summary: One secret changes everything. As the Cody family’s carefully buried truths come to light, you find yourself caught between running from the people you love and fighting for them. In the end, loving Pope Cody doesn’t just change your life, it changes the entire family. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: sexual content/smut, abusive relationship (not andrew), bestie!deran trope, not timeline specific, fix it fic, some parts are dark, mentions of SA/grooming, parental abuse, smurf and baz, manipulation, j redemption arc, murder, violence, major character death, canon show themes, substance use, drinking, gun use, possessive!pope, jealous!pope, soft boy!pope, discussions of mental health, warnings are chapter dependent. total word count: 88k amalia’s love note: finally started a masterlist for this series lol, love yall. this masterlist is ever changing and parts are being added inbetween updates as i go!! NOTE! this fic does not have a taglist, to be notified of updates pls follow this blog and turn on post notifs <3
doe-eyed running to my tranquility (smut, angst)
After escaping your abusive boyfriend, you get pulled into the dangerous world of the Cody family and unexpectedly become the center of Pope Cody’s obsessive attention. As dark secrets unravel around you, Pope grows fiercely protective, pulling you deeper into his chaotic life until the line between safety and danger disappears completely.
take what you want (smut, fluff, angst)
After a job goes wrong, Pope disappears for four days, hiding his injuries and burying himself in silence. But when you finally confront him, you realize his biggest problem isn’t violence, it’s that he doesn’t believe he’s allowed to want or need anything. So you show him exactly how badly you want him to take what’s his.
i love the sick (angst, dark)
What starts as a simple night watching Lena turns into something far more dangerous when Baz leaves you at Smurf’s overnight. As Smurf slowly tightens her grip, quietly isolating you from the outside world, J is the only one who notices the pattern for what it really is and for the first time, he steps between you and his family. The night cracks open the fragile balance you’ve built with the Codys, exposing a darker, more volatile side of Pope Cody that leaves your relationship hanging by a thread and forces long-buried truths dangerously close to the surface.
all my morals shot (smut, dark, angst)
One secret sends you running from the Cody family, but escaping Pope Cody proves impossible. As buried truths come to light and old wounds turn into reckless choices, you’re forced to confront the feelings you’ve been trying to outrun. Meanwhile, Smurf realizes too late that you’ve become a threat, not because you’re using Pope, but because you’re the first person who truly chooses him. And no matter how hard you run, Pope always finds his way back to you.
mirror (fluff, angst)
Vignettes from your years-long friendship with Deran Cody, and the long-overdue conversation that finally puts the pieces back together.
nothing at all (dark, smut, angst)
A phone call from your father cracks open wounds you thought had long since healed. As you struggle to keep yourself together, Pope shows you the terrifying truth about loving a man who would do absolutely anything for you.
siren sounds (angst, smut)
Smurf draws a line in the sand, and suddenly everything you love is at risk. Forced into an impossible choice, you tell a lie that could cost you everything to protect the person who matters most.
jealous type (smut, angst)
Jealousy isn’t your best look. According to Pope, though, it’s definitely your hottest. A harmless night out quickly turns into a game neither of you has any interest in losing.
boy (fluff, angst)
For the first time in your life, Craig Cody is speechless. Beneath the jokes and bad decisions is a man standing at a crossroads, trying to figure out whether he’s capable of becoming someone different than the people who raised him.
honeybee (angst)
For someone who’s spent their entire life expecting loss, happiness can feel just as frightening as heartbreak. As your relationship with Pope deepens, you’re left navigating the uncomfortable reality that the more you love something, the more there is to lose.
stranger danger (dark, angst)
Life. Death. Maybe the line between them was never as wide as people liked to believe. Sometimes it all comes down to a single choice, a single second, and when the dust settles, one person gets to keep living while another doesn’t.
Anything offered or presented in worship or sacred service; an offering; a sacrifice.
You're the daughter of two members of the Danforth's many staff. A chance night in the staff kitchen leads you to have a connection with the family's eldest son.
But things can only be so simple for so long. And things beyond your awareness are about to come to light.
Chapter 1, Chapter 2 (you are here!!)
Warnings: Not proofread, takes place before the first Ready or Not film, 11 year age gap (but things don’t happen in this chapter in terms of activities), power dynamic, canon typical violence (nothing past a bruise)
Ah…
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THANK YOU!!! I’m glad you’re liking it so far and I hope there’s nothing too out of character yet.
I’m gonna attempt to update regularly, but in the meantime, don’t be shy! My asks are open and I do take writing requests!!
Chapter 2: Marinate
June 2000
The wedding announcement is for one of the Danforth cousins, one of Master Danforth’s distant relations that you’re not sure even counts as a cousin. Either way, the wedding is taking place at one of the family’s resorts.
You overhear a few of the older staff gossiping in the kitchen about it. Apparently, there hasn’t been a Danforth wedding in some time, the last one being at least three years before you and your family were hired on, so it’s caused a bit of a stir.
About a week before the wedding, your mother shakes you awake in the early morning, far too early to start preparing a meal. She looks a little frazzled, her hair sticking up like she’d been woken up without warning.
“All three of us will be accompanying the Danforths to the Le Bail Resort and Villa,” she says in lieu of a ‘good morning’ or ‘hello’, “Start packing.”
You blink muzzily at her, but she’s already out of your room. You resist the urge to fall back into bed, the prospect of leaving the estate for the first time in all of the years you’ve worked there helping to pique your interest.
There are other members of staff joining you, members of housekeeping and a few older butlers and maids that are also hauling suitcases out of the estate and into three large vans. A fourth van pulls up when everything has been loaded up and you and around ten other staff are packed in and driven to the resort.
“Nervous?” your father asks you about halfway through the trip.
“A little,” you say, leaning against his shoulder. You know you dozed for a bit, but the rocking of the van is lulling you back to that fuzzy place between sleep and awake, “I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to see a resort.”
Your father chuckles. “Yeah, they got us cooped up at the estate, don’t they? From what I hear, this staff was handpicked.”
You shoot him a sideways look. “Even me?”
“Even you. One of the Danforths asked for you by name. Seems like you’re blazing a trail for yourself, good job.”
You smile as you close your eyes. Your father is the one to wake you when the van makes it to the resort.
The Le Bail Resort and Villa is huge, to say the least. A sprawling golf course meets you first, then a huge crop of trees lining the entirety of the property. The resort building is several stories tall with other interconnected buildings attached to it. You and the rest of the staff are ushered towards the villa to unpack, change into the villa’s uniform, and then attend to your duties for the day.
You think you’re going to be with your parents in the kitchens, but a stern looking maid signals you out and asks you to follow her.
“You’ve been assigned by Master Danforth to accompany one of the family members today until sunset,” the maid says, voice clipped, “There is an understanding that you are usually on the kitchen staff, but I implore you to take this opportunity to learn about the needs of the family you are serving. Perhaps you’ll be able to assist in other areas of the estate once you return after the wedding.”
You’re led to a parlor where you’re told the family member will be with you shortly. The maid closes the door behind you and you find yourself drawn to a full length mirror against one of the far walls. You hadn’t gotten the chance to actually look at yourself in the villa uniform, but it seems like it was tailored to your size enough so that it’s not baggy in places. It almost reminds you of a Victorian maid outfit, sans the white apron and accents. The skirt is flowy and you can’t help yourself as you twirl it a bit in full view of the mirror.
“At least someone’s having fun.”
You jump and the familiar voice and immediately turn to see Titus leaning against the now open door. There’s a smirk on his lips, his eyes trained on your skirt as you bow your head.
“Mr. Danforth, I apologize, I thought-”
Titus scoffs. “Enough.” You raise your head as he tilts his head to the open door. “You’re my chaperone today and there’s somewhere I need to be.”
You follow his quick pace, trailing a few steps behind him. Is this appropriate? Do you need to be in front of him? Or is he meant to lead and you follow? You’re too embarrassed to ask, so instead just let him lead you through the villa, following on his coattails.
Finally, he stops at a closed door made of dark wood. The villa’s colors were warm around the staff wing, but the wood here was stained a deep brown, even the carpeted hallways were a burgundy color that made you think of old wine.
Titus pauses in front of the door, but not in the way that gives you a moment to catch up to him. He’s worrying his bottom lip, hands tucked into the pockets of his navy jacket as he stands in front of the solid wood.
You clear your throat. “Would you like me to knock?”
He lets out a breath. “No. Stay in the doorway unless one of us asks you to come in.”
So there is someone in the room. Your mind conjures up someone Titus might be sweet on, maybe he invited her as his plus one for the wedding. Or maybe it’s an ex that’s a friend of the family that ended up being invited. There are dozens of possibilities, but none of them prepare you for what you see when Titus opens the door without knocking.
The room is absolutely dripping in luxury, the theme being a deep green that creeps up the walls and onto the area rug on the floor. The dark wood of the room only seems to brighten the light coming from the four windows along the wall opposite the door.
Sitting by one of those windows, on a velvet chaise lounge, is an older woman. Her hair is a dark brown, plaited into a large braid that rests against her right shoulder. She’s in a black pantsuit, one of her knees bent on the lounge that’s balancing a book. She doesn’t look up when the door opens, but when Titus makes his way closer, she looks up from her reading.
Immediately, she sets her book down and gets up from her seat. “Titus.”
You’re only able to see Titus’s back from where you’re standing, but you can see him almost curl in on himself. “Hi, Mom.”
The woman’s smile is bright, revealing dimples nestled into her cheeks.
“Hello, my sweet boy, how are you?” Her voice is She bends down just enough so that Titus can kiss her cheek.
You have to stop yourself from asking questions. Lady Danforth had been spoken of amongst the staff, but mostly in the past tense. You didn’t want to assume she’d passed, but she’d never been at any of the meals you helped to serve, nor was she at any of the celebrations or parties that were thrown at the estate. But she exists, in the flesh, looking like the complete antithesis of her husband, as far as you were concerned.
“Alright. Sorry it took so long to get here.”
“I’m sure your father wanted to make sure expectations were set before he let you and your sister loose,” Land Danforth says, raising a perfectly manicured hand to run along the top of his head, “I’m glad you took the time to visit me.”
“Ursula will be by, you know she will.” There’s that same softness to Titus’s voice that he had when he was asking you about cooking all those months ago. Your hands tighten against your skirt, afraid that you are witnessing something private.
Lady Danforth’s eyes fall on you, noticing that you’re standing in the doorway. They’re a light green, bright in the light of the afternoon sun. “And who’s this?”
You drop your head in a small bow at her attention. “I’m-”
Titus interrupts you, providing your full name to his mother. You lift your head and try to keep the surprise off of your face.
He had learned your name. He was most likely the one that requested you specifically for the wedding. Something stirs in your chest at that, but you aren’t sure what it is.
It’d been months since the two of you last spoke, let alone interacted. Even if you did end up assisting the other staff with their duties and happened to pass him in the hall or encounter him while you were setting a table, he never acknowledged you…
Something akin to recognition flashes on Lady Danforth’s face. “Your parents wouldn’t happen to be the Forcythes, would they?”
You blink. And apparently Lady Danforth was familiar with your family name. What the hell was today?
“They are.”
She nods. “I’d heard they’d joined up as members of our staff, but I didn’t know they’d brought you with them.” She rolls her eyes as she looks to Titus. “It seems your father’s forgotten to tell me something. Again.”
There’s a choked sound and you realize that Titus is trying not to laugh. That sends a spark of warmth through you.”
“Come in, sweetie, I don’t bite. Let me get a good look at you.”
You step in as she asks. You stand up straight as she appraises you. Titus has turned back to you as his mother circles you, studying your stature. You try not to fidget under her gaze; although it’s not as sharp as Master Danforth’s, it still feels like if you make the wrong move you’re going to be reprimanded.
“Will you be accompanying Titus all day?” she eventually asks, whatever inspection she’d been performing finished.
“Yes, Lady Danforth. Master Danforth tasked me to accompany Mr. Danforth for the remainder of today’s schedule.”
“Good. The weather’s perfect for a walk along the treeline, away from all of the hustle and bustle. There’ll be time for more important matters in the next few days.” She let out a small sigh, looking you right in the eye. “Let today be one of rest before the rest of the family and their guests start rolling in. Believe me, you do not want to be around when the La Domas family comes, I swear their grandchildren are demons.”
You understand the implication loud and clear, giving her a firm nod as she gives you a bright smile.
“Wonderful. Enjoy the weather.” She heads towards the door, tossing a quick, “Have fun, Titus!” over her shoulder before she leaves.
For a moment, you and Titus stand a few feet apart, both looking at the open doorway. You turn and see him with a hand running through his curls.
“She’s probably on her way to chew father out. She doesn’t like to be the last to know things.”
“Valid,” you say, nodding your head in agreement, “To the trees?”
Titus sweeps his hand out towards the open door. “After you.”
—
The forest is wonderful.
You’re glad for the signage all around the resort, giving you an idea as to where the entrances and exits to the various facilities are. The nearby forest has three walking trails, but Titus is quick to nudge you off the path. You follow him without question; he has to know the grounds of his own family’s resort, right?
You can’t help but take everything in. The sun’s rays shine through the leaves, making dappled shadows along the ground. The smell of earth and the breeze is fresh and clear. You hear birdsong above you, the leaves rustling, the sound of your feet crunching against dry-
Your shoe snags on a root and you attempt to right yourself before you start to fall forward. Instead of meeting the ground, your arms are caught by two large hands just before your face collides with the front of Titus’s jacket.
You’ve never been this close to him and the scents and smells of the forest are overpowered by the dark scent of his cologne. He pushes you so that you’re standing upright, the callouses on his fingers catching against the fabric of your uniform sleeves.
“It’s like you’ve never been outside before,” he mutters, but there’s no heat to it, “Watch your step.”
He turns back towards wherever he’s leading you before you can answer and you make sure you’re a bit more careful as you follow him. You see the bits of root that protrude from the ground before you step on them. It takes you a few minutes, but you start to see a footpath through the trees, following the same pattern that Titus is.
There’s a small building in front of you, built out of brick and looking well kept along the dozens of trees surrounding it. Titus fishes a key out of his coat and opens the door, gesturing you to go in first. You do without hesitation. The building is akin to a shed, just two windows the only thing allowing light in. There are dust motes hanging around the air as you move further inside. There’s a small fireplace at the far end of the room, complete with a narrow chimney. This had probably been a caretaker’s shack or something similar that hadn’t been demolished when the resort was being built.
It isn’t until you hear the lock click that you realize you may have made a mistake.
“Do you know why I brought you here?” Titus asks.
You’re not facing him, not yet, but you can hear the shift in his voice. It’s different from what you were used to, a sharp edge to it that cuts into you with a cold dread.
“Answer me.”
“No,” you say, voice wavering.
“Turn around and look at me.”
You obey without question. He’s already bridged the distance between the two of you, getting into your space. You don’t move backward.
“I was testing myself.”
The words form on his lips and something in his expression shifts.
“I’ve heard it from staff, from colleagues, from my own family that I can’t control myself,” he whispers, voice low, “I’m sure you’ve heard about my ‘outbursts’, they’re always the topic of gossip for a week or two. But I wanted to see if I could resist.”
Your heart is going to come out of your mouth with how hard it's beating. Still, you can’t look away from those hazel eyes locked onto yours.
“I was going to head straight for the bedrooms when I saw the lights on in the staff kitchen. And there you were.”
He raises his right hand to cup your cheek. “You were oblivious, back turned, squeezing a block of cheese like you were testing if it was going to crumble in your fingers. And then you noticed me. You were afraid; not of what I could do to you, but of doing the wrong thing while I was in the room with you.”
Your face grows warm as his thumb strokes against the corner of your mouth.
“I didn’t lose control. I reigned myself in. You saw me as something…other, but never said a word.”
His breath is even warmer against your face. You can’t move, can’t think past what he’s telling you. Not that the night in the kitchen had been intense, but you didn’t know until now just how much was beneath the surface of your interactions. How your thoughts on a predator and moving the wrong way would land you right where Titus wanted you.
Titus is bare before you now, laying out whatever he uses to disguise himself as nothing more than the son of a wealthy businessman and revealing that the predator you expected is not only laying just beneath the surface, but has been shackled the entire time you’ve known him.
Now, the shackles have come undone. Now, with your face in one hand and the other curled around your waist, Titus Danforth stands before you with a blankness in his eyes that belies the growing fear you’re feeling the more you stare into them.
Is it fear? Your heart beats widely, you know your chest is heaving, but you’re not struggling out of his grasp or going stock still against him. There’s no urge for you to try and run or fight your way out of his grip. His hands are warm, his touch is soft. You can probably break out of his hold if you really wanted to, but you don’t.
Instead, you want to close your eyes and lean into him more. To feel the hard lines of his body against yours and let him anchor you for a while. To feel those lips that had confessed so much in such a short amount of time.
You’re about to do just that when you realize how dark it’s gotten. You let out a gasp.
Titus feels your tension. “What?”
“Master Danforth wanted you back by sunset.”
Titus shuts his eyes hard. “Fuck.”
—
With how dark it is, you have no clue where exactly you are in terms of the villa. Titus takes you by the hand and all but drags you through the trees. You’re thankfully able to keep up and, once you make it to the front door of the villa, try and make yourself presentable. There are leaves stuck to your uniform and you know your hair is a mess, but you hope you look presentable.
As soon as you and Titus enter into the foyer, Chester Danforth is there to greet you.
Although he’s older, there’s a sharpness to the Danforth patriarch’s features that makes you want to look and listen. You freeze as soon as you realize he’s there, Titus taking another few steps towards him.
“Father-”
“Shut up.”
Even Chester’s voice is sharp. You feel like wincing, but keep your posture straight. Chester’s eyes are on his son, but his gaze had been focused on you when you first got into the building. In his eyes, you know that whatever you did to straighten yourself out was pointless.
“You disobeyed me. I told you we were expected before sundown and what have you done? Did you decide to roll around with one of the help instead of fulfilling your duties as a Danforth?”
Titus flinches and, with a courage you didn’t realize you had, you begin to move.
“It was my fault,” you say, moving between Titus and his father, “I’d gotten us lost on the grounds. I’m not used to being outside of the estate, so when we were in the forest, I realized too late I wandered off the-”
You see the slap coming, but don’t move away, your head violently twisted to the right as Chester’s palm meets your cheek. You bite your lip to stifle a cry, casting your eyes downward as you regain your posture, bowing your head.
“I do not want your excuses,” Chester hisses, “Return to your proper post. You are not to emerge from that kitchen unless I ask for you to, is that understood? Not an order from my wife, not one from my son, me.”
“Yes, Master Danforth.” Your breath is a shaky inhale and you can feel tears forming at the corners of your eyes.
“Leave us at once.”
You leave quickly, trying not to run until you’re out of earshot of the Danforths. After that, you don’t care who you run into as you head towards the staff wing and run towards where you and your family were staying for the wedding preparations.
You have your own private room, thankfully, but you do have to pass a lot of the other staff members’ rooms in order to get to it. You raise your hand to your left cheek, feeling the warmth from the slap pressing against your skin.
“-done, Hector. I can’t stand this!”
You stop, peering into your parent’s bedroom at the sudden shout. Your mother is being cradled in your father’s arms. Her back is to you and you see that your mother is clutching to him tightly, her hands bunched up into his shirt.
“Just a few more days,” your father whispers into her hair, “We’ve waited this long, it’s just a few more days. And then it’s over.” You see him hold your mother gently, kissing along her hairline.
You head back to your room and hide until the staff dinner. Your parents say nothing to you, but you get a few concerned looks from the resort staff.
Man-child / Why you always come a-running to me? / Fuck my life / Won't you let an innocent woman be? / (Why so sexy if so dumb?) / And I swear they choose me, I'm not choosing them
Overview: You're the Codys' new neighbor. You seem boring enough, not much of a threat. But Smurf and Baz are interested in that cushy new job at the bank you'd told them about.
