway. "Ready to head out, dude?"

You turn to watch as a kid, maybe eleven years old, tugs on his arm. "Rodrick, if we leave, Mom's gonna be mad. She told us to help." The kid whines.

Rodrick—what kind of a name is Rodrick?—elbows the kid in his ribs and mutters something you can't quite make out, then walks back over to you.

"You heard him." He says plainly. "Where do these boxes go?"

✰

The inside of your house is exactly how you'd expect it to be—straight out of a Better Homes and Gardens magazine, complete with an poorly-renovated kitchen and shag carpeting in the living room. The only furniture in the house is a rickety old rocking chair left by the previous owners, so you've been sitting on the cold kitchen countertop for the past hour.