So they send in Pope, hoping to get some decent information out of you. And he knows the rules, don't fall for the marks. But you make it impossible to stick to that rule and Smurf sees that as a threat. She sees you as a threat.
wc: 17.0k
It’s hard to stare at the interior of your new home and not think that the past two years of your life have been a complete waste. You’ve dedicated them to one man who couldn’t offer you anything more than broke-boyfriend hugs and a complete absence of emotional availability.
Twenty-four months of your life were spent financially, emotionally, and physically supporting a man who crawled right back to his mother’s basement when you finally dumped him. He had slept with every one of your friends, maxed out all your credit cards, and generally been a blight upon your life in every conceivable way.
Now, with no family or friends, you hauled out what little belongings you had from your U-Haul and dragged them into your new house. It had been an absolute steal, one you were still suspicious of. In a prominent neighborhood with houses that look straight from an architecture digest, you managed to find one you could afford with a bank teller’s salary. Which, admittedly, is not as much as you need right now to get rid of your ex’s debt he’d so generously left you.
The realtor had been more than happy to dump the keys in your palm. The owners themselves had dropped their price to your last-ditch offer in a way that made your stomach turn. But you needed something new. Something that didn’t remind you of the man-child you’d spent two years cleaning up after and re-mothering.
So, despite the red flags and klaxon alarms, you took the keys and ignored the pitying way the people across the street watched you. You’d researched the neighborhood, it didn’t have any higher crime rates than your old one. You hadn’t read any headlines in the news that would make you regret your choice.
It wasn’t until your second night there that you realized why, exactly, everyone had treated you like a kicked stray.
You have your pillow wrapped as tightly as possible around your head without actually suffocating yourself. The house right beside you has its music blaring on obnoxious speakers, girls screaming the lyrics, and guys cheering as they jump off the roof into your neighbor’s pool.
Despite the fact that everyone over there looks, at the very least, thirty, they’re partying like it’s Y2K and the world’s about to end.
So, this is why the house was so fucking cheap. Figures.
You let out a low groan and bury your face into the mattress. You have your TV on, white noise playing, even music blaring from your phone. It doesn't even put a goddamn dent in the howling happening in the next house over.
The universe really just did not feel like giving you a break. Dating Colin wasn’t enough punishment for the sins of your past life. Now you had to live next to the goddamn Playboy Manor.
The number of women who had streamed in there in thongs and barely-there bikinis had been concerning, to say the least. And the fact that half of them received payment on entry was even more disturbing.
Admittedly, you probably shouldn’t have been posted at your window, glaring down at the neighbor’s house. But, really, you didn’t have a choice. At least that’s what you tell your nosy ass.
Tomorrow, you swear to yourself. You will march over there, demand an explanation, and then politely ask them to shut the fuck up. Tonight, though, you were too damn exhausted to do anything but bask in your own misery.
Fix the bitch face, you remind yourself, forcing a half-pleasant smile on your face as your neighbor opens her door. The smile slips into a slightly awed expression as you take in the older woman. Her hair perfectly tousled, boobs right in your face with that bikini, and a silk robe wrapped around her like a second skin. Holy shit. You’d been expecting some finance ass in his thirties, not a hot mom in her fifties.
“Hi,” you draw out uncertainly. Her eyes narrow, flitting up and down your form as she appraises you. Your shoulders straighten, chin jutting out under her judgment.
“Can I help you, baby?” The rasp of her voice should have been expected, but it still takes you off guard.
You hold out your plate of (poorly-baked) cookies and adjust your smile. “Yes, hi,” you give her your name. “I just moved in next door,” you tell her, nodding toward your house. “I thought I would introduce myself to my new neighbors.”
And politely ask you all to shut. The. Fuck. Up. On weeknights. You’re a reasonable woman.
The stern look on her face makes way for something you wouldn’t describe as soft, but at least it didn’t look like she was about to pull a gun on you. “Well, isn’t that sweet?” She opens the door and motions you inside. You almost protest but the sharp look on her face has you stepping forward with your tail tucked.
“You know,” her hand hovers over your lower back as she leads you deeper inside. “Not enough girls are like you, anymore. No manners,” she scoffs, voice airy like she’s already a world away from your conversation.
“Why don’t you change, we’re having a little party by the pool.” Of course you are, the only reason you don’t roll your eyes is because you’re 90% sure she would spank you like a child.
“Oh,” you flounder. “I just wanted to introduce myself, that’s all. Besides, I don’t have a suit.”
She laughs, the noise unkind, and turns you toward a bedroom. “You know the great thing about string bikinis,” she rasps into your ear. “They look good on anyone. Bottom drawer,” with a slight shove, you’re stumbling into the room and the door is closing behind you.
That woman is a witch, you’re so sure of it. Not only did you obey, picking through different sizes of bikinis until you found your own, you found yourself waiting for her next instructions. Standing outside the bedroom in your heels and half naked, you feel ridiculous but that doesn’t stop you from smiling when she lets out a low whistle at the sight of you.
“Smurf,” she offers, holding out her hand. You repeat your name again and follow her through the glass doors of her patio.
“Let me introduce you to the boys.”
Your eyes widen as you trip slightly. “Boys?” You croak. Meeting Smurf was bad enough, especially now that she’s got you half-naked prancing around her pool. You had no interest in meeting any of the rowdy assholes screwing around in her backyard.
She hums and sends you a smug smirk, “My boys.” Great, more of her. You’d hit your quota of mama-boys in your life after your ex. You had no interest in meeting any more, but there wasn’t much of a choice as she shouted, “Boys, get over here!”
Four messy heads of hair whip toward her and suddenly, four grown men are racing toward you. Your nails bite into the palm of your hand as you swallow down the urge to turn tail and run back home.
“Craig,” she motions toward the tallest and the one eyeing up your body like you’re a slab of meat at the butcher’s. You’ve never wanted to crawl out of your skin more. “Baz,” he offers his hand. You take it tentatively. His gaze isn’t any better. Only Deran and J, the other two, seem to be looking at you like you’re a human being.
“She brought us some cookies,” Smurf holds out the plate and you frown at the condescending tone of her voice.
“Who are you?” Craig mutters around a mouthful of chocolate chips.
“New neighbor,” Smurf answers for you. Baz’s gaze darts to her and you don’t like the narrow-eyed look they share.
“Really?” Baz asks. The interest in his stare is entirely different now. So unsettling you almost wish he would go back to objectifying you. It feels like he’s trying to crawl under your skin, pick you apart until he’s got your inner workings memorized.
Smurf hums and places the plate down on a nearby table. “I thought we should keep her around, maybe have her for dinner. Get to know her,” the men’s eyes widen slightly and you know that they’re hearing something you’re not. Your stomach rolls unpleasantly.
“Well,” your voice cracks as you take a shaky step back. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
Baz steps toward you, herding around you until you’re being pushed toward a lounge chair. “No intrusion,” he insists as you pretend not to notice the woman doing a line off her hand beside you. You sit stiff and straight, praying as desperately as you can that you’re not about to be trafficked.
“Stick around,” he instructs. “I want to get to know our new neighbor.” You offer nothing more than a squeaky hum. He walks back toward his family and suddenly you’re a deer caught in a fox's den as they stare at you, whispering amongst themselves.
God, you really stepped in it this time.
You’ve had three drinks shoved in your hand in under an hour. Each of them has gone untouched, passed off to whatever partygoer walked by you. Smurf doesn’t speak to you, just sits in her chair and watches everyone. J and Deran asked you brief questions about yourself, but it’s been Baz who’s truly been hounding you.
Every ten minutes, he’ll stop beside you, ask you some “innocent” questions about yourself. You keep your answers brief, each response feeling like a test that you have no luck in passing. Your limit for strangers and loud music is about ten minutes and by this point, you feel ready to pass out or throw up.
Not only is Smurf’s family disturbing and intimidating. The people all around you have been snorting, sniffing, and smoking illicit substances that you want no part in. You actually don’t care how loud they are at night, now, you just want to get out of this party alive.
So, when Baz gets held up breaking up a fight between Craig and Deran, you take your chance. Your heels click against the stone path as you make your way toward one of the doors. Smurf’s blocking the one she led you through, so you end up finding your way into someone’s bedroom.
Just as you’re sliding the glass door shut, the one behind you clicks open. “Fuck,” you hiss.
“Who are you?” The voice is gruff, sharp in a way that has chills breaking out along your body. With a tight smile, you whip around, back pressed to the cold glass.
Hazel eyes are narrowed in your direction, cold and emotionless. “Hi-”
“Who’s that?” A little girl pops up behind him, head tilted curiously.
“Don’t know,” he replies. The man turns, pushing her out of the room. “Find your dad,” he tells her. He waits until she runs off to close the door and you realize how well and truly fucked you are. Because not only are you in a stranger’s house, you’re now being cornered against a bed by a man who looks like he hasn’t felt remorse in years.
“Who are you?” He asks again. He doesn’t raise his voice, but you still feel a shock of fear regardless.
“Neighbor,” you stutter out. His eyes dip down your body, not admiring, assessing. Still, you find your arms wrapping tightly around your stomach, wishing you were in more than, essentially, a bra and thong.
“We don’t have neighbors,” he takes a step closer, rolling up his sleeves in a way that has your breakfast coming up your throat.
“Now you do,” you offer weakly, hands splayed like you’re some sort of surprise. “I, um, brought cookies and Smurf told me to stay. Gave me a bathing suit and…” you trail off as he comes to a stop. His shoulders roll back and for a moment, you feel a little bit of your anxiety ease.
“I was trying to figure out how to sneak out of here. I didn’t realize this was your room, I’m sorry.” He nods once, eyes still roaming across your body. Finally, he steps back, opening up the door and nodding you forward.
You hesitate just a moment before he lets out a slight huff. “Get out.” He doesn’t say it unkindly, just bluntly. It’s enough to get you hightailing your way through the rest of the house. You feel him following behind you, rather than hear him. His presence is looming despite his size, broad and an imitation of your own shadow.
When you pause at the entrance of the bedroom you’d first walked into, he comes up beside you, arms crossed. “What?”
You startle at his sudden appearance and wrap your arms around yourself once more. His eyes narrow on the movement but he says nothing. “My clothes are gone.”
“Clearly,” you’re so caught off guard by what could, almost, be a joke that you forget to take offense.
“No,” you stutter over his audacity and glare. “Smurf put me in this. I left my dress in here. It’s gone.”
The patio door opens behind you both and he shoots you a sharp look. “Go home.”
You glance down at your half-naked body and then back at him. “Like this?”
His hand, rough and calloused, is already wrapped around your arm and dragging you to the front door. “Either that or stay for dinner.” Even if you did want to stay, he gave you no choice. With a light nudge, you’re stumbling down their front steps and the door is slamming behind you.
Before any other neighbors see you, you book it toward your home and throw yourself inside. Tomorrow, you’ll mourn the loss of that dress. Right now, you’re just thankful for the shark-eyed stranger who hustled you out of there.
“Again, Mr. Murray, I’m not allowed to date our clients.” You offer the eighty-year-old man in front of you a forced smile. He laughs you off and leans against the counter. There’s a distinct pop that you’re sure is his hip slipping out of place.
“Nonsense, sweetheart, it’s just a little lunch.” Normally, the older clients are sweet, a little touchy. But they just want someone to talk to, to have someone listen to them, since their kids gave up on them years ago. Mr. Murray, however, is nothing more than a pushy nuisance who thinks sexual harassment is a PC snowflake term invented by prudes.
You glance around him and groan at the long line forming behind his hunched back. “Mr. Murray, you’re flattering me, really, but I have a lot of people waiting.”
His brows draw in and you brace yourself for a temper tantrum when a frighteningly familiar voice interrupts. “Are you done?” Mr. Murray turns and you find a man with shark-eyes and auburn curls watching you. Jerking back slightly, your hand smooths over your hair, primping, as your neighbor moves beside the old man.
Mr. Murray draws back with a why-I-oughta look but he cowers under the younger man’s intense gaze. It’s not even a glare, just the kind of stare that makes you completely rethink who you are as a person.
“Just a joke,” Mr. Murray grunts as he wanders off.
It’s just you and shark-eyes now, you can’t tell if you’re excited or dreadful. “Hi, again.” He says nothing and you scratch the back of your neck. “Nice to see you while I’m fully clothed.” It takes everything in you not to drop your head to your desk, because what compelled you to say that?
A small noise leaves him, nowhere close to a laugh but you think it’s the best you’ll get. “Need to open an account,” it’s all he says before sliding a large pile of hundreds toward you.
“Oh,” your eyes widen as you gape at the obnoxiously large amount of money. You’re used to working at credit unions. They’re homely, poorly furnished, and not used by the richest people. This new job is cushy, a bank so fancy it’s even got a chandelier dangling from the ceiling.
You haven’t had much time to grow accustomed to people with real money working with you. Still, though, this seems like an obscene amount. “Uh,” you clear your throat and tidy the bills into two piles. “My manager opens accounts, just give me a moment.”
His hands ball into fists and he lets out another sharp huff. “I’d prefer if you did it,” he insists and your brows turn in.
“I don’t think I’m-”
“What’s going on over here?” Your manager comes up behind you, hand trailing across your shoulders as he leans against your desk. Shark-eyes tracks the movement and how you shudder. Your manager’s attention falls to the stacks of cash and his breath stutters.
“He wants me to open his account.”
“Why aren’t you?” He demands sharply, pulling back.
Your eyes dart between the two men and you shrink back. Switching jobs was supposed to help you regain control over your life, not put you under the thumb of another poorly developed man-child.
“I’m not supposed to,” you grit out. “You said that, Mike.”
He rubs his hands together and lets out a nervous laugh, “Good day to start.” He collects the other man’s cash and pulls out your chair. He says your name and places his hand on your lower back. “She’ll take you to one of our offices and help you get set up.”
With a huff, you jerk away from Mike’s hand and motion for your neighbor to follow you. He’s eerily silent as he trails behind you. Opening up an empty office, you motion him inside, letting the door shut quietly behind him.
Situating yourself behind the desk, you pull out the new account paperwork. “Alright,” you hum to yourself, leafing through the papers.
“Is he always like that?”
Your eyes widen as you glance up. “Sorry?”
He leans back in his chair, elbows on the armrests and body stiff with tension. “Your boss. Is he always like that?”
You scoff and log in to the bank’s system. “If you mean domineering and a pain in my ass, then yes.” Somehow, his lips fall even flatter at your blunt admission. “It’s a new job,” you find yourself explaining for some reason. “Once the ‘fresh meat’ interest wears off, I’m sure he’ll back off.”
He hums but doesn’t offer you anything else. “Okay,” you draw the word out and slide him the papers. “First things first, need your name.”
He picks up the pen and scribbles it down, you tilt your head in curiosity. “Andrew,” you muse. His shoulders stiffen but he says nothing. “I thought Smurf only had four sons.” It’s an innocent enough inquiry, but from the glare he sends you, you’d think you’d told him you ran over his dog.
“Sorry,” you back off, sliding the papers back toward yourself. Your nails click against the keyboard, struggling to figure out the alien system as you try and finish this as quickly as possible.
“Three,” he suddenly announces.
You hum absentmindedly. “What was that?”
Andrew clears his throat and shifts slightly, but his stare remains strong. Practically burning into you. “She’s got three sons. Deran, Craig, and me. Baz and J aren’t hers.”
You glance over at him and your brows furrow at just how uncomfortable he looks at such a small admission. Further confirmation that you should probably stay as far away from the Codys as possible.
He clears his throat, shifting around again. “What about you?”
You count his money and cast your eyes briefly toward him. Each question he asks sounds like someone’s pulling teeth to force it out of him. He hasn’t looked away, not once, but you’re wondering if that’s just a different sort of stress tic. As if taking his eyes off you means leaving himself vulnerable.
“Nope,” you click your tongue and pass him more forms to sign. “All on my own.”
He straightens and lazily scribbles out his signature. “No family? Boyfriend? You moved into that big house on your own?”
Your fingers still on the keyboard as your shoulders stiffen. From anyone else it could just be a hopeful ploy to see if you’re single. But this is the same man whose mother practically kidnapped you last night and all of a sudden, he’s popping up at your place of work.
With a sly grin you don’t truly mean, you turn to him, arms crossed on the desk. He doesn’t falter, eyes never wavering. “Are you trying to ask me out, Andrew?”
For the first time, you get a true reaction out of him. He blinks rapidly, lips parting as he pulls back from you. “No,” he sounds incredulous and you can’t help but laugh.
“Relax, I’m messing with you. Because, honestly, you sound like I’m going to find you waiting at my house for me tonight.”
He settles and crosses his arms. “I am your neighbor.” If you could read anything about him at all, you might have recognized it as a joke. But it feels more like a threat to you. Stiffening, you draw back and place his money in a bag.
“I’ll just go deposit this for you.” You rush out of the room before he can say anything else.
Andrew turns and watches as you practically run down the hall. He sinks back into his chair with a heavy sigh. He hadn’t even wanted to do this. It's not like he was exactly eager to be back in banks again.
But Smurf and Baz got on his ass about checking out the new neighbor. Making sure she wasn’t a plant or going to cause any trouble. He’d watched you all morning up until now. From all he could tell you were on your own, working a boring nine-to-five, and there was absolutely nothing interesting about you.
You also seemed pretty smart, already aware of just how far you should be staying away from his family. Even more reason you’re not going to be causing any trouble for them. Hopefully, this meant Smurf would get off his back and his day wouldn’t have to revolve around some harassed bank teller.
The low murmur of conversation catches his attention and he turns back toward the glass door. Your manager has stopped you in the hall, hand cupping your elbow as he stands far too close.
You’re actively shrinking back, face curled with displeasure as Mike only gets closer. Pope’s lips curl slightly as he watches you jerk away. You rush down the hall, bag clutched tightly to your chest. Mike glowers until he turns to find Pope watching him.
With a lazy smile, he approaches your office and takes a seat behind the desk. He steeples his fingers, eyes eager as he watches Pope. “Is she treating you alright?”
“She’s fine,” he grits out.
Mike shrugs and gives him a smile like they’re sharing a secret. “No need to cover. We’ve gotten quite a few complaints about her already. There’s only really one reason we hired her, you know?”
Pope doesn’t feel like entertaining the conversation anymore. He wants Mike gone, he wants you gone. He wants to leave. But Smurf always knows when he’s lying and he doesn’t have the option of bullshitting his way out of this ridiculous errand.
“No, I don’t know,” he’s speaking through clenched teeth and, still, Mike is incapable of taking the hint.
“Well,” Mike clears his throat, trying to find a way around a harassment suit. “It’s always nice to have something pretty to look at, you know? Decor’s just meant to be attractive, doesn’t have to be smart.”
“Neither does the manager, apparently.” It takes a moment for the insult to settle. Mike’s wide eyes only further prove Pope’s point.
He clears his throat uncomfortably and shifts, “Right. Well, I’ll just let her finish up here.” Pope says nothing, just watches the old man as he walks out with his tail tucked. He can hear you bump into him in the hallway, Mike snaps at you, taking his frustration out on the first easy target.
Pope turns again and when Mike catches his eye he shoves past you and storms his way back to the front. You watch him go with an awed expression and shake your head. Pope hears you mutter, “Jackass,” as you make your way inside the office.
You settle into your chair with a loud huff. “Here are your checks. It’s just a few, you’ll receive the book in the mail.” He takes it wordlessly, eyes darting to your phone as it lights up on the desk.
🚫drunk texting shows on your screen for a split second before you offer him a sheepish smile and turn it off. “Sorry about that.”
“Who is it?” He’s being invasive, that’s the whole point, but he almost hopes you don’t tell him. If you’re the type to just spill so easily, it’s going to cause trouble for you in the future.
“A mistake,” you bite out, not meeting his eyes. Pope lets out a small sigh as you shove his papers haphazardly into a file. “There you go, Mr. Cody. Please let us know if there’s anything else you might need.”
Your smile is tight, sharp at the edges, your tone is practiced. The same voice you’d given the old man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. You’re dismissing him and wordlessly making it clear that should he ever need anything you want nothing to do with it. Pope’s lips curl ever so slightly but they drop when he catches the surprise on your face at his expression.
He takes the folder from your hands and leaves the office without another word. Making his way through the lobby, he finds himself sitting in his truck, just watching. You never take a lunch break, not leaving your stall unless it’s to deposit money. Pope finds himself growing more and more irritated the longer he has to watch this.
You’re harmless, worth nothing to Smurf. Yet, every time he tries to get her to let this go, she insists he stays. The entire day is wasted on you. Finally, at 5:30, you make your way from the bank. You don’t wave goodbye to your coworkers, effectively ignored as they brush past you. You don’t even linger in the parking lot, just get started going down the sidewalk.
Pope’s brows furrow as he watches you go. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters. You walk home. And it’s not like he can just trail beside you in his truck. Getting out, he follows after you, lingering behind just enough for you not to notice him.
He keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets, feeling more like a pervert than ever before. J or Craig should be doing this shit, not him. This is so far below him it's infuriating. After tonight, Baz better get that stick out of his ass about you.
You pause and Pope ducks back. You dig around through your purse, letting out a soft curse as your head drops to hang between your shoulders. “Dammit.” Pope has no warning as you pivot around, eyes widening as they land on him.
“Oh,” you let out a shrill sound that might have been a laugh and take a large step back from him. “You. Again.” Your eyes dart over his form and he can see as fear settles on you. “I really want to think this is a coincidence.”
Pope’s prolonged silence probably isn’t helping anything. But he genuinely has no excuse that could explain this away. And he knows what he looks like, unblinking, odd, something women don’t want to see following them home.
“You shouldn’t walk home alone,” he finally settles on. The disturbed look on your face doesn’t abate, but you’re also not running.
“Clearly,” you snap. “I knew your family was weird,” you settle on the word carefully and Pope almost laughs. Weird doesn’t even come close to explaining the Codys. He’s not sure any one word could. “But this is a lot.”
Pope shrugs and takes a step closer to you. You don’t move, eyeing him warily. “Do you want a ride back?”
“Are you going to kill me?” He gives you a flat look and you deflate. “Fine. I accidentally left my keys in the bank anyway.” This time, when you walk it’s beside him. Though you keep your purse clutched tightly to your chest, shooting him a wary look every so often.
“Do you want to tell me why you were following me?”
Pope watches you and you don’t shrink away like he expects. You face him head-on, lips set in irritation. “Wanted to check out the new neighbor.” He knows you understand what he means. He’s not looking for a good time, he’s checking out that you’re not going to be a problem.
Finally, you break away from his stare. “I’m boring,” you mutter and he couldn’t agree more. When you reach the parking lot, he waits in the truck while you head back into the bank. He’s shocked you don’t try to make a run for it and, instead, beeline straight toward him.
“Thanks,” you tell him, almost sounding like you mean it. It’s concerning, how easy it was to get you in his car.
Pope doesn’t say anything and you keep quiet all the way back to your house. When you get out, you shoot him a wary look. “Am I going to see you tomorrow?”
“No,” he responds. Baz and Smurf should feel better after all this. You give him a curt nod and he watches as you rush into your house before backing into his own driveway. In the house, everyone's waiting at the table, a family meeting that he hadn’t been warned about.
“Hey, baby,” Smurf smiles and puts a plate of food in front of him as he sits. “You hungry?” He just nods, eyes boring across the table into Baz’s.
“Well?” He prods.
Pope shakes his head. “Harmless, like I said. Works a bank job and goes straight home. It’s just her.”
Baz’s brows lift as Smurf hovers behind him. “Bank job?” She asks, the question anything but innocent. Pope’s stomach turns as his grip tightens around his fork. He just fucked himself right into another week of stalking.
“Could be useful,” Baz mutters. Smurf squeezes his shoulder and nods. Pope doesn’t need to hear the order to know what she wants from him.
For the first time in a week, you find yourself actually taking a lunch break. You rarely have the time for it and you know it’s a bad habit. You’re trying to break it, but with Mike always breathing down your neck, it’s difficult to do so.
Today, though, you’re settled in a sticky booth of the diner closest to the bank. Your nails drum against the table as you wait for your food. Your phone lights up once again, your ex calling you for the fifth time in an hour. The sudden influx of communication is making you wonder if his mom cut him off again.
The door’s bell jingles and you glance up, caught off guard as Andrew walks in. Your eyes narrow and you cross your arms. It’s been a week since you’ve seen him. You figured after that night he tried to follow you home, that was it. Maybe this is just a coincidence, he doesn’t seem to be looking for you.
“Andrew!” Your mouth clamps shut as you curse yourself out. You’re not sure what possessed you to actively vie for his attention, but you’ve got it. He turns toward you, eyes narrowed as he glances at you warily. Maybe he really wasn’t looking for you.
Slowly, he strides toward your table, hands in his pockets as he looms over you. “Want to join me?” You offer.
He seems caught off guard by the invitation, but sits nonetheless. “Fancy seeing you here,” you joke, your laughter trailing off as he remains quiet. You clear your throat and go back to tearing up the paper from your straw. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Why?” The suspicion in his voice is jarring, but you really shouldn’t be surprised.
“Just trying to make conversation,” you toss your hands up and lean back in the booth. Silence permeates the air between you and you shift restlessly.
“I… don’t.” He finally answers, voice stilted. “First time.” You suck your teeth and nod, nails once again drumming against the table. Blessedly, the waitress walks over with your food. Her eyes settle on Andrew as she sets down your plate.
“Can I get you something to eat?”
He shakes his head, “Not hungry.” Your eyes narrow on him as the waitress walks away.
“Don't tell me that you’re still following me.”
“Smurf wants you to come over tonight.” He slips out of the booth and briefly turns to you. “I’ll drive you home.” It’s not a question, there’s no room for argument as he leaves the diner. Your head thunks against the booth’s seat, your appetite suddenly diminished.
True to his word, Andrew had driven you home. He didn’t walk you to your door or wait to make sure you got inside, but you could appreciate that you didn’t have to walk all the way home tonight.
Now, you stand in front of Smurf’s door with a bathing suit on and a fishnet cover-up that makes you feel slightly better about being half-naked around her sons. She opens the door, wearing a similar style bikini to the one you’d first met her in.
“Glad you could make it, sweetheart.” As if you had any choice. You only offer her a tense smile, following as she gestures you inside. “I know Baz wanted to talk to you,” she glances over her shoulder and you force yourself not to grimace.
“Really?” She hums and you both step out toward the pool. Sure enough, Baz is right at the door, pretending to just casually bump into you.
“Hey there, neighbor.” It’s disconcerting how quickly his hand makes itself comfortable on the small of your back. You shoot him a sharp look but he ignores you, urging you toward the bar at the other end of the pool.
Any other setting, any other man, you would shove him off and tell him to leave you alone. But you’re not stupid, you know that there’s something off about these people. However Andrew made all the money he deposited, it wasn’t through any honest means. There’s a gut feeling screaming at you to run away and it just makes you all the more terrified of what might happen should you piss them off.
“I’ve been meaning to check in on you,” Baz says, passing you a beer that you hold with no intention of drinking. Getting drunk around these sorts of people seems like an invitation for life long trauma. “How’re you settling in?”
“Fine,” you tell him, pretending to believe he actually gives a shit about your life and isn’t just pressing you for information. “It’s different from my last place, but it’s not bad.”
“No?” He smirks and some distant part of your brain recognizes that its meant to be charming, but it just makes your skin crawl. “We’re not keeping you up with these parties, are we?”
Yes, “No, I sleep like a rock.” His eyes widen, lips parting with interest, and you suddenly wish you hadn’t said anything at all.
“Really?” He muses, the interest in his tone absolutely nauseating. Luckily, someone calls his name from across the pool and he lets out a sharp breath. “One second, sweetheart, don’t move.” You can hear the underlying threat in his voice but you really could not care at this point. Ditching the beer, you grab a water and take a quick look around the pool.
Almost every lounge chair is filled with multiple people, some doing drugs, others grinding in a way that makes acid burn in your stomach. But there is one shadowed corner, a small perimeter around it like people are afraid to toe their way past. Andrew stands in that little bubble, arms crossed as he glares across the pool.
It takes you a moment to realize that it’s you he’s focused on. It doesn’t unsettle you the way Baz’s poor attempts at charm had. Instead, you find yourself gravitating toward him, hoping for some form of peace in this god-awful party. He straightens as you approach, watching you warily. Or maybe watching you normally. You’re still struggling to figure out the nuances of his glares.
“Mind if I join you?” He says nothing and you take it as an invitation.
“Thought you would be stuck by Baz,” he mutters. There’s something in his tone that has your brows peaking with interest, but you can’t quite decipher his meaning.
You shake your head, placing your glass on a nearby table as you move to stand slightly in front of him. “You know, I think I liked your approach a lot better than his.” He raises a brow and you snort. “I mean, I’d prefer you following me home than having to deal with whatever bullshit was coming out of his mouth.”
Andrew shrugs, but you swear you see his lips curl up slightly. “He comes on too strong.”
A man rams into you before you can respond. You let out a sharp gasp and trip forward. Andrew’s arms shoot up instantly, grabbing you before you can crash into him. The other man lets out a drunken apology as Andrew works to right you.
“Sorry,” you mutter, hands lingering on his chest a moment longer than they should. He’s firm, beefier than you had expected. The slight thrill that shoots through you is cause enough for concern. You already knew your taste in men was bad, but this might be a new low if a chest is what’s getting you hot and bothered now.
“You alright?” He asks and you nod, letting your hands slowly slip away from him. You reach over for your water, frowning at the slightly metallic taste it leaves coated on your tongue. “Hate these things,” he mutters and you’re sure he hadn’t meant for you to hear that.
“Yeah,” you scoff. “So do I. I bet it’s worse for you, though, being at your house and all. You don’t really have any choice but to be here.”
The look he gives you now isn’t assessing or the same blank stare. He seems intrigued, if that’s the right word for it. “Used to have my own place,” he tells you. “They sold it while I was away.”
Your brows furrow and he watches as you work to connect the dots. Away? You think, but then you take in the sort of people you’re surrounded by and only one destination comes to mind. But you’re not about to outright ask the man if he’s been to prison.
You’ll just google it later.
“Damn, that’s brutal,” you mutter. Taking another sip of your water, you find the metallic taste has only grown worse. Sticking your tongue out slightly, you shake your head as you drop it back on the table.
“Is something wrong?” Andrew asks, eyes darting between you and the drink.
“Water just tastes off,” you tell him, shrugging.
His eyes narrow and he begins to reach for it when there’s a loud screech. You jump, whipping around to find a pile-up of bodies, each of them throwing punches as the sound of flesh breaking bone echoes through the party. “Hold on,” he tells you, rushing forward.
You’re not as compelled to leave like you were with Baz. No, you think you might even like to sit down. Your eyes droop as your head begins to grow heavy. Sinking onto a lounge chair you fight off the sudden urge for sleep, confusion fogging your brain as the world around you spins.
“Oh, Jesus,” you mutter, rubbing weakly at your brow. This doesn’t feel right. It’s like you’re floating outside of your body, just barely managing enough control to keep you upright.
“Hey,” Andrew’s voice materializes in front of you. He’s back quicker than you thought he would be. Or maybe time’s just passing by while you’re slowing down. The thought makes an odd-sounding giggle slip past your lips.
Andrew’s face appears before yours as he kneels down, rough hands cupping your cheeks and jerking your head up. You whine at the roughness while his eyes dart across your face. “How much have you had to drink?”
You feel like he knows, he’s been watching you this whole time, after all. Still, you manage to slur out your answer in a slightly comprehensible sentence. “Just the water,” your voice sounds like you're underwater.
Andrew’s thumbs tug at the skin below your eyes, trying to gauge the size of your pupils, the sudden bloodshot look about them. “Fuck,” he hisses and you try to move back, worried it’s you he’s mad at. His grip is firm, though, his hands insistent as he throws your arm over his shoulder and drags you to your feet.
“Come on,” he grits out, carrying the majority of your weight as your feet trip over each other.
“Andrew,” his name comes out wrong, garbled and barely comprehensible. But he manages to understand you, humming in answer as he pulls you through the house. “I feel weird,” you whisper, breath becoming harder to find.
“Yeah, I know you do.” A man whistles as Andrew carries you past, slapping him on the back like he’s just won a prize. Andrew stops and you wonder, briefly, if he’s going to drop you so he can fight the guy. But the other man just goes running off, recognizing his mistake in time.
He keeps going, pushing through the bodies until the cold night air is biting at your cheeks and he’s walking up your driveway. He’s gentler than you expected as he props you against your front door.
“Keys,” he demands, hands gripping your waist so you don’t topple straight into the bushes.
You shake your head, the movement making you painfully nauseous. “Didn’t lock it,” you reach for the handle, palm slipping across it uselessly.
His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing further as he clicks his tongue at you. “Always lock it,” he snaps, tugging you back into his side as he pushes the door open. “What if it wasn’t me walking in here?”
Your eyes narrow, vision blurring. Despite whatever you were slipped, you manage just enough cognitive functioning for an attitude. “How,” you slur, “are you any better than someone else?”
Andrew pauses at that, hesitating at the base of your stairs as you wait for an answer. He stares into your drooping eyes and only huffs before practically carrying you to your bedroom. It’s gentle, the way he sets you down, back pushed against the pillows so you don’t just flop back. But it only takes the brief second he steps away for your eyes to close completely and your body to go limp against your mattress. By the time he returns with a change of clothes, you’re already out.
It’s the sun that wakes you up. Normally, you remember to close your curtains before you pass out. But they’re wide open this morning, blinds pulled up, sun beaming down on you like it’s shaming you.
“Damn,” you drag yourself up, head throbbing as you try to remember what exactly happened last night. You know you went over to the pool, Baz had creeped you out. Briefly, you think you might have spoken to Andrew but that’s where it gets fuzzy.
Glancing up, you would scream if your throat didn’t hurt so much. Andrew sits in the chair by your dresser. His eyes are boring right into you, no malice behind the look, just careful consideration.
You clutch your chest, heart racing under your palm. “Whoo,” you breathe out, giving him an awkward smile. “Give a girl some warning next time,” you attempt to tease but your croaking voice impedes you.
Looking down, you find yourself in one of your sleeping shirts and different underwear. Bile rises in your throat as your mind races to remember even one thing that got you in bed.
“I didn’t look,” he tells you, finally getting to his feet. “But you kept complaining about wanting to change.” He walks toward you, brows set in concern as he takes you in.
Any other man and you probably wouldn’t believe him. You’re not even sure how he could have gotten you out of that suit without a little flash of skin. But you don’t really mind, better him than anyone else in that family. He seems to be the only one who understands the concept of morals.
“What happened?” You ask, grimacing as a pain akin to an ice pick digs its way through your temple.
Hesitantly, as if you might shout at him to get away, he perches at the end of your bed. His hands rest near you, he’s probably waiting for you to keel over.
“Think someone slipped you something,” he mutters, head tilting as his eyes trace over your pained expression. No shit. “I don’t know what it was, wanted to make sure you didn’t asphyxiate in your sleep.”
You look at him, frowning, and he nods toward something by your nightstand. You find a bucket by your feet, filled with what seems to be fresh vomit. “Oh god,” you groan, body crumpling under the weight of your mortification.
“I’m so sorry.” The thought of him having to stay up all night taking care of you makes you feel even worse than you do now. But beneath the shame and embarrassment, there is the smallest semblance of appreciation. Most guys would dump you at home and leave, Andrew’s practically a stranger and he took better care of you than your ex ever did.
“Why are you apologizing?” Blunt, like always, he gives you a sharp look. “It’s not your fault.”
“Feels like it,” you grumble. Hesitantly, you get to your feet, weak knees buckling slightly beneath you. Andrew stands, hand outstretched as you pick up the bucket and hobble toward your bathroom. “I should know better than to just leave my drink unattended like that.”
Andrew scoffs as you struggle to dump and clean the bucket. “Maybe people should just know better than to slip you something,” he mutters. He comes up beside you, taking the bucket from your hands and washing it out for you.
“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning against your bathroom counter as another wave of nausea builds up in your stomach. “You know, I’ve been roofied before,” his head whips up and you offer a wry grin. “Don’t remember it feeling like this.”
You think it’s the casualness of your statement that catches him so off guard. But mickied drinks had practically been a rite of passage at your university. Doesn’t make it good, but it softens the sharp edge of disappointment in humanity when you grow so used to it.
You let out a low groan and clamp your hand over your mouth, absolutely refusing to throw up in front of him. Again. Andrew drops the bucket in your tub and takes quick steps toward you. His hands wrap around your waist, head ducking to see the off-colored pallor of your skin.
“I think you should lie back down.”
Shaking your head, you let out another whine of discomfort. “I can’t,” you object. “I’ll be late to work.” Glancing at your nightstand’s clock, your stomach plummets. “Dammit, later than I already am.”
Andrew’s brows furrow and he shakes his head incredulously. “You’re not going in.”
“If only it were that simple,” you let out a low laugh. As reluctant as you are, you push his hands away, already missing the warmth he’d provided. “Mike already wants to fire me, I can’t give him any more ammo.”
His eyes narrow and he backs off. For a second, you think he’s actually going to listen. Then his hands are wrapping around your biceps and you’re letting out a surprised gasp. “Andrew!” You object, absolutely too weak to fight him as he wrestles you back toward your bed.
“I can’t,” you snap, futilely pushing at his arms. He says nothing, just lifts you up and plants you stubbornly on the mattress.
“Stay here,” he tells you, finger in your face like you’re a misbehaving dog.
You slap his hand away with a glare. “I’m going to miss the bus, Andrew. I can’t just stay home.”
He crosses his arms, completely silent as he stares down at you. For some reason, you can feel guilt bubbling in your gut and shrink back into your pillows. There’s also a shameful heat brewing between your legs at how easily he manhandled you back to bed. How firm he is in making sure you’re okay.
After years of nothing but men who wanted to be coddled and taken care of, you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be on the receiving end of someone’s concern.
You like it a little too much.
“Stay,” is all he says as he walks out of your room, door shut firmly behind him. Your eyes narrow and you debate, for a moment, simply ignoring him and going to work.
You think being on the receiving end of his frustration might be even more interesting than this side of him. But some ridiculous part of you wants to listen, to do what he says so you might finally get something wriggled from that cold exterior of his.
With a dramatic huff, you toss yourself on your pillows. Prepared to stew for the rest of the day, you’re completely caught off guard by the sudden wave of exhaustion coming over you. Sighing, you promise to just let your eyes rest for a few minutes.
You’re out like a light in thirty seconds.
When you wake up it’s already four and you know there is no hope of making it to work. It’s not like you’re eager to deal with irritated clients all day while nursing the effects of getting drugged. But you are truly worried Mike is going to hold this over your head.
With nothing better to do, you take a shower and change your sheets to get rid of the smell of mistakes and vomit. As you’re transferring your comforter to the dryer, you hear the distinct click of your front door opening and closing.
Your hands freeze on your wet sheets while your body goes stiff.
Slowly, you creep out of the laundry room and tilt your head down the stairs. Plastic crinkles in your kitchen, cabinets opening and closing as dishes are retrieved. Despite the fact that you should be terrified, at the very least be grabbing some sort of weapon, you find yourself walking down the stairs without a care in the world. Subconsciously, you know who it is, and you should be afraid of him but you can’t find it in you.
“Hi,” you say dumbly, watching as Andrew dumps what looks like wonton soup into a bowl for you.
His head lifts and he lets out a huff. “You need to start locking your door.”
You shrug, taking a seat at your island and watching him move through your kitchen like he’s been here before. “How would you have gotten in?”
Andrew’s shoulders tense as he sets your bowl in front of you, slamming it harder than necessary. “Lock your door,” he warns. Rolling your eyes, you take the spoon he offers you and frown. He balls up the take-out bag, trashing it, and you realize he hasn’t brought anything for himself.
With a sigh, you hop out of your seat and grab another bowl. He watches as you split the soup between the two of you with a displeased look. “I’m not hungry,” he tells you.
“I don’t care,” you reply offhandedly, sliding him a bowl like you didn’t google him and figure out he was in jail for three years for armed robbery. Sentenced to six, apparently, but got out early on good behavior. At the very least, it wasn’t for murder.
Andrew glares down at the bowl, arms crossed and your tentative smile falls. “Please,” you implore, “I don’t like eating alone.”
He takes it, though you know he doesn’t want to. “I got it for you.”
You shrug, taking your seat once more. “Why did you, anyway?” You don’t usually look a gift horse in the mouth, but it’s hard to believe that a reformed felon is just going around fetching his neighbors' soup.
Andrew wraps his hand around the spoon, but doesn’t make any move to eat. Your head tilts as you take in the scars along his knuckles, spots where the skin has split and healed over one too many times. It should just push you further from him but you find yourself more enticed. After all, why would a man like him have any interest in taking care of you?
“You don’t eat,” his voice is low, the words a shameful secret he wasn’t ready to admit.
Your brows furrow as you process what he said. Glancing over at him, a wry smile finds its way to your lips at the little splotch of color you spot on his cheeks. “Are you still watching me?” You laugh off a sentiment that should have you calling his parole officer.
Andrew rubs the back of his neck, gaze pointed down at the soup. “Not really,” he says awkwardly, not even believing himself.
Giving him a break, you go back to eating. “Well, you’re right. I was probably just going to eat some saltines and call it a night.” The huff he lets out shocks a laugh out of you. Slowly, Andrew picks the spoon up and starts to eat. You’ll count it as progress to thawing him out.
At 8:30, you’re already running late to catch the bus. Tugging on your heels, you let out an aggrieved sigh as someone knocks on your door. Frowning, you double-check the time and throw open the door.
Andrew stands there, scowl disapproving as you give him a small smile. “Did you even check who was at the door?”
You consider lying but the way his eyes narrow into slits swats the idea away. “No.” You grab your bag and usher him back as you close the door. “What’s up?”
“I’m giving you a ride,” it’s all he says. Blunt, concise, not even an offer. Heat flushes through you as he takes your keys from your hand and pointedly locks your door. You almost wish he would scold you again.
His hand hovers over the small of your back as he guides you to his truck. You fight back a shudder at the warmth he emanates while he’s not even touching you.
You’re slightly taken aback when Andrew opens up the truck door for you, even offering you a hand up when your heel slips. The brush of his calloused hand against yours is enough to send warmth flooding your body, an ache settling between your legs.
As he rounds the front of his truck, you resist banging your head against the dashboard. You only just got out of a bad relationship a few months ago. You should not be so fucking eager to jump some man’s bones. Especially not when that man is a known felon and his family is probably full of them.
Andrew gets in and you jolt up, forcing your back straight and a strained smile on your face. The last few times you were in his truck, you had been more worried about what he was going to do with you to pay attention to the interior. But as you look around now, you’re taken aback by how clean it is. It’s practically spotless, not a speck of dust on the dashboard or even an abandoned bag of chips on the floorboard. It could be new, but you’re certain that Andrew just knows how to take care of his things.
Is it completely wrong that it only makes you hotter for him?
The drive is quiet, as it has been the last few times you’ve been with him. You’re surprised when you turn the radio on and he doesn’t object. You were starting to wonder if he’s quiet just because he prefers the silence or if it’s because he doesn’t know anything else anymore.
He was in prison, you’re certain he was probably thrown in solitary a few times. You can imagine silence became a habit rather than comfort.
When he parks and gets out of the truck, you’re just surprised enough to allow him time to make it to your side and open the door for you. The sudden surge of gentlemanly conduct is odd, to say the least, but you won’t pretend it doesn’t endear him to you further.
You wonder if this is how men in the 1800s felt when they saw a flash of ankle as you slip your hand into Andrew’s again and practically salivate at the feeling. “Thank you,” you murmur quietly. He only nods, not stepping back, letting your hand rest in his. But you grow worried about your palm being clammy and pull back before he can feel it.
Andrew glances at your hand and you swear you almost see disappointment on his face. “Um,” you clear your throat. “My lunch break is at one. Do you have any plans?”
You’re not the type to make the first move. You learned a while ago that if you’re the one who has to start the relationship, you’re going to be the only one participating in it. But something about Andrew gives you a boost of assurance you’ve never experienced before.
His eyes meet yours, lips in a flat line as you struggle to read the intricacies of his expression. “Can’t. Family meeting,” he explains vaguely. Your eyes widen as mortification draws the color from your skin.
“Right, right,” you clear your throat and back away from him, suddenly desperate to get inside the bank and have Mike yelling at you. “Well, uh, thanks for the ride.” He nods and you’re quick to rush into the bank, your lonely stall calling for you as you try and toss Andrew Cody from your mind.
Pope watches you go, he almost laughs at how quickly you run off. He probably should have clarified that he would like to have lunch with you, he wasn’t outright rejecting you. But, he figures he can just explain that to you when he picks you up after work today.
His phone buzzes and he rolls his eyes as Baz’s name invades his messages.
Get some info about the security switch-off from her
We don’t want to wait much longer but you’re taking a while here Pope
Pope considers responding when another message comes through.
Don’t forget to act like a human, don’t want you scaring her off too early
With a discontent huff, he shoves his phone back in his pocket and climbs back into his truck. He can just barely make you out through the bank's window. That old man from the other day is right back at the front of your line. You’re not great at hiding how you’re feeling and Pope almost laughs at the way your lips are curled up in disgust. He debates going in there and getting rid of him for you, but it would seem suspicious.
You already caught him watching you once. He needs you to think this is something else. Something more intimate. It's the best way to get your guard down, to get the information that Baz and Smurf want so this job can be over and done with.
So that you can be over and done with.
You’re getting used to the sight of Andrew’s car and what should scare you only serves to further excite you. As you wave goodbye to the security guard, John, you see Andrew get out and wait for you on the passenger side.
“If you don’t stop, I’m going to start getting used to this,” you warn him as you walk up.
He only shrugs, holding open the door for you, offering you a hand. “You shouldn’t be walking home alone,” his tone sounds like admonishment.
You almost ask him about his day when he gets in, but he beats you to the punch. “Did you eat today?”
You purse your lips and shake your head, receiving a barely-there scowl in return. “Mike had me work through lunch to make up for my no-show yesterday.” In response, Andrew doesn’t take the left turn back to your neighborhood, he goes right instead.
Narrowing your eyes, you stare at him suspiciously. “Kidnapping me?”
He only shakes his head, shooting you what you desperately want to be a playful glare. “Feeding you,” he clarifies. “Would’ve gone to lunch with you if Baz hadn’t been up my ass.” He mutters it under his breath, quiet in a way you know you’re not meant to hear.
“What did he want?” You find yourself asking, curiosity winning out over survival instincts.
Andrew stiffens, fingers tightening imperceptibly around the wheel as he shrugs. “Nothing important,” he dismisses, tone closed off in a way you know means the conversation is over.
Something tightens in your chest, the first real warning of threat you’ve felt around him. You dismiss it as nerves and shift uncomfortably in your seat. “Where are we heading?” You ask, attempting to gauge what his intention is here.
It’s pretty simple, a quiet, intimate restaurant and you know he means it as a date. Somewhere loud, however, slightly crowded and better for beer with buddies than going out with a woman, you know he’s just being strangely friendly.
“Here,” he nods and your stomach plummets as you watch him pull into Larry’s parking lot. A pub you’d grown acquainted with quite intimately when you were still with Colin. The same place he always liked to ditch you to get drunk with his buddies. The atmosphere inside dashes any hope of Andrew caring about you outside of your general welfare.
With a disappointed sigh, you help yourself out of the truck before Andrew can. He scowls and you ignore him, trying to tamp down any sharp jabs. It’s not his fault that he got your hopes up. That he got you all hot and bothered after showing you that half-decent men still do exist.
Andrew trails slightly behind you as you walk inside. “Oh,” the host’s eyes light up and you offer a brief smile. “I haven't seen you in forever.” Robby rounds the stand to give you a side hug that you barely return.
In a second, Andrew’s at your side, gaze darting between the two of you suspiciously. Robby pulls back with an awkward chuckle and grabs menus for both of you. “Come on,” he nods. You shoot Andrew an odd look but he doesn’t offer any explanation as Robby seats you both.
The second you’re seated, the atmosphere floods over your table. Loud, drunken conversations fill the air, five different sports commentary blasts on the TV. It’s so much that you nearly jump out of your seat and just book it home. Your fingers clench around the menu as you force yourself to stay seated and just remain calm.
Andrew grimaces as he looks around, seemingly regretting his choice. “Have you not been here before?” You ask.
He glances back at you and shakes his head. You’re honestly shocked he actually heard you. “I’m assuming you have.”
You nod and prop your head on your hand. “My ex used to drag me here all the time.” Andrew’s knuckles whiten as his grip goes deathly tight around his menu. With a low breath, he sets the menu down and his features soften into something you can’t place.
“I didn’t know it was going to be like this,” he tells you. Your eyes narrow and a little bit of hope blooms inside of you.
“Can I be honest with you?” He nods, leaning further over the table so he can actually hear you. You don’t have to, but you find yourself inching closer until your noses are nearly touching. You can feel the heat radiating off his cheeks and it only provokes you.
“I thought this was going to be a date.” Andrew pulls away slightly and you bite back a laugh at the first real emotion you’ve wrenched from him. He’s flustered, clearly, but he also seems incredibly caught off guard.
“You did?” You let out a low hum and nod, slowly sinking back into your seat. “Did you want it to be a date?” He asks, hesitant and completely unsure of himself.
There’s a slight crack to his voice, vulnerability shining through in a way that makes your chest ache. “Yeah,” you huff out a laugh. “I wanted it to be a date.” Slipping out of the booth, you hold out your hand to him.
His eyes dart between you and your open palm before he, very slowly, places his calloused hand in yours. “What are you doing?” You roll your eyes and tug him out of the booth. You know that if he wanted to, he could have just planted his feet and stayed where he was. But he lets you drag him out of the restaurant, hand squeezing yours slightly as you head back to the truck.
“I’ll make us dinner,” you tell him. “Then we can have a proper date.” You stop, lingering by the passenger door. His eyes are boring into yours and you swallow, some of your bravado slipping away. “That is, if that’s what you want?”
When his lips curl up, the first real sign of any semblance to a smile you’ve gotten, you know you have your answer.
It becomes a habit. Andrew picks you up, drops you off, sometimes he brings you lunch or you just see him at the end of the day when he drives you back home. Most of the time, he stays. Coming inside and helping you make dinner since your last attempt ended with you somehow managing to burn spaghetti.
It’s been innocent, a kiss on the cheek, or you reaching across the console to hold his hand while he drives. The majority of the time, you initiate the touch and he just reciprocates. You worry sometimes that you’re projecting your own desires onto him, not taking into account what he might want.
But he hasn’t objected, hasn’t ever pulled his hand away or told you to stop. You hope that means he doesn’t mind how affectionate you can be when you really care about someone.
You’re completely unaware of just how much the small kindnesses mean to him. Unaware that when he’s around you, he’s not Pope or a Cody, he’s just Andrew. He almost feels normal around you, like he’s just some regular guy who got lucky when he asked the pretty bank teller out.
Every time you touch him, kiss his cheek, and are just willingly in his presence without being intimidated, he thinks that he might be worth something. The feeling never lasts long, fading every time he goes back to his own house. It’s completely wrenched away by Baz or Smurf demanding updates, seeing if he’s gotten any decent information out of you.
He has, not that he’s told them yet. You let it slip that there was a transport coming through on Thursday, lots of cash that Mike will probably want to take a dive in. And then, when he’d come in to bring you lunch, you complained that the security guard was late. Let it slip that there’s a ten-minute gap every day at one when they switch shifts.
It’s enough for Smurf and Baz. He could tell them all of this and they’d relent, tell him to ditch you. Make sure you’re oblivious as he ghosts you and they take what they want. But he doesn’t want that. He wants to keep standing next to you and making dinner. To pick you up and drop you off like you’re actually something real that he has to look forward to.
Andrew pulls into your driveway, the routine becoming more familiar to him than when he goes into his actual home. As always, he opens the door for you, takes your hand and leads you up the steps of your porch. He likes to linger on nights like tonight when he can’t come in. Baz and Smurf want him home tonight and he knows they’re not going to be giving him any leeway.
But he’s almost tempted to say screw it when you turn toward him, eyes shining under your porch light, expression earnest as you smile up at him. “Do you want to come inside?”
It’s completely innocent, your question, something you’ve asked a hundred times before. That doesn’t abate the ache in his jeans and that tight feeling in his chest every time you look at him like this. Like he’s actually someone you want around and aren’t just using.
Not like he’s using you.
A hot flush of shame shoots through him and he shakes his head. “I can’t tonight.” Your lips turn down in disappointment and he wants to take it back immediately, but he forces his mouth shut.
“Alright,” you take his hands in yours and lean up toward him. He expects the usual kiss on the cheek, even looks forward to it. What he doesn’t expect is your lips brushing against his, arms winding around his neck as you pull back with a smile like you didn’t just stun him into silence.
His eyes narrow and when you let that breathy little laugh of yours slip out, he loses any semblance of self-control. Not that he had much to begin with.
Your shocked gasp against his mouth is enough for him to trace his tongue along the seam of your lips. And when you practically moan, body sinking against his, he can’t help himself. His hand cups the back of your head, pushing you up against your front door and slotting his thigh between yours.
Something warm stabs through him, slightly unpleasant and completely unfamiliar. It’s a feeling he only ever experiences around you and it never stops being overwhelming. Never stops drowning out any thoughts except ones that revolve around you, how you feel, how you make him feel.
You pull back, laughing when he chases your lips. “Andrew,” there’s a low purr in your voice when you say his name, has his hands tightening around your waist. When you ask, “Would you like to come inside?” He doesn’t say no, just opens the door, lifting you into his arms and not stopping until you’re breathless and smiling up at him on your bed.
He doesn’t make it home until after he’s dropped you off the next morning. He’d ignored all the missed calls last night, shutting off his phone so he could enjoy the feeling of your arms around him. It was surreal, waking up beside someone who his mother hadn’t paid off or he’d gotten drunk with and didn’t remember her name.
You’d held him in a way no one ever has before and it only made that piercing pain of guilt thicken in his chest. It’s practically suffocating as he steps inside, finds Smurf waiting for him with crossed arms and an expectant look.
“You didn’t come home last night, baby.” She says, watching as he brushes past her and grabs water from the fridge. He needs something to do with his hands, anything to not look up at her and see that she knows what he’s done. His hands flex, twisting the bottle cap around as the plastic creaks beneath his grip.
“Have fun with the neighbor?” She asks, tone innocent as she begins plating up the breakfast he’d missed. He doesn’t tell her that you already fed him, had taken care of him without expecting anything in return.
Again, Andrew stays silent, he’s already given too much away just by coming home late. “If I didn't know any better, baby, I’d say you actually like her.” She drops the plate in front of him, crossing her arms as she leans against the island. “But I know my baby boy, don’t I?”
It’s an effort not to jerk away as she drags her hand across his shoulders, smiling at him. “You’re taking too long, hun. I had to stop Baz from going over there last night, just getting the information he wanted and getting rid of the girl.”
Andrew’s hands tighten around the bottle, water seeping from the top. White hot rage flashes through him and he imagines the bottle is Baz’s neck for a moment. Smurf laughs, already knowing what he’s thinking.
“I’m not going to be able to control him much longer.” She could, she just doesn’t want to. “I’d hate for anything to happen to that sweet girl.” Her tone is laced with venom and Andrew’s head drops, knuckles white as he grips the counter. “Do you have what I need, baby?”
It’s because he cares about you so much that he tells her what he’s learned. He knows her words are never empty threats. Baz will hurt you, she will hurt you, if he doesn’t give them what he wants. He knows he’s trying to protect you, but that doesn’t lessen the weight of guilt.
It’s almost one, right around the time Andrew usually stops by if he’s decided to bring you lunch that day. You figure, after last night, he probably will visit. The thought sends a thrill up your spine that makes you giddy.
You really hadn’t intended for last night to go in the direction it did, but you weren’t complaining. And he hadn’t been either. Still warmed by the memories of the night, you check your watch.
The second hand ticks and it’s exactly one. John gets up, heading to the back to take his break while Nathan will take his time coming back from his lunch. The paperwork from yesterday’s delivery has finally been completed and you stand up from your stall, getting ready to pass it off to Sheila so she can look it over.
At exactly 1:01, the doors to the bank burst open and three masked men rush in. “Everybody down!” It’s shock, you think, that’s why you’re standing frozen. Why you’re not just doing what the big men with even larger guns say.
Then, he’s pulling the trigger, bullets embedding themself into the ceiling as the chandelier creaks dangerously above you all. Finally, your system shocks itself back to life and you’re dropping to the floor. Your fingers itch to press the emergency button beneath your stall, but one of the men has already found his way behind the divider.
“You!” He points at you and your heart beats an erratic rhythm against your ribs. He stomps over, grabbing your arm and wrenching you to your feet. A strangled noise slips through your lips, your coworkers cower as they watch you with misty eyes.
The tallest of all of them keeps his guns pointed at those on the ground. Then the shortest man comes running over, trailing behind you and the one holding you. He drags you to the vault and shoves you into the metal door.
Your palms sting as you catch yourself and it takes every iota of survival instinct you have not to give him a nasty glare. “You know the drill,” and he chuckles, the noise muffled beneath his hood. As if this is all one big joke.
Your fingers tremble over the lock pad as you shake your head. You try and step back but there’s a firm hand, almost familiar, easing you forward again. Your gaze shoots to the short one and he nods at the vault. “We’re not gonna hurt you if you just let us in. There doesn’t have to be any trouble.”
His voice is off, as if he’s purposely speaking strangely. Maybe it’s a way for them to mask their identity further. All it does now is serve to unsettle you even worse.
Then, there’s a cold plunge in your body, everything going still when you feel something dull and metal pressing into your side.
“Or,” the other one drawls. “I shoot you right here and we just go get one of your friends to open this for us.” The short one’s hand tightens around your shoulder and you grimace. He releases you instantly.
“Come on,” that sleazy voice is almost familiar to you. But maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks. “I’ve seen you take the money in here, sweetheart. I know you know how to get in.”
Your breath stutters, terror wraps tight around your throat and blocks any further air. “You’ve been watching me,” you whisper, already reaching forward to punch in the code. The taller one hums with delight, gun easing as you slip your key from your blazer’s pocket. It doesn’t take long for the vault door to pop open.
The shorter man grabs the handle before you can, letting out a low groan as he tugs the heavy door open further. “Alright, come on,” the other one’s got his hands on you again. Your skin feels like it's going to rip under his tight grip, but you don’t say a word, just follow obediently behind him.
This all feels wrong. Like this is someone else’s life and you’ve just accidentally walked into it. You have poor luck, sure, but not this bad. This can’t be real, you swear to yourself. And it’s all you repeat as they open their bags, forcing you to stuff them full as you empty the safety deposit boxes.
They call the other one in the vault but there’s a dull buzzing in your ears and you barely hear what they say at all. The only thing you can truly focus on is the gun still pointed at your chest. “Alright,” he shoulders his bags and you can almost feel him grinning at you.
“On your knees, sweetheart.” Your stomach twists, bile racing up your throat as cold panic wraps around you.
“Hey!” The short one barks, but the other man just holds up his hand.
“Come on,” he urges, lifting his gun and leveling it with your face. Slowly, you drop to your knees the dull thud of cement is a welcome shock to your body. He kneels in front of you but you refuse to meet his eyes through the holes of his mask. You just bite your lip, stare boring into the ground beneath you and pray you wake up from one long nightmare.
“Let’s go, man!” Sirens begin to sound closer and you would be relieved if this man wasn’t still in front of you.
He doesn’t listen to his partner, just tips your chin up with the end of his gun. “You say a goddamn word about any of this, I will find you and I will hurt you, sweetheart.”
What could you possibly say?
Finally, you lift your head, meeting sharp blue eyes. Something stutters in your chest, mind racing to shove down the sudden familiarity you see in this man’s gaze. Slowly, you nod and he finally backs off, racing through the vault door. The shorter man lingers a second longer but when you don’t move he follows after his partner.
It isn’t until you hear the police rush into the bank that you finally collapse against the ground. Pained sobs wrack your body as you struggle to breathe deeply enough to get your heart rate under control.
Your name flashes on Andrew’s screen and Baz sends him a sharp look. “Don’t want to look suspicious now, do we?”
Andrew rips his mask off and glares at Baz. “If you’d stuck to the fucking plan, we wouldn’t have anything to worry about.” Craig glances between them both, looking at them like he doesn’t feel like breaking up a fight today.
Baz glares and pushes off the wall of the semi-trailer they’d hid themselves in. “Maybe if you hadn’t done that reassuring bullshit, I wouldn’t have had to threaten her.”
Rage surges through Andrew’s body, your ringtone going off over and over again as he and Baz stare at one another. “You wanted to,” Andrew grits out. “I got you the info you wanted, did what you asked, but you still wanted to hurt her.”
Baz sees the way Andrew takes a step forward and knows this is a fight he won’t win. Again, he nods to Andrew’s phone. “Answer the fucking call, Pope.”
If it weren’t you, if it were anyone else calling, Andrew would have just drilled Baz into the fucking ground. But he’s right, this will look suspicious if he just keeps ignoring your calls. Besides, after the shit Baz pulled, you’re probably terrified.
With one last glare at Baz, he picks up the phone, turning his back to the other men. “Hey, what’s going on?”
Your voice is tight and panicked on the other end, tone clogged like you’ve been crying. It just makes that ache in his chest burn worse and he hates himself a little bit more. For letting you get wrapped up in this. For ever pretending like he wasn’t going to get selfishly attached to you.
“Andrew! The bank was just-” you suck in a sharp breath and his anger only intensifies as your voice cracks. “Can you come get me, please? I need you.”
This is what he’s wanted this whole time. For Smurf and Baz to be appeased. For you to need him so badly you don’t have the choice of leaving. So why does he feel so shitty? “I’m pretty far away, it’ll take me a little bit.”
You blubber, another sob drowning out your voice. “Okay,” you finally whisper and Andrew hangs up, knowing he doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t deserve those small moments of kindness you’d gifted him, where he’d felt like a person again. Not some attack dog or errand boy. You made him feel real and he’d just held you at gunpoint.
By the time he picks up his truck and drives back to the bank, you’re gone. He wanted to ask the people still there if they’d seen you leave. But he doesn’t need the cops seeing his face right after a freshly robbed bank.
His chest is tight with panic as he peels out of the lot. You hadn’t called him that long ago. Thirty minutes, maybe. If he’s lucky, one of your coworkers offered you a ride and you just didn’t feel like waiting anymore. He knows he’s never lucky, though. He thought he had been with you and he’s already tainted this fragile thing you had between each other.
The dread that’s been brewing since you called is only worsened when he pulls into your driveway and sees you waiting on your front steps. He barely manages to get the truck in park before he jumps out.
You don’t twitch, don’t move an inch as he runs toward you. And that aching, festering feeling that burns inside him, it’s telling him a truth he’s not ready to admit. This is it. You’re too smart not to know what happened. And Baz was too much of a dumbass to just keep quiet and stay distant.
This is what he wanted, Andrew is sure, to get you away from him so Smurf has her dog back.
“Hey,” his hands cup your cheeks and a little piece of him finds hope when you don’t push him away. “What happened? You weren’t at the bank.”
Finally, you lift your gaze to meet his. The color of your eyes is dulled, face flat in an infuriating way he can’t read. “I didn’t want to wait. Walked home.” Andrew’s eyes dip to the heels resting beside your feet, the red backs of your ankles.
“Why?” He already knows why, but that doesn’t stop his hands from drifting down your legs, trying to soothe away the ache he knows has settled in your calves.
You let him just kneel before you for a little while. He can’t find the courage to meet your eye, hands just moving over your soft skin because he knows that this is it. Subconsciously, he can recognize that this sudden emptiness in your eyes isn’t because of what happened today. It's because of who was there. You’re keeping yourself hidden from him and he wonders if this is how you always feel around him.
“Andrew,” you whisper and his hands tighten around your leg. “Look at me,” your voice is so disarmingly soft and he knows it's a trap, but he obeys because he doesn’t know what else to do.
“I’m going to ask this once,” you tell him, hand lifting to cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, soaking it up greedily as your thumb smooths over the planes of his face. “Were you there today?”
It’s like everything goes cold. Your hand stops moving, grip tightening around his jaw as your eyes flatten into something sharp. His heart skips a beat once before he’s sucking in a sharp breath. He can’t lie to you, he doesn’t want to, but he can’t hurt his family and outright admit his guilt.
Silence lingers between you before you’re ripping your hand away and he’s trying to chase after your warmth. Your legs kick out, gently getting rid of his hands as you finally stand. Andrew follows, palms outstretched, unsure of what he’s supposed to do with himself when you’re right there and he isn’t allowed to hold you.
“Oh,” you whisper and there’s a grin on your face that’s cold and slightly panicked. “I fucking knew it. I knew it and I still gave you a chance!”
Andrew shakes his head, but you just wave him off, not interested in anything he might have to say to you. “I was nothing but a mark to you, right? An easy way to get access to the vault, to figure out the quickest way in and out. Jesus, I just handed it to you, I actually fell for your bullshit.”
“No,” Andrew objects, following you as you climb up your stairs. “It wasn’t bullshit, none of it was.”
You whip around on him, eyes glassy as you stare at him with something that looks painfully like hatred. “You got what you wanted, Pope,” you hiss the name out and it breaks something inside of him. “Tell Baz he doesn’t have to worry, I won’t be calling the cops. I don’t want anything to do with you people anymore. Got it? Stay the hell away from me.”
Andrew tries to follow you, but you slam the door in his face. He lingers there longer than he should, eyes boring into the wood like you might change your mind and open it. But he heard the lock click a while ago and he knows you meant every word. He can’t blame you, shouldn’t blame you. Honestly, not calling the cops is more than he ever could have asked of you.
But logic doesn’t abate the anger, the sharp, barbed pain inside his chest. You hadn’t given him a chance to explain. You didn’t believe how much you meant to him and he had tried to show you constantly. You just tossed it all aside like it meant nothing. But it wasn’t nothing.
Andrew knows that.
It meant something. It meant everything to him and he can’t just let you pretend it never happened.
The bed dips behind you and you grumble tiredly, flipping over as you try to yank the blankets up to your chin. There’s a weight on them, though, pulling them down and away from you. Ever so slowly, the fogginess of sleep begins to fade and your brain shocks itself awake.
There is someone on the bed behind you.
Trying not to breathe too loudly, you lift your head and peer over your shoulder. You aren’t surprised when you recognize Andrew’s hunched form, the moonlight from your open window giving a good enough view.
With a loud huff, you flip on your lamp and leap out of bed. His shoulders jump but he doesn’t turn to face you. “What the fuck do you not get about staying away from me?” You snap. Your anger only grows when he remains silent.
“Fucker,” you mutter under your breath, rounding your bed so you can see his face. Your feet still, anger abating for a moment as you take in the redness along his cheeks. As if he’s been crying. But you’ve never seen Andrew cry before, you weren’t even sure he was capable of it.
At his prolonged silence, something wedges itself into your chest, apprehension and nervousness. He’s quiet but this isn’t normal. Baz’s threat from earlier rings in your head as you slowly approach him. Andrew doesn’t meet your eye until you drop to your knees in front of him.
Bloodshot and weary, you know he really has been crying. It tugs on something in you. That soft, weak part of yourself that’s so used to caring for other people, you can hardly resist the urge now. Your hands lift and cup his cheeks, brows furrowing as you take in the devastation on his face.
“Andrew…” You trail off, speechless as he nuzzles into your hand, eyes falling shut. “What’s wrong?”
It takes a long while for him to speak, but you just wait, dread building with every second. Passively, you smooth your hands over his cheeks, attempting to keep him calm. The last thing you need is Andrew snapping and you being the nearest target.
“She’s doing it again,” he finally whispers, hands coming up to trap your own.
Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you ask, “Doing what, honey?”
He shudders at the pet name, melting further into you until he’s nearly on the floor with you. “Smurf, what she did with Cath…” He shakes his head and you can feel it, the slight buildup before someone begins to cry. Slowly, you creep forward, arms winding around his neck as you pull him into your embrace.
Andrew clings to you instantly, head buried in your shoulder as you drag your fingers through his curls. You hope he can’t feel how your heart is racing against your ribs, that he can’t sense just how scared you are right now.
You’re not scared of him, not really. But you know what Smurf is capable of. You know how deep mothers like that can embed themselves in their son’s head. It’s her that’s terrifying to you. “Who’s Cath, sweetheart?”
He shudders again, arm winding tight around your waist. “I loved her,” he whispers the admission into your skin and it feels like something no one was ever meant to hear. “Smurf, she told me Cath talked to the cops, I,” he cuts himself off and you feel your breath catch in your chest. “I hurt her,” he finally settles on. But that’s not the whole truth. You can feel it, can hear it in how his voice cracks.
He killed her.
You jerk back, jumping to your feet. Andrew lets out a low noise, eyes cloudy and cheeks ruddy. He stares up at you, hurt by how quickly you pulled away from him. “Andrew,” it’s a Herculean effort to keep your voice steady. “Is that why you’re here? Did Smurf send you to hurt me?”
His eyes drop to the floor, posture slipping under the weight of shame. “Yes,” he finally whispers.
This time you can’t stop the way your voice cracks. “Are you going to?”
Andrew’s head whips up, eyes wide as he stares up at you. “No,” his voice breaks around the word. You step forward as his hands reach out, wrapping around your hips and tugging you closer to him. “No, I’m not,” he insists and you really want to believe him.
He sees it, the fear in your eyes. In the one person he never wants to see looking at him like that. “You don’t believe me,” he mutters, head falling forward as his forehead rests against the softness of your stomach.
Your hands go to his back, scratching through his hair and trying to use your touch to ground him. “I believe you, Andrew. I just,” you hesitate, eyes darting around the room like you might be able to find an escape. “I don’t know why you’re here if you’re not going to listen to her.”
He sucks in a deep breath, face nuzzling into the softness you provide before he pulls back. You startle as he stands, eyes wide as he keeps his grip on your hips and tugs you even closer. His eyes lose the softness of sorrow, narrow into something harsher.
“You can’t stay here. Smurf expects you gone and if you’re not, she’s just gonna send Baz.” You tense under his grip and his thumbs draw circles into your skin, as if that would calm you after threat of death.
Andrew reaches into his back pocket and you watch as he pulls out a large envelope. He passes it off to you, slightly reluctant to release it as you take it from him. You move away from him, dumping the contents on the bed. An ID, a passport, and a thick stack of cash sit in front of you.
“Got you a new license plate, too. I already put it on.” He stands beside you, eyes boring into the side of your head. You can hardly breathe, let alone try and muster up a response. Tentatively, his hand lands on your back, the touch is enough to have you jolting back.
“Andrew, what is this?” You know. You know what it is, no part of you wants to admit, though.
“You have to go,” he whispers your name and you shake your head, body going numb. “Yes,” he insists. “It’s that or Smurf sends someone else to deal with you.”
“And,” you stutter slightly, scrubbing your hands down your face. Not only were you held at gunpoint today by your boyfriend, and then broke up with him. Now, he’s standing here telling you his mother wants you dead.
Death or change your identity.
This is why you had sworn to yourself no more mama’s boys. Now look where you are.
“Are you coming?” You ask, noticing that the only identification there is for you. Andrew pulls back and your heart drops. “Tell me you’re joking,” you snap.
That sad look in his eyes is all the confirmation you need. Swallowing down tears, you try to turn from him. His hands snap up, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to meet his eye. “I can’t just leave,” his tone is desperate, eyes imploring you to understand. “I’m sorry but I can’t.”
“Fine,” you whisper, reality settling like a stone in your gut. “If I’m doing this right, then I guess this is it.” His brows furrow and you let out a shaky exhale. “Goodbye, Andrew,” you tell him, pushing up to press a light kiss on his cheek.
Despite the fact that it’s his mother getting rid of you, his fault you got wrapped up in this, he can’t let you go. You try to back away but his grip is firm as he drags you back and presses his lips to yours.
It’s the sort of desperate, dramatic kiss you thought you would only ever experience through movies. Tears are hot as they race down your cheeks, salty as they drip between your lips and you find yourself melting into him. He’s not kissing you like he’s saying goodbye. He’s kissing you as if he holds you close enough, this might not happen.
It’s you who pulls back, chest too tight to continue without taking a breath. Your forehead rests against his, hands sliding down to cover the ones on your cheeks. He lets out a small noise that rips through your chest as you finally pull him away from you.
“Thank you,” you whisper, incapable of looking at the passport on the bed, the new name you’ll be stuck with while you get away from the Codys. He tries to keep his hand in yours but you force yourself to break away, to put enough space between you so you can breathe again.
Without a word, you go into your closet to grab a suitcase. When you return, Andrew’s already gone. Another sob rips through your chest, but you force yourself through it, swallowing roughly as you start packing your life away.
You wait. It’s stupid, you know. Just a few hours ago, you were shouting at Andrew to stay out of your life, to forget you so you could forget him. But now, you’re sitting in your car, forehead resting on your steering wheel.
He told you he wouldn’t leave. That he couldn’t. And you know why. He feels obligated to his family, feels like their burdens are his to carry, even if they aren’t. He’d taken the fall for Baz once, and now he was doing it all over again.
Sitting up, your head thumps against the headrest as you suck in a sharp breath. You drag your hand down your cheeks, forcing away any remaining tears. You can’t wait for him forever. Smurf probably already thinks you’re dead. You know she’s got connections, like any good leader would, it wouldn't take her long to catch up to you. You have to leave now, while you still have the advantage of night.
“Alright,” you click your garage opener and finally force yourself to turn the ignition in your car. The car that Andrew had fixed for you, even if he still insisted on giving you rides after. The thought sends a stabbing pain in your stomach that you force yourself to ignore.
The headlights flick on, illuminating your driveway, and you bite your tongue to tamp down a scream. It takes a moment for the shock to wear off and for you to realize that the man standing in front of you is Andrew. Brows furrowed, you watch as he walks up to your car and tugs open the passenger door.
You’re left speechless when he just stares straight ahead, not looking at you once. “I need to make sure you get settled safely,” he tells you. You nod dumbly, trying not to let the relief on your face show so plainly. “Just for a few days,” he warns, trying to keep the hope in your eyes dimmed.
You both end up in Nevada. First, Andrew says just a few more days while he tries to help you find a place to stay. He tells you that when Cath happened, he’d gone AWOL for a while. Smurf wouldn’t go looking for him anytime soon. You hadn’t said anything to that, just shown him another listing for an apartment you could barely afford.
Days turn into two weeks as he gets some cash for you so he knows that you’re going to be able to settle in comfortably. You don’t ask where he gets the money from and he doesn’t offer you any sort of explanation.
Conveniently, the very night he swears he’s going to leave, the apartment below you gets broken into. It’s not hard to call up the waterworks, to blubber and cry in his arms about how scared you are. He promises you a few more days, just until you feel better.
By then, you’re getting better at catching his family’s calls before he does. Dismissing the notifications and deleting the messages trying to figure out where he is. With less distractions, he starts to forget just how many days he’s promised to stay.
Then it gets easy. You distract him simply by caring for him. Holding him at night and making him feel human rather than an animal. His days blur into weeks until it’s been two months and he’s got clothes in your new closet.
“How was your day?” You ask as he walks into the apartment. He’s got the shirt of a local HVAC company on. Just something on the side he picked up for some extra cash, he told you. But he’s been asking for more hours and suddenly it’s almost like he’s got a full-time job.
“Hot,” he grumbles, cheeks flushed from the sun. You turn the heat down on the stove and finally turn to face him. You open your arms and he falls into them like he’s been trained to do it. Maybe he has, maybe you’ve both been conditioned to shower each other in as much affection as you can.
“Wanna take a shower?” You ask, running your hands through his curls and smiling at how his body sinks into yours.
He lifts his head and a smile that’s almost become frequent shows in his eyes. “Alone?”
You snort and reach over to turn the stove off completely. “Don’t blame me if your meal gets cold.”
There’s no warning as he hefts you up, you let out a short squeal, hands tightening around his shirt as he carries you up the stairs. “Got my meal right here.”
“Oh my god,” you roll your eyes, but there's a grin so big on your face that your cheeks hurt.
You’d once sworn off man-children, mama’s boys who were too reliant on their mothers to be emotionally stable. But Andrew was never so bad, he just needed Smurf’s leash cut so he could finally breathe. He’s fully reformed, you think, as he shuts the bathroom door and helps you strip out of your clothes.
Andrew deserves something good in his life. He deserves to know what it feels like to be loved without conditions attached to your affection. And you don’t deserve to be alone because of what his family did to you.
So, by god, you’re keeping him.
𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘊𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥
𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵
💿 And I swear they choose me, I'm not choosing them 💿
Series Summary: When you move in down the street from the Cody family, you definitely aren't expecting romance. But Andrew gradually becomes a fixture in your life, for better or for worse.
Chapter Summary: The Codys are always interested in someone new moving to their street, so Smurf assigns her oldest son to look into you.
Tags/Notes: andrew "pope" cody x reader, afab/fem reader, girl next door trope,
Content Warnings: none in this chapter
A/N: praying this doesn't flop bc y'all are gonna have to sit through seven more chapters even if it does. im also going to open a taglist for this series for the first time so...lemme know!
You stand at the front door of the nicest house in the neighborhood with a racing heart. So far, everyone’s been kind when you’ve introduced yourself, but they all also warned you about the Codys, a mix of speaking highly of them and mentioning to take care of yourself around them. And this is their place. You’d brought some of your world famous baked goods to try to butter them up extra, but it doesn’t quell your worries much. With just a few days unpacking in the neighborhood, you’ve already heard raucous house parties and seen lots of expensive cars come and go.
A petite older woman, bright blonde hair and lots of jewelry adorning her thin orange coverup and white bikini, answers the door already midway through saying, “-so just come on in and- Oh! Sorry, I thought you were- Never mind, where are my manners?” She extends a hand and gives you a handshake that’s a lot firmer than you would’ve expected from someone so small and feminine. “I’m Janine, but everyone around here calls me Smurf.” Her eyes narrow slightly; there’s a sharpness in her hazels that hints at a quiet brilliance. “You’re our new neighbor, right?”
“Yep, just moved in last weekend.” You introduce yourself and offer up the tray of cookies. “I’ve been trying to meet everyone who lives around here; the whole neighborhood speaks very highly of you.”
“I highly doubt that,” she chuckles, taking the plate and giving you a one-armed hug followed by kisses on both cheeks. “My boys can get loud. They’re all here today; why don’t you come in and say hello? We’re having a little get-together; it’ll be good for you to know some faces.”
The way she says it, you can tell it’s not a question. You follow her into the house, listening as she points out pieces of art by local artists, photos of her kids, and all her special touches that make the swanky house feel homey.
“Grab something to eat; there’s plenty to drink in the fridge, too,” she says, gesturing to an extensive and colorful spread on the kitchen island. “They’re all out back still, but I’ll bring them in. Actually, why don’t you come on outside? Some sun would do you good. That’s probably why you moved to California anyway.”
Smurf’s made a full plate of food for you before you can even think, loading it up with fruits and cheeses. You take it and nod hesitantly. “Sure, okay. Thank you.”
Outside, the scene is total chaos. The sun is gorgeous, the sky is blue, and the pool is chock full of boys – men, actually – splashing at each other, dunking a basketball and rolling around together until it looks like one of them’s going to drown. There are girls on all the loungers, passing around cocktails and laughing along to loud music underneath pastel umbrellas. There’s a faint smell of weed, curled away by the breeze but definitely present.
“Boys!” Smurf claps loud enough to get their attention, her voice rising high and loud. “Come meet our new neighbor; she brought us these amazing cookies.”
The guys all haul themselves out of the pool, water dripping down tan toned bodies, and grab beers from different spots around the pool area before jogging back over. There’s five of them, one a decade or two younger than the rest. They look vaguely alike, all with shades of blondish or reddish hair and green or hazel eyes.
Smurf gestures to you and gives them a stern look. “Let’s all be polite and introduce ourselves.”
Each of the guys shakes your hand and gives their names, but you’re too overstimulated to catch all of them at once. You can tell they’re trying their damndest to behave themselves, but there are still a few sets of eyes raking over your body, not very well concealed in a light sundress.
The biggest one with the shoulder-length hair eyes you up the longest, his gaze definitely not neighborly. “How many people are you sharing that big old house with to afford the mortgage? Boyfriend? Roommates?”
“Ah, no, just me.” Your gaze drops to your feet and you offer up a bashful smile. “Inherited the place from my grandmother; she just passed last month.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, baby,” Smurf says, giving your arm a maternal squeeze. “Were the two of you close?”
You give her a grimace, keeping your tone light, not wanting to kill their party. “Actually, no, not at all. But I’m the only grandkid, so I guess it’s my responsibility. Beats having to pay rent.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” another one of them – this one sharper, not sharing any of the family features – chuckles, tilting his beer toward you. “What can I grab you to drink?”
Shyly, hoping your cheeks haven’t turned too pink from all the attention, you inform them, “I really appreciate the offer, but I have a class to get to and then work.”
“You’re in college?” The youngest one, who can’t be more than 18 or 19, perks up and asks, “What’s your major?”
His interest seems genuine, so you offer, “Nothing yet. I’m just picking up classes at the community college to get credits for now; I didn’t have the chance to go after high school. Might transfer to somewhere in LA or San Diego once I’m more settled. Probably business.”
He nods and smiles. “Cool.”
“Smart and cute.” Smurf asks, half-serious, “Any chance on god’s green earth that you’re single? I’ve got some eligible bachelors here who could use a braincell or two.” At your flaming cheeks, she gives you a pat on the back and laughs. “Don’t worry; they’re harmless.”
The leering one chuckles, “Speak for yourself.”
“She’s not your type,” the one who’s been silent the whole time adds. His voice is softer, harsher, his eyes moodier. When his gaze meet yours, he gives a small smirk. “Looks like she’s had a thought before.”
His brothers all snort at that. You wish you could come up with a witty reply, but there’s nothing. You’ve always been shy, great at warm, professional introductions and structured interactions but not so strong with the back-and-forth, the stuff where you’re supposed to joke and flirt and act normal.
Before you go, Smurf insists on packaging up some of the food for you to take home, pinches your cheek, and promises, “I’ll have one of the boys return your plate as soon as we can, okay? Thank you so much for stopping by; it’s great to meet you.”
The Cody family is always interested when a new neighbor moves in. It’s a rarity; they live, purposefully in an old, established neighborhood where everybody knows everybody – and everybody keeps quiet.
The moment you’re out the door, Smurf stalks back to the patio with her arms crossed. The boys have all grabbed cookies and made quick work of half the batch in no time. Sipping on a wine cooler, she herds them all to a corner and asks, “Baz, what do we know?”
“On the new girl?” Baz straightens up and gives her what he’s learned from a brief search to feel you out. “She’s a waitress over at Juniper’s, that ‘50s diner a few streets up. Not sure why she bothers working; looks like she inherited a small fortune from grandma.”
Smurf nods and inspects a cookie before digging into the buttery, brown sugary goodness herself. “Interesting.”
“Outside work, she takes two classes a week, volunteers at the library and the animal shelter, and has some boring hobbies.” He polishes off another chocolate chip and adds, “Bakes fucking cookies for neighbors, apparently. Not gonna be any trouble.”
“I want some more information before I decide on that.” Smurf searches her boys’ faces, making decisions while she thinks. “Pope, why don’t you go and keep an eye on her for a few days? Stop by the diner a couple times, go check out some books from the library, let me know what she gets up to. Nothing crazy.”
Deran snickers, “Sure you want him for ‘nothing crazy’?”
“Pope’s good with women,” she replies simply. “He’s not like the rest of you.”
“Hey!” Craig protests, “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Smurf narrows her eyes. “I don’t appreciate that tone.”
He purses his lips. “Sorry.”
“You had two – or was it three? – strippers in your bed this morning,” Baz cuts back. “Not sure the angel who helps illiterate children would like you very much.”
The whole time, Pope’s been quiet. He’s a little annoyed with this new assignment because it isn’t exactly interesting, but it could be worse. He doesn’t mind quiet or alone time and he definitely doesn’t mind pretty girls. So he grimaces and nods. “I’m on it.”
You show up to your shift already upset, running behind because of your shitbox car not starting, forcing you to walk, your yellow and white uniform wrinkled because you didn’t pull it from the dryer early enough. Your boss is, as always, grouchy when you show up only two minutes late, chewing you out while you put your things away in the back of house and fix your hair.
By the time you’re out in your section, there are tears stinging in your eyes from your manager’s harshness. He always knows just how to get under your skin, making pointed comments about your uniform that feel like criticisms of your body and your classes which are digs at your intelligence. You focus on the customers. At least it’s busy. In a kitschy diner this close to the shore, evenings are always packed. It keeps your mind occupied and the tips are good.
About three quarters through your shift, a single guy comes in, walks around the line out the door, and gets seated immediately by the hostess, in the corner by the window. She taps you on the shoulder and nods in his direction. “Boss says to take good care of him, got it?”
You nod, slapping up the order ticket. “What, is he a silicon valley bro or something?”
“Or something, definitely,” she confirms. “No idea, but I guess he’s some variety of important.”
“Alright.” You shrug and turn around. “Hope he tips well, then.”
You swish over to his table, hoping that the flouncy skirt and white apron still make you look cute even though they’re wrinkled. At the table, a man with auburn hair in a short-sleeve black button-down stares straight ahead, not looking at the menu or anything. You’re halfway through your ‘my name is blah blah blah’ speech when you stop in your tracks. “Oh, you’re one of my neighbors!”
He gives you a tight smile that reminds you of the one you put on when guys hit on you at bars. “Guilty.”
You try to give him a warmer one and laugh a little. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t remember your name. I know you just told me, like, six hours ago, but-”
“There was a lot going on,” he finishes for you. “I know my family can be…intense.”
You don’t mention that he strikes you as the most intense one, his brows always furrowed and his gazes heavy. For the first time, you notice that his large hands are calloused and nicked with pockmark scars and half-healed bruises. The hands of a boxer, maybe, or someone who does a lot of manual labor. Definitely not some silicon valley bro. Trying to stop yourself from staring, you clear your throat and reply, “No, don’t worry, I thought you were all nice.”
“Nice?” That gets an honest laugh out of him. “Haven’t heard that word used to describe any of us in a long time.”
“I doubt that; your mother’s an angel.” When he scoffs again, you clear your throat, “Anyway, ah, your name? I remember Baz and…Josh, maybe?”
“Josh is my nephew. Goes by J,” he says stiffly. “Brothers are Baz, Craig, Deran. And I’m, ah-” he swallows down the urge to say Pope; Smurf likes for them to use their real names with civilians “-I’m Andrew.”
“Andrew. Got it.” Your eyebrows pinch together like you’re committing it to memory. Then you pull your notepad and pen from that cute yellow uniform and ask, “Well, what can I get you, Andrew?”
He orders a black coffee and sips on it over an hour, scrolling through his phone, taking a few calls in hushed tones, and staring out the window watching people go by like it’s a novelty. Every fifteen or so minutes, in between checking on your other tables, you stop by him to make sure he doesn’t want anything else, even though he insists he doesn’t. At one point, he even takes out a book – Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas – and reads it at lightning speed.
On your fourth stop by his table, toward the very end of your shift, you touch his bicep and tell him seriously, “You’ve gotta at least have a slice of the chocolate cream pie, Andrew. It’s so perfect with the coffee. On the house.”
He stares at your hand on his arm until you remove it, his expression a strange mix of confused and curious, like nobody’s touched him at all in ages. When you pull it back, he replies quietly, really quietly, “If you’ll split it with me.”
The sunlight of your smile could power the whole diner. “Yeah, that would be nice. Just let me close out my last table and I’ll come sit with you.”
Two minutes later, you’re untying your apron, taking off the matching cap, and sliding into the booth across from him with an oversized slice of pie, extra whipped cream, and two forks.
Andrew takes a forkful of the pie and closes his eyes when he eats the bite, really savoring it like it’s the first good thing he’s ever tasted. Then he watches you lick whipped cream from your lower lip, mesmerized by the action, unsure why his ears suddenly feel hot.
He has a list of information he needs to get for Smurf, but it’s all about how to package the questions. After a minute, he asks, “You always work this shift or am I just lucky?”
Is your schedule predictable? When are you home?
“I work evenings when I have afternoon classes,” you reply, thinking nothing of it. “Now that I have the house, I don’t need to make rent, so I’m keeping it to a few days per week. I’d be bored otherwise.”
Andrew takes mental notes on your answers. Self-sufficient, reliable, simple.
“That’s great. More time for your hobbies, passions,” he says absently. Then his eyes are serious again, tuned into you. “What do you get up to besides all that baking?”
Where can we find you outside of work? Do you have any useful skills? What sort of people do you hang around with?
“I've got a yard now, so I’m going to start gardening. I’m teaching myself to sew on my grandma’s old machine. Wow, that made me sound ancient.” You admit sheepishly, “I guess I can be kind of a homebody. I like to read, watch movies, do some crafts and things.”
“I’m the same way. Mom always said I have an old soul,” he chuckles.
“Really? You all seemed more like-”
“Partyers?” He shakes his head and laughs to himself. “More my brothers’ scene than mine.” Something about you makes him reply honestly instead of being cagey. “I try to read at least a book or two every month. It’s not much, but it keeps me sharp. Don’t even get me started on the NYT crossword.
You squeeze his forearm and grin; he’s really starting to like making you smile. “I love the crossword.”
“Smart girl.” At the touch of your hand, he shakes his head and gets back on track. “You like living alone or are you just putting up with it a while?”
Will there be strange men in the neighborhood? What’s your social life like?
You shrug and lean back in the booth, stretching your arms above your head and taking a deep breath. He watches the rise and fall of your chest. “It’s definitely better than having roommates. I was splitting a tiny place downtown with, like, five other girls before this. It’s really nice having my own bathroom – three of them, actually, which is kind of weird. It’ll be nice once I have a family, though, I guess.”
“Sounds like a dream,” he laughs. Then he says, “I’d love to have my own place again. Sharing a bathroom with a rotating cast of my baby brothers isn’t exactly my idea of perfection.”
Your eyebrows come together in the middle. “You don’t have your own place? Don’t work?”
He’s surprised that you don’t sound judgmental in the slightest; it’s not the kind of question girls usually ask with a neutral inflection in his experience. You’re genuinely curious. He gets the sense you would never judge someone for their life circumstances. Still, he’s quick to clarify, “I work. We all do. I know it looks like we’re just screwing around at Smurf’s place all the time, but we’ve got a family business.”
“That’s really cool. Working with your family, I mean.” You gesture for him to take the last bite of pie. “What do you all do?”
“Real estate,” he tells you, curt and quick. There’s a foreign part of him that wants to impress you. Wants you to know he’s got plenty of money, that he’s capable, that he’s strong. So he goes on, “I take care of more of the hands-on work. Renovations, inspections, repairs. I like fixing things. Pretty handy.”
“That explains your gnarly knuckles,” you tease. “Glad you brought it up first; I was morbidly curious. Didn’t want to assume you’re some thug before I knew better.”
Andrew’s never liked when girls tease him. But when you do it, there’s a sweetness to it, a sincerity. You aren’t making fun of him; you’re just…cute. He likes that. Why does he like that? He swallows hard, tries out a charming smile, and replies, “Nothing to worry about here. Just a family that cares about each other. It’s solid money if you make the right deals. Family’s been doing it long enough that we don’t take bad ones.”
For the first time, you pay attention to the oversized watch on his wrist. The soft wave in his hair. The thread count on his shirt. All the subtle signs of wealth you pick up on. Of course, the house isn’t exactly subtle, but Andrew seems to keep it quiet when it’s just him. You aren’t really interested in his family’s money, though, so you pivot back. “It’s great that you all get along enough to work together; god knows that would never work in my family. Is that why you live with her then? You just like being together?”
With a long sigh, he rubs the back of his neck. “Pretty much, yeah. Mom needs to have someone around and I’m the oldest.”
Your tender, honest smile worms its way into his brain, carving out a space he pretends doesn’t exist. “That’s so sweet.”
And then your manager’s tapping you on the shoulder – more like grabbing you – and informing you both, “Closing time.”
“Right, yeah. Sorry.” You turn back to Andrew and grimace. “I’ll grab your check. I believe you owe me a staggering seventy-nine cents for the single black coffee. With tip, I think that’ll get you up to a dollar if I’ve been good company.”
Andrew reaches into his pocket and hands a twenty to your manager without a word. Eyes still squarely on you, he says, “I’ll walk you out.”
Your manager rolls his eyes, not particularly caring, and heads up to the register to cash out for the night.
As you stand up, Andrew glances down at your worn-out sneakers. “You walked here?”
Half of the question – ‘Are you easy to keep track of?’ – is for the sake of his family, but the other half – ‘Are you safe?’ – is just for his own curiosity.
You sigh, wrapping your arms around yourself as you cross from the diner into the cool late-night air. “Didn’t have a choice. My car’s trash; wouldn’t start after I got back from class. Lucky I made it home without the thing blowing up.”
Andrew takes his keys from his pocket and flips them around his finger. “I’ll drive you home, then.”
You flush, thankful for lack of light outside. “I really appreciate the offer, but-”
“I’ll drive you home,” he repeats, stern this time. “It’s late; you don’t need to be walking out by yourself.”
There’s a protectiveness to his tone that convinces you he’s safe to trust. “Alright. Just this once, okay? I don’t like owing people.”
“Sure, no problem,” he lies. His mother would end him if she knew he’d let a girl – a neighbor, nonetheless – do something dangerous on his watch; if you ever need a ride, he’ll give you one. “You don’t owe me, though. We’re neighbors.” Andrew shoves his hands in his pockets as he walks you to the back of his parking lot to his car – his truck actually. His giant, almost militant, matte black truck. “Any idea what’s wrong with your car?”
“No clue; I don’t know about stuff like that. None of the lights are on or anything. Just old, I guess.”
Your heart thuds when Andrew follows you around to the passenger side of the truck, his hand going to your lower back. For a split second, your sense of danger spikes, a drip of adrenaline going into your bloodstream. But then he’s unlocking the door and opening it for you, offering up his hand to help you step up.
As you haul yourself into it, actually needing to put some of your weight on him, you mutter, “Jesus, this is a big truck.”
Before he closes the door to go around and drive you home, Andrew says simply, “It’s safe.”
synopsis: mike’s too damn old to be wearing fake vampire teeth and playing d&d in his mom’s basement. good thing you love loser nerds.
contents: established relationship, fluff, making out, reader is freaked tf out for mike, no mileven/el, mike is a shy, there is no sappy crying part from the finale (we are choosing peace and happiness here)
notes: if you didn’t think mike with fake fangs was hot, maybe you just don’t like losers enough.
𓂃۶ৎ more below the cut!
you watch as max loses her shit at how much time the party just wasted playing d&d, only to lose to mike wheeler’s stupid campaign. she’s come around to the nerdy game in recent years, but you truly can’t teach an old dog new tricks. the rest of the party is unbothered by her grabbing things and throwing them onto the floor in her rage, but you can’t help but watch her in amusement, unable to hide your laughter.
in the midst of the distractions—max throwing a fit, lucas and will sitting there mourning the fact that they just lost in mike’s campaign—mike is basking in triumph. his campaign was successful in outsmarting the party, along with baiting max into quitting out of pure frustration. he’s proud of his campaign for these reasons, but the biggest reason he tried so hard on this campaign? it’s because he knew you’d be playing this time, too. he wanted to impress you in his own geeky way.
since you and max had been added to the party later on, you’d fallen into the role of ‘the girlfriends’ and not much more. you were never officially assigned a role in the party, and you definitely didn’t play regularly. not that you guys minded, because d&d wasn’t really your cup of tea anyway.
because of the rare occasion that both you and max were playing, mike was pulling out all the stops. that included one last move, just to piss everyone off more. he reached into his lap under the table, ducking behind his propped up binder to slip the fake vampire fangs on.
he popped up from behind his binder, raising his eyebrows and laughing in the most corny, ‘evil villain’ way he could possibly muster. if his laugh was written on paper, it would literally read like ‘mwahaha.’
“time to join your friends, sorcerer.” mike sneered, and if the vampire teeth didn’t fit so oddly in his mouth, he’d probably grin to show off the fangs more.
the way he raised his eyebrows and seemed like he was oozing of confidence, even with shitty vampire fangs in his mouth, made him a sight to behold. your eyes were glued to him, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing fondly at him. clearly, you were just down bad, since no one else seemed to find him funny.
lucas and will rolled their eyes, already fed up from losing the campaign, not to mention that they were starving. max didn’t seem to pay much attention to it, taking a deep breath to calm herself down as she took her seat next to lucas again. she shot you a look, her gaze going from mike’s smug demeanor in the vampire fangs to you, as if judging you for your taste in men.
“this is total bullshit.” lucas huffed out, wrapping an arm around max. he earns a muttered ‘agreed’ from will, who was slumped in his seat.
mike let out another one of his corny ‘mwahaha’s, and max stood up from the table, throwing her hands up in frustration. “shut up, wheeler. i’m starving, and this game is total bullshit and a waste of time, i can’t believe i let you guys rope me into this—actually, no, screw you, lucas, i can’t believe you’d subject me to this…”
her voice fades out as she stomps off the stairs, lucas quickly jumping up from the table to follow her with a ‘hey, what did i do?!’ and you can hear him trying to defend himself, throwing mike under the bus in the process.
will mumbles something about being hungry, standing up and shutting his binder. “good campaign, mike.” he mutters as he walks past, ever the classy one of the group.
you sit in your seat, leaning back against the chair as you watch will go up the stairs. once you see the door shut behind him, you look over at mike, who’s already beginning to put away some of the figurines.
“that was fun. i had fun playing.” you hum out as you watch him. or rather, his hands, and the way they gently hold each of the figurines to place in a small box. your gaze follows every movement, every grasp of his fingers.
he looks up from what he’s doing, his face lighting up at your words, the vampire teeth out of his mouth and sitting on his lap again. gross. you don’t really care. “yeah? that’s- that’s good. i like when you play.”
he says it casually, but you’ve been with mike long enough to know that he’s basically saying he’d do anything and everything to have you in every campaign in the future.
“yeah, i liked the bit at the end.” you say, standing up from your chair to stand by where he’s sitting. he tilts his head up to look at you, his face only coming up to your belly button. your heart skips a beat at how he looks like this, looking up at you with those brown eyes of his. “the part with the, uh, the fangs.”
he smiles up at you, one hand reaching out to hold yours. “yeah? i thought it was kinda stupid.”
you let out a soft laugh, shrugging your shoulders as you look down at him, squeezing his hand in yours. “well, lucky for you, i like stupid.”
mike can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, and the warmth that fills his chest. maybe the world isn’t so cruel if he’s been blessed with someone who loves him so much that they even adore him with fake teeth in. he grabs the fangs from his lap, ducking his head to place them back in his mouth. he looks up at you again, raising his eyebrows at you like a puppy seeking approval.
“yeah, those ones.” you say with a soft laugh, leaning down to peck your lips to his briefly. you get more plastic teeth than lip, but you don’t really care when he’s being this cute for you.
mike stands up from his seat, gaining more confidence at your outward show of affection. he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him. a surprised noise escapes your lips at his forwardness, before laughing softly as you look up at him.
“you’ve got a thing for otherworldly creatures, hm?” he teases, peppering kisses on each of your cheeks, making his way down to your jaw.
you laugh softly, about to deny it, before you feel his head dip and the fangs run along your neck gently. it makes your breath catch in your throat, as much as you hate to admit it. it’s just plastic fangs that he probably got for halloween last year, but because it’s him, that makes all the difference.
mike has to bite back a grin, but you can feel the smugness radiating off of him as your palms come up to rest on his shoulders.
“jesus, i didn’t think you’d, like, actually be into it. i was joking.” he mutters against your skin, his fingers gripping your waist tightly so you can’t pull back as he repeats the action, dragging the plastic along your neck again.
your scoff comes out as more of a sigh, which only makes the heat behind your cheeks burn hotter. if it was anyone else but mike ‘certified nerd’ wheeler, you’d probably die of embarrassment before admitting you’re into it. “yeah, well, some of us just have active imaginations.”
mike snickers against your neck at that, lifting his head up to look at you in disbelief. “active imaginations? seriously?”
“yeah. i mean, you’ve never thought about it? like, it’d be kinda romantic to date a vampire. they’re all chivalrous and shit, not to mention the fact that they’re, like…” you trail off, clearing your throat as you laugh sheepishly at the way words keep spilling out of your mouth.
“…don’t tell anyone i just admitted that, i swear to god.” you mutter, before grabbing the nape of his neck to hold him in place as you press your lips to his.
mike finally hit his growth spurt, making it so you now have to tiptoe and pull him down a little bit just to reach his lips. you feel him struggle to return your kiss with the fake fangs in his mouth at first. ever the quick learner, he gets the hang of it after a few seconds, relaxing into your touch. your lips move against his gently, before your hand snakes into his hair to pull him down harder against you. you feel his grip on your waist tighten in response. some of his hair has fallen into his eyes and subsequently yours, and you can feel the strands brush against your eyelids as you kiss him.
mike’s the first to pull away, and your eyes flutter open only briefly before he’s bent down against to press kisses along your neck, dragging the fake teeth along your skin. you let out a soft, breathy laugh, your hands tangling in his hair.
it turns out that mike’s strong suit of playing pretend and getting into character for d&d is a transferable skill. one hand snakes up your back to gently grab the back of your neck, tilting your head back as he gently bites down with the fake fangs on your neck, just like he’s seen in the movies. it earns him a soft gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as you feel yourself fully give into whatever the hell this is.
he pulls your body flush against his, leaning you back in his arms so he can access your neck. his lips and the fangs trail across the skin, your hand in his hair seeming to spur him on more. you use that hold to pull his head back, looking at him in a slight daze. the fangs definitely look objectively stupid, but you can’t help how you feel. not when mike looks at you like he wants to actually sink his teeth into you, and the fangs only gave him an excuse to live out his dreams.
you need him. badly. just the look on his face makes your knees feel weak. nevermind the way he just kissed you like he was starving—which was one of the things you absolutely adored about mike. he was such a dork in every aspect of his life, from his interests, to how he spoke, to how he acts around you. but when it comes to kissing you? it’s like he becomes a whole new person. the starvation and hunger seems to take over, and you can’t help but give in.
you press your lips to his again, your mouths moving more feverishly this time around. you stumble back slightly at the force of which he’s pressed against you, like he’s starved. he catches you by wrapping an arm around your waist, the other holding the back of your neck to tilt your head just the way he wants to kiss you. you feel the plastic teeth sitting in his mouth and against your lips. you can’t even think, the heavy breathing from mike between kisses filling your senses as you grab onto his shoulders to steady yourself.
you pull back for air in a daze and open your mouth to say something, before you hear the sound of the basement door swinging open. your head snaps away from mike’s face, pulling away from him quickly.
your face burns as you see max at the top of the stairs, her eyes widening as her ears burn as red as her hair when she realizes what she walked into.
“uh… we were just wondering what was taking so long.” she stammers out. it’s rare to see your usually sharp-tongued friend stumble over her words at something she’s seen. it only makes your entire body tingle, too nervous to look at her nor the boy next to you—who, by the way, still has the fake fangs in.
mike nods his head, muttering a “yeah, we’ll be right out.”
max clearly notices the fake plastic teeth on him. she raises her eyebrows at you, clearly judgmental, and you just know she’s going to question you about it when the rest of the party aren’t around. she shuts the basement door behind her again, leaving you and mike standing there in silence, your hearts pounding in sync.
you finally will your head to move, looking over at mike as he spits out the vampire fangs, setting them on the table before looking at you sheepishly. “uh… we should go. i didn’t realize how long we’d been down here.”
“yeah, me too.” you answer plainly, shifting on your feet awkwardly as if you weren’t just making out with him a few seconds ago.
“after dinner, we’re picking this back up.” mike mutters under his breath with a grin as he makes his way to the stairs, guiding you with a hand on the small of your back. you don’t say anything in response, just swatting him away shyly as you make your way up the stairs, bracing yourself for the onslaught of teasing. it’s almost guaranteed max already told the tale of their party leader making out with his beloved with those stupid fangs in, but you can’t find it in you to regret any part of it.
I am back with more stranger things Spider-Man AU !! introducing (or more like vaguely teasing at the existence of) Doc Vecna/Henry Creel AND also full body designs for Erica and Dustin AND OF COURSE DART!! he means the world to me he is the best dog to ever dog💔
⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 mike wheeler x cheerleader!reader
꒰ 🚲 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 wheeler learns the hard way that “why not both?” is a valid life philosophy, especially when it results in his cool girlfriend becoming a permanent, beloved fixture of the party.
part one, part two.
HAVING A HOT CHEERLEADER GIRLFRIEND IS A LOGISTICAL NIGHTMARE!
mike decides this while pedaling down maple street, backpack thumping against his spine. the problem isn’t you. the problem is that everyone else has opinions about you, and therefore about him, and therefore about how he spends his time. mostly the party. especially the party. apparently there is a correct and incorrect amount of time to spend with your girlfriend, and mike has blown past it at full speed and launched himself directly into traitor to the cause territory.
of course he’s with you all the time! you’re smart and funny and good looking and you look like you walked out of a movie where girls like you don’t even notice guys like him. except you do, you noticed him. you picked him. you lay on his bed and steal his hoodies and blow him kisses when you’re supposed to be cheering at games and radio him dumb little updates in the middle of the night like guess what i’m thinking about (it’s him. it’s always him.) why wouldn’t he want to be with you? why wouldn’t he prioritize that?
mike does not see the issue. he hears the complaints, sure. registers them in the abstract. dustin saying dude, you live at her house now like that’s some kind of indictment. lucas making pointed comments about “prior commitments.” mike files all of it away under deeply dramatic behavior from people who would absolutely do the same thing if given the chance. because look. from his perspective, this just makes sense.
why would he go home after school when you’re already leaning against his locker, fingers hooked through the strap of his backpack like you’ve claimed it? why would he bike to the basement when you’re waiting on the bleachers, swinging your legs and waving like he’s the only person in the stadium? why would he spend friday night rolling dice in a musty room when he could be on your bed, listening to you ramble about pep rallies and teachers you hate with your head on his chest?
he goes where you are. basic logic. frankly, a skill issue on everyone else’s part for not seeing it.
there are the lunches, now. used to be the table in the cafeteria, now it’s the grass by the field, or the steps out front if the weather’s bad. you steal his fries. he lets you. sometimes he pretends to be annoyed, but never convincingly. you read over his shoulder when he’s doing homework and whisper wrong answers just to mess with him. he tells you to shut up. you don’t. it’s perfect. there are the games, too. him in the stands, you on the field, exchanging looks. you blow him a kiss after a routine and he nearly falls off the bleachers trying to duck so no one sees him grin like an idiot. worth it. the party, meanwhile, acts like he’s joined a cult. “you missed hellfire.” dustin says one afternoon.
mike blinks. “it’s one meeting.”
“you missed the boss fight.”
“there’ll be another one.”
“not like that one!”
mike shrugs, unbothered. “i can read the recap.”
lucas stares at him. “you can’t read a d&d boss fight.”
“sure i can.”
you throw a crumpled piece of paper at him right then, like you have a sixth sense for these moments: are you free later?
mike doesn’t even hesitate after he reads the note, giving you a thumbs up.
he looks up to find three pairs of eyes on him. dustin, lucas, and eddie.
“what?” he says. “she asked first.”
he can miss things. that’s fine. he’s done it before. what he’s not willing to do is give you up for the sake of balance or fairness or whatever rulebook everyone else is working off of. his friends will get over it. or they won’t. either way, mike is exactly where he wants to be. missing hellfire club meetings, a few social calls, some of dustin’s overly dramatic updates about the newest “alien theories.” whatever. fine. it’s all fine.
so when dustin’s voice floats through one day afterschool again—dude, what is happening to you?—mike is halfway between shrugging and walking away. he excuses with: i’m busy. he’s lying, but not really. busy is relative. he’s with you. that counts for more than dice and strategy charts, okay? higher priority. also, it’s not like the campaign will implode without him. yes it will. also fine. whatever. he ignores them. he does not care.
except then dustin’s whining becomes nagging and eventually he refuses to let go. the kind of nagging that accumulates over seven missed hellfire meetings, half a dozen skipped lunches, and about twenty in person lectures about time management. mike is reaching a breaking point. one day the idea hits him: bring you. obvious. brilliant. problem solved. he’d been going back and forth, trying to juggle loyalty to the party and loyalty to the girl who makes him forget air is even breathable when the answer was right in front of him all along. why not both? you had been to the club once before, but you hadn’t come back after that. schedules, life, games, practice, homework. he didn’t ask. he didn’t need to. the memory of you in that element, his element, was enough, and honestly, it had been. until now. now he needs you there.
so tonight, he’s riding his bike like it’s a mission impossible chase scene, jacket flapping, heart doing that stupid thing it does when you’re about to introduce your life to the person who completes it.
okay, technically this could wait. he could tell you tomorrow at school, in the hallway, leaning against your locker. he could bring it up casually, like oh yeah, by the way, my friends are mad i’ve been ditching them, want to sit in a musty classroom afterschool for four hours and listen to us argue about imaginary monsters? normal boyfriend stuff. but that would require patience, and mike wheeler does not have patience when he wants to see you.
so instead he skids to a stop outside your house, breathless, buzzing, brain running about three steps ahead of itself. he knocks, waits, bounces on his heels like a loser. you open the door and blink at him. “hi.” you greet, pleasantly surprised.
“hey,” he says, like he didn’t just pedal here like the fate of the universe depended on it. “uh. i was—i mean. this is kind of stupid. it can wait.”
you smile in that way that tells him you’re already entertained. “uh huh?”
right. okay. focus.
mike clears his throat, immediately regrets it, because it comes out sounding like he’s about to give a presentation on the economic impact of dungeons & dragons. he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, then takes them out again because that looks weird, then settles on crossing his arms, which somehow looks worse. fantastic. nailed it. “so,” he starts, which is never a good sign. his brain helpfully supplies him with seventeen better openings, all of which arrive too late. “my friends are mad at me. not like—mad mad.” he shifts his weight and glances back at his bike like it might offer emotional support. “i’ve kind of been ditching them. a lot. since i’ve been with you. which, i don’t regret. at all.”
there’s a beat. he presses on before he can overthink it. “anyway. i had this idea.” his tone shifts—brighter, like he’s just solved something important. “come with me. tomorrow. to the club.” he looks at you, earnest to the point of pain. “they’re mad because i’m always with you. which is stupid, but also they’re my friends, so i figured—why not both? like, have you all together, at the same time.” his shoulders lift in a small, hopeful shrug. “you don’t have to play. you can just sit there. you’ve been before. you survived.”
he hesitates, then mumbles.
“also eddie keeps saying i’m ‘pussywhipped’.”
there’s a very specific pause that happens after he says that. not because you’re offended. not because you’re thinking about eddie munson at all, actually. it’s because mike wheeler is standing on your porch looking like he’s braced for impact, like you might revoke his boyfriend privileges on the spot, and something in your chest goes soft in a way you absolutely do not announce. you don’t tell him it’s cute when you care about things. you don’t say this is literally why i like you. you don’t say watching you get intense about fake worlds makes the real one feel survivable. you just nod, like this is the most reasonable request in the world. “yeah, okay.”
his eyebrows lift before he can stop them. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
oh. okay. wow. his brain does a victory lap, immediately followed by a spiral. don’t act weird. don’t say thank you like it’s charity. “cool.” he decides on, which is the most neutral word he can find on short notice. then, because he is incapable of leaving well enough alone, “i mean, you don’t have to stay the whole time. its loud. eddie yells. well, i mean, you already know that. i told you that already. before.”
you smile at him in that way that tells him you know this, that you like it anyway, that you like him anyway, then pause, eyes flicking past him. “…did you bike all the way here just to ask me that?”
damn it. busted.
“…maybe.”
“michael.”
“it wasn’t that far,” he lies. “and i was already thinking about coming over. and then i thought about the club thing. and then i thought about you. and then i was like, okay, now i’m here.”
you just look at him.
“…can we hang out?” he adds, hopeful and pathetic. “since i already did the cardio.”
you roll your eyes, step aside, and gesture him in. “come on, weirdo.”
the rest of the night … you know, happens. one second you’re standing in your entryway and the next you’re on your bed, and then somehow it’s later, and mike is kissing you but it’s more like devouring because he always kisses you like he’s starving and can’t stop. it’s all hands and that laugh he does when he bumps his nose into yours and pretends that was on purpose. he keeps stopping like he’s about to say something important and then apparently deciding that kissing you again is a better use of time. you kiss him back and he melts, because mike wheeler is many things, but immune to affection is not one of them.
afterschool the next day mike is riding high on approximately four hours of sleep and the kind of physical romantic fulfillment that makes him feel invincible by the time hellfire rolls around. “dude,” dustin says suspiciously. “what’s on your neck.”
“what.” he replies way too fast.
“that. right there. don’t move.” henderson leans in and squints. “is that a hickey?”
“no. it’s—no.”
lucas looks up. “it’s a hickey.”
“it’s not.” mike insists, reaching up way too late to tug his collar higher. which only makes it worse, because now everyone is looking.
eddie’s head snaps around. “the boy king returns,” he says, delighted. “marked by his beloved.”
“shut up.” mike counters, mortified.
dustin is vibrating. “you ditched us. you show up late. and now you’re branded. unbelievable.”
shut up shut up shut up. you’re supposed to be here any minute now. any minute. any. second. everyone stop talking. “can everyone shut up.” mike tries again, which would land with more authority if his ears weren’t bright red and he wasn’t halfway hunched like that might somehow make him disappear.
“so defensive. classic hickey behavior.” lucas comments.
mike shoots him a look. “i swear to god, if you say the word ‘hickey’ one more time—”
“love bite.” eddie offers helpfully.
“mark of passion.” dustin adds, deadpan.
mike drops his head onto the table with a soft thunk. this is a nightmare. this is worse than demodogs. worse than that one time karen wheeler tried to have a talk with him about changes his body might be going through at his age. okay, maybe not worse than that last one. “i hate all of you,” he mutters into his dm notes. “i’m not answering questions.”
“we’re not asking questions,” dustin says. “we’re drawing conclusions.”
chairs scrape as the rest of hellfire trickles in, the prop room slowly filling with the familiar noise. dice clattering, eddie arguing with someone about minis, someone else complaining about the smell. mike keeps glancing at the door, casual, not obvious. except it is obvious, because he does it about every five seconds.
the door opens. mike is on his feet before he even realizes he’s moving, chair legs screeching against the floor. he doesn’t think, doesn’t plan. just there you are written across his face, relief immediate. “hey,” he greets, like the room shrank down to just you. “you made it.”
“i made it!”
behind him, eddie lets out a low, impressed whistle. “gentlemen, observe. the boy king rises to greet his queen.”
mike shoots him a look that is meant to communicate i am begging you to stop talking, then turns back to you, visibly recalibrating. okay. normal. be normal. introduce girlfriend to friends like a person who has done this before. you’ve been here before, but you never really met anyone. mike didn’t know what the hell he was doing that first time, but now that you’re here, as in, here, properly his girlfriend, he should probably introduce you, right? good job mike! great critical boyfriend thinking skills! “uh,” he starts, then winces. “okay. you already kind of know eddie. he’s… eddie.”
“thank you michael.” eddie says.
mike presses on. “and that’s lucas.” he gestures, grateful for the solid ground.
lucas nods at you, polite, curious but not invasive. “hey. good to actually meet you.”
“and dustin,” mike says, tone shifting slightly. “he’s—”
“the one who remembers what time hellfire starts.” dustin supplies, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and mike.
you can feel it then, the way the room is watching without staring, the way mike’s hand hovers near yours like he’s not sure what the rules are here. this isn’t school exactly. this isn’t a hallway or a movie theater or his bedroom with the door very shut. this is his space. his people. for a second he looks nervous. eddie breaks it first. “so,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “you’ve returned willingly. which either means michael has blackmail on you, or you’re a woman of taste.”
you smile. “i think it’s the yelling. it’s very… immersive.”
eddie clutches his chest. “she gets me.”
lucas smiles. dustin just hums, unconvinced. “so,” dustin says, pointed. “you gonna start the campaign? or are we doing the part where you two stare at each other for another five minutes.”
mike finally reaches for your hand then. “we’re starting. relax.” he gives you a small, apologetic look. sorry they’re like this, but there’s something else there too—something proud, like he wants you here. he’s glad you’re seeing this part of him, even if it’s a little embarrassing.
eddie claps his hands once. “finally. behold—focus! or at least the illusion of it.”
the table settles into that familiar, lopsided circle where notebooks overlap and someone’s soda is always dangerously close to the character sheets. mike shifts automatically into place, spine straightening like his body remembers this even if his brain’s been elsewhere lately. he pulls his binder closer, flips it open, taps his pencil twice against the margin. okay. game face. don’t screw this up. you take the seat beside him without making it a thing, which he notices and appreciates immediately. you don’t hover, you don’t look lost. you lean in just enough to see what’s happening, elbow brushing his arm, like this isn’t some borrowed space you’re tiptoeing through. weirdly—relievingly—it works.
the campaign starts slow, as campaigns do. eddie sets the scene with way too much flourish, describing a torchlit corridor and ominous chanting and something wet dripping somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t be dripping. lucas asks a practical question. dustin challenges a rule. mike corrects him without snapping, which might actually be a first. and also because you’re in the room, so he’s on his best behavior.
his attention locks in, not just because the game’s good (it is), but because you’re there, watching him like this matters. he hears himself explaining a strategy, animated, hands moving, catches your eye once, mid-sentence, and you’re smiling like you’re genuinely impressed. that little hitch in his chest is back. great. fantastic. extremely distracting. he rolls well. like, really well. nat twenty. eddie loses his mind. lucas grins. even dustin looks up, eyebrows lifting despite himself. “okay,” dustin says, squinting at the table. “where has this been.”
mike shrugs, trying not to look pleased and failing. “i’ve always been this good.”
“lies.” dustin counters automatically, but there’s less bite to it now.
you don’t interrupt. you don’t try to insert yourself where you’re not meant to be. when eddie addresses the table, you listen. when someone cracks a joke, you laugh. when mike glances at you like he’s checking if this is still okay, you nod. yeah. still good. keep going. it’s stupid, maybe, but mike feels like something that had been slipping through his fingers clicked back into place. he’s not choosing between worlds tonight. he’s standing in both, and neither one is asking him to disappear.
it doesn’t fix everything. nothing ever does. it does, however, start a pattern, which is honestly more than mike expected. you start showing up when he hangs out with the party more, not every time, but enough that it becomes… normal. you learn fast when to talk, when to sit back, when to let them argue themselves into circles without intervening. the party adjusts. dustin complains the most, not in a you suck way. more in a this is an ecosystem and you are an invasive species way. except the more time passes, the harder it is for him to argue when mike is… better, more present. actually laughing instead of half-listening with his eyes on the door like he’s already late to somewhere else.
lucas is easier about it. he clocks what’s happening, nods once, and moves on. “as long as you still show up,” he says to mike one night. mike does. so that’s that.
eddie, meanwhile, is unbearable.
“the lady joins us again,” he announces every time you walk into a room, bowing so dramatically he nearly knocks over a chair. “our numbers grow. our power increases.”
mike tells him to shut up. you laugh. eddie takes that as encouragement.
it becomes inevitable that mike decides you should actually learn how to play.
this is his idea. fully. no peer pressure involved. just one night in his basement, surrounded by scattered dice and graph paper. “okay,” he says, serious. “i can teach you. if you want. like—really teach you.”
you agree, head over heels little thing that you are for this nerd. watching mike explain things he loves is apparently your kryptonite.
teaching you d&d turns out to be mike’s favorite activity he didn’t know existed.
he overprepares. character sheets neatly filled out, pencils sharpened, a mini-campaign he definitely spent too long thinking about. he sits across from you on the floor, knees knocking into yours, and explains stats like they are matters of national importance. “okay, strength is obvious,” he says. “but charisma is tricky. people think it’s just talking. it’s not. it’s—” he stops. “why are you smiling like that.”
“nothing.” you answer, which is a lie. you smile more.
lucas and dustin get roped into the practice sessions eventually, because mike decides you need “controlled exposure.”
dustin hates the phrase controlled exposure on principle. “that’s not a thing,” he says, watching mike rearrange the screen for the third time. “you just want an audience.”
“it is a thing,” mike insists. “and it’s not an audience. it’s—support.” he glances at you, like he’s checking the word fits. it does. “also you both said you missed playing.”
lucas just shrugs.
the first session is chaos. not because you’re bad—because you’re new. you forget what dice to roll. you ask if your character can “just, like, talk it out.” you are sincerely shocked when monsters do not respond to reason. mike answers every question with the patience of a saint who has waited his whole life for this exact moment.
and he cheats.
not in a way dustin can immediately prove. just… you know, gently. a roll behind the screen that takes a little too long. an enemy that mysteriously misses when it really shouldn’t. a trap that would have killed you, except actually, no, it just knocks you prone. lucky you! ♡
dustin squints at the table. “that’s not how that works.”
mike doesn’t look up. “it is tonight.”
you don’t notice. or maybe you do, a little, but you’re too busy being included to care. every success lights you up. every win has you looking at mike like he invented joy. when your character lands a hit, you gasp and clap a hand over your mouth like you’re watching a magic trick. “i did it!”
“you did.” mike agrees, immediately, like there was never any doubt.
at one point—through absolutely no fault of your own—you die. it’s dramatic. dice betray you. dustin looks vindicated for exactly half a second. you stare at your character sheet, horrified. “oh my god, i killed her.”
mike is already moving. the binder opens, papers shuffle. “okay, so—” he slides a new sheet toward you, like a magician revealing a second card. “this is her cousin.”
“mike,” dustin cuts in. “you can’t just—”
“tragic backstory,” mike continues. “sworn vengeance. slightly better stats.” he pauses, thinking. “same outfit, though.”
your face crumples in relief. “really?”
“really,” he smiles. “you’re not done.”
you take the sheet like it’s sacred and smile at him like he saved your life. mike feels something click into place in his chest and decides that this is all justified forever. he doesn’t care that dustin keeps muttering about fairness. he doesn’t care that lucas gives him a look that says i see you. you’re leaning close to him, asking questions, invested, here. every time you look at him like that—wide-eyed, delighted, he feels like maybe it’s okay that he loves things this much. that he wants to protect this space. that he wants you to win. “okay,” he says, trying very hard not to smile too big. “it’s your turn. what do you do?”
you think, then grin. “something cool.”
mike nods solemnly. “yeah. you do.”
weeks pass. months, really. the two of you are attached at the hip and have been dating for nearly 4 months. the party has largely stopped commenting because trying to compete with mike’s obsessive focus on you is exhausting. the assumption is now built-in. mike shows up somewhere, you show up too. it’s automatic. everyone just sighs and accepts it as the new normal. lucas shakes his head, muttering, “this is what we get for complaining,” and max just rolls her eyes like, yes, we’re aware, now shut up.
the thing is, they did get what they wanted. mike is around more. he just brought a plus-one and forgot to ask permission. oops. careful what you wish for.
you don’t hover, which is what mike half-expected, because everyone always acts like girlfriends are supposed to either vanish politely or become a problem. instead, you slot in, like a new piece added to a puzzle everyone swore was already complete, even though there was clearly a gap.
lucas doesn’t mind. lucas never really minded. he’s always been pragmatic about these things. mike likes you, you like mike, mike is less miserable than usual. net positive. the only issue, as far as lucas is concerned, is that the two of you have absolutely no shame. “do you have to sit like that.” he asked once, staring at the way you’re half in mike’s lap on the couch, legs tangled, mike’s arm looped around your waist.
“yes.” mike doubled down instantly.
lucas exhaled through his nose and goes back to his homework. this is his version of acceptance.
max truly does not give a fuck. she clocks the situation exactly once, files it under none of my business, and never revisits it. sometimes she smirks when mike gets distracted mid-sentence because you kissed his cheek. sometimes she flicks popcorn at his forehead and tells him to get a room. it’s all neutral to her.
dustin is the slow burn.
at first, he’s mostly just loud about logistics. mike’s not at lunch. mike’s not at hellfire. mike’s not answering his walkie because mike is, once again, with you. dustin hates unanswered questions, and mike’s priorities have become deeply inconvenient. “you’re missing character development.” dustin tells him during one argument that is absolutely not about d&d. “eddie just introduced a lich. a lich, mike.”
“i’m developing other things.” mike had replied with, which was not helpful.
but dustin starts to soften. you ask him questions. you actually listen to the answers. you remember details and bring them up later, which is dustin’s love language whether he knows it or not. you sit through explanations that definitely could have been summaries and react like they matter. you defend mike when dustin complains, but not in a way that makes dustin feel stupid—just in a way that reframes it, like, yeah, i get it, but also he’s happy. that counts for something. eventually, dustin stops saying “your girlfriend” and starts saying your name! that’s when mike knows you’ve been fully integrated.
eddie munson, unfortunately, likes you immediately. this is not mike’s favorite development.
he calls you cool. he calls you metal. he offers you the good chair without being asked. he invites you into conversations like you’ve always been there. when you laugh at his jokes eddie looks thrilled. mike is… fine. he’s not jealous. he’s just… aware. he tightens his grip around your fingers anyway. eddie clocks this one day, of course, because eddie munson is not subtle and neither is mike wheeler when he’s emotionally compromised. “relax man,” eddie observes, clapping mike on the shoulder. “i’m not stealing your girl.”
mike bristles on principle. “i wasn’t—”
“sure you weren’t,” eddie interrupts, still smiling. “she’s got good taste though.”
he’s still not sure if that was supposed to be a compliment or not, but mike decides eddie munson is on thin ice forever.
even mike has to admit it though, you really fit. you bring something softer into the group without diluting it. you don’t try to replace anyone. you just add. you remember who hates mushrooms on pizza, you bring extra sodas, you sit through arguments and don’t try to fix them. this—this—is exactly what he wanted when he thought, months ago, why not both?
it turns out both looks like this: friday nights at family video where dustin argues with the clerk about late fees like it’s a moral failing of the system, lucas reads the backs of boxes with the seriousness of a man selecting a mortgage, and mike is already angling his body so you’re closer to the shelves with the better lighting.
or the movies. the party sits together, a sticky semicircle of soda cups and candy boxes, and mike makes a big show of letting you choose seats even though he already scoped the row with the best sound. you pick your chair because you like being able to get up without climbing over knees. he does, obnoxiously, take up the entirety of your armrest without realizing. halfway through the movie you disappear together—bathroom break, need more napkins, forgot something—until you’re in the hallway, giggling like idiots, his hands warm at your waist, your lips against his while he whispers we should go back and then doesn’t move.
the mall is worse. (better.) steve harrington once said the mall makes people feral, and mike didn’t understand what that meant until he was holding your bags while you tried on sunglasses you do not need, turning to him like these or these? and he answered seriously every time, because what kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn’t? you drag him into the photo booth. you keep the strip. there’s two, so he gets to keep the other one. later, dustin asks where you both went. max shrugs. bathroom, maybe. she doesn’t ask follow-up questions. max never asks follow-up questions. when you both come back with puffy lips and flushed faces, she minds her, albeit disgusted, business.
arcade days where you cheer when lucas beats a high score and boo when dustin accuses the machine of cheating. mike stands behind you, hands light at your hips, not even watching the screen—watching you watch it. eddie notices and says something like, “wheeler, you know the game’s in front of you, right?” mike doesn’t look away. “yeah. i know.”
at pizza nights, he nudges the box toward you first. dustin groans. “you’re not even hungry?” mike shrugs. he is hungry, just not for that.
and you sneak off constantly. it becomes a running joke. don’t let them sit together, someone says. it never works. you leave jackets behind and come back flushed and smiling and pretend nothing happened. eddie starts timing it. “seven minutes,” he announces once, delighted. mike flips him off without looking. you squeeze his hand like ignore him. he does. mostly.
because mike wheeler, historically, is not chill about liking people. he has never been chill. he doesn’t ease into affection. he cannonballs. this is documented behavior. when mike likes someone, his brain latches on like it’s trying to solve a problem with only one possible answer, and then he rearranges his entire life around that answer and acts shocked when people notice. if that means he sneaks off too much, or misses a few conversations, or forgets his jacket again because it’s on your shoulders—well. he can live with that. he doesn’t even notice how he turns when you turn, how he checks your face in rooms, how he automatically gives you the better chair, the better view, the last slice he was absolutely going to eat until you said, oh, you can have it, and now he physically cannot eat it.
it happens so gradually mike misses it. one day you’re there because you’re dating mike, and the next day you’re there because… you’re there. because you belong, and no one questions it anymore.
max is the first one to cross the line from tolerates to claims. it’s subtle. it looks like her saving you a seat without saying anything. like handing you a controller without asking if you want to play. like looping her arm through yours at the mall and saying, casually, “come on.” she starts calling you separately from the group. not long conversations—max doesn’t do long conversations—but updates. gossip. judgment. once, she says, “i could steal you, you know,” deadpan, and you smile and say, “you’d have to fight him,” and max shrugs. “i’d win.”
dustin is just as bad. dustin decides you’re his person. not his favorite person—that’s still steve, obviously—but his designated audience. you listen. this is your fatal mistake. you listen when he talks about science, about theories, about whatever new thing he’s obsessed with that week. you ask questions. you nod like it matters. dustin notices. dustin thrives. suddenly he’s sitting next to you every time, explaining things directly to you, even when mike is right there. especially when mike is right there. mike tries not to be offended by this. tries. fails a little. “so then,” dustin says, launching into a twenty-minute explanation of something mike has heard three times already, “what do you think?”
you think. you answer. dustin lights up like he’s just been validated by god. mike stares at you both, betrayed. later, when mike shows up somewhere without you, dustin squints at him and says, “where’s your girlfriend?” not how are you. not what’s up. where’s your girlfriend. mike feels something in his soul crack.
the worst part is that they all start assuming you’ll be there.
“is she coming??” dustin asks hopefully, every time mike makes plans.
“tell her we’re getting pizza.” max adds, like mike is a messenger pigeon.
once, mike suggests hanging out alone with the party—just once—and dustin immediately frowns. “why?” mike opens his mouth, closes it. realizes he doesn’t have a good answer. later, he complains to you about it, half-serious. “they like you more than me now.” you laugh. mike does not find this funny.
you’re not just his girlfriend anymore, you’re part of the party. part of the noise and the arguments and the shared memories and the eye rolls and the inside jokes. when he looks around the room, he sees you laughing with his friends, arguing, listening, belonging—and for once, he doesn’t feel like he’s choosing.
he got both.
which is how he ends up, three weeks later, sitting on cold metal bleachers that smell like popcorn oil and school disinfectant, watching his friends try very hard to act like they belong at a varsity game. this is, objectively, hilarious.
it starts with the invitation. you ask, hey, um—if you guys want, you could come to the game on friday? totally okay if not. mike says yes before anyone else can open their mouth. dustin says yes because mike said yes and because he’s already decided this is a social experiment. lucas says yes because lucas always says yes to showing up. max shrugs and says sure, because she’s curious and because she likes you and because watching mike in unfamiliar territory sounds entertaining. eddie claims he’s busy, then shows up anyway. late. with nachos.
now they’re all here, lined up like a misplaced control group, trying to decode the rules of a sport they have never once cared about. dustin has questions. so why do they yell that? is that good yelling or bad yelling? lucas tries to explain and gives up halfway through. max steals mike’s soda because she’s thirsty and because she can. mike lets her because he’s distracted by the fact that you’re on the field, and you’re focused. hair pulled back, uniform crisp, moving with a confidence that feels illegal to witness. mike forgets to blink. dustin notices. “you know she can’t see you, right?” mike does not look away. “i know.”
when you score—when the crowd erupts and the cheer section explodes and you light up like you just did something miraculous—mike is on his feet before he realizes he stood. he’s yelling your name. dustin is yelling your name. max is yelling something unintelligible but enthusiastic. lucas claps. eddie whistles loud enough that a teacher looks over. mike feels his face heat up and decides he doesn’t care. this is pride, this is allowed.
at halftime, you run over, breathless and smiling, eyes immediately finding him like magnets. you ask, “so?” like this matters. like their opinion matters to you. mike opens his mouth. dustin beats him to it.
“that was sick!” dustin compliments, entirely sincere. “you’re terrifying.”
max nods approvingly. “yeah. you’re cool.” high praise. lucas grins. eddie adds, “wheeler, i rescind all previous jokes. you’re punching up.”
mike sputters. “hey.”
you bump your shoulder into his, quick and affectionate, before you’re pulled back onto the field. he watches you go, chest tight in a good way. after the game—after the win, after the sweaty hugs and the group photo someone insists on—you pull them all together, thank them for coming. tell them it meant a lot. dustin says, “of course we came,” like that should have been obvious. max slings an arm around your shoulders. lucas asks about practice schedules. eddie asks if this means he’s officially a sports guy now. mike hangs back for half a second, watching you laugh with his people.
this is a scene. one of those ones his brain is going to hoard forever and pull out at inconvenient times, like three years from now in the shower, or ten years from now when he’s supposed to be doing taxes or whatever adults do. late-night bleachers. floodlights humming. the air cold enough that everyone’s pretending they’re not shivering.
no one can decide where to go.
this is also a tradition, apparently.
“we could get food.” lucas suggests, reasonable as ever.
“everything’s closed.” max replies, already bored with the conversation.
eddie lifts a greasy paper tray like it’s evidence. “i stole nachos.”
“you didn’t steal them.” dustin says.
“borrowed indefinitely,” eddie corrects. “also they’re cold now.”
dustin recoils as eddie takes a step closer, threatening. “do not touch me with those. i swear to god.”
you’re still in your cheer uniform, jacket half-on, hair a mess in that way that makes mike’s brain short-circuit. you laugh. mike watches your mouth move. he forgets to join the circle until you reach out and tug him in by the sleeve, like, no, you’re part of this too. he steps in, immediately warmer.
eddie lunges. dustin shrieks. there is a brief, horrifying moment where it looks like dustin is actually going to be taken out by a rogue nacho, but max trips eddie at the knee. eddie stumbles, recovers, bows. “thank you, madam.”
“you’re disgusting.” she says fondly.
lucas laughs. you laugh harder. mike laughs because you are laughing. this is how it works now. someone—dustin, probably—starts arguing about the game again. not the rules, not the score. something deeply specific and incredibly dumb. eddie has Opinions. lucas tries to mediate. max checks her watch and then doesn’t leave. mike leans against the bleachers, you leaning into him, shoulder pressed to his chest like it belongs there. it does. eddie offers you a nacho. you hesitate. mike says, immediately, “don’t eat that.”
eddie grins. “protective.”
you eat it anyway. mike watches you like he’s bracing for impact. you survive the nacho.. he exhales.
someone suggests going somewhere again. no one moves. the night feels suspended. the parking lot is emptying. a janitor flips off the stadium lights one by one. it gets darker, quieter, closer. you look at him, smile, and yeah, he’s done for. absolutely gone. but standing there, late at night, surrounded by warmth and people he loves, he thinks—-
yeah. this one’s going to last.
and when you finally part from the group, hand in hand with mike, dustin calls out, “hey, mike?”
↳ summary: mike wheeler is a loser. big time loser. and he’s dating the cheer captain. the only problem is that they’ve kept it a secret long enough.
↳ warnings: characters are 18, making out, slight voyeurism, dry humping.
↳ notes: wrote this on my phone at the airport not too much on me.
word count: 2.5k
The Hawkins High gymnasium’s smell was awful. It smelled like a lethal mix of floor wax, sweat, stale popcorn, and enough Axe body spray to tear a new hole in the ozone layer. It was the night of the Senior Championship game—or in other words, the holy grail of high school social hierarchy—and the noise was absolutely deafening.
Mike Wheeler sat sandwiched between Will Byers and a very aggressive tuba player from the marching band, his knees pressing uncomfortably into the back of a freshman. He looked miserable. He felt like he was vibrating out of his skin. He wanted to punch someone.
"Statistically speaking," Dustin shouted over the thumping bass of We Will Rock You, spraying pretzel crumbs onto Lucas's shoulder, "this is a gross misappropriation of our time! Our teams’ defensive line has the structural integrity of a wet napkin. We could be running the Vecna's Revenge campaign right now. I had the map ready! But instead, we are watching grown men chase a ball."
"It's our last semester, Henderson!" Lucas yelled back, wiping pretzel dust off his jacket. He was wearing face paint that was already sweating off in the humidity. "It's called social integration. Try it sometime! We're seniors! For fuck’s sake!"
"I am well integrated!" Dustin gestured wildly to his Hellfire Club t-shirt. "I am a leader of men! I just don't see the appeal of—"
Will nudged Mike hard in the ribs. "You okay? You look like you're going to throw up."
Mike was staring fixedly at the sidelines, his face pale, gripping his knees so hard his knuckles were white. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "I'm fine, Will.” he squeaked. His voice cracked. He cleared his throat violently. "I'm great. Go Tigers. Yay sports."
Nobody knew.
It was the absurdity of the century. It was a glitch in the matrix. It was the best-kept secret in a town famous for government conspiracies and horrendous interdimensional monsters.
The secret had a name, and that name was Y/N, his sweet little girlfriend.
It had started back in October, senior fall, on a rainy Tuesday that smelled of damp leaves and ozone. The AV Club room was Mike's sanctuary, the one place he could escape the pressures of senior year. He had been alone that afternoon, covered in black toner, cursing creatively at the large-format poster printer which had decided to jam for the third time that week.
He heard the door creak open. He expected Mr. Clarke. He expected Dustin.
He did not expect the Captain of the Hawkins High Cheer Squad.
Y/N had walked in, closing the door softly behind her. She wasn't wearing her uniform; she was in a soft, oversized cashmere sweater and jeans, looking like she had just stepped out of a catalog. Mike froze, his hands stained with ink, waiting for the usual mockery. He waited for her to ask where the "cool people" were, or to make fun of his D&D shirt.
Instead, she looked around the messy room with a sigh of relief. "Is it quiet in here?" she asked, her voice soft. "The library is full of freshmen."
"Uh," Mike had managed, eloquent as ever. "Yeah. Usually."
She held up a leather-bound notebook. "I just need somewhere to write. Journaling. I can’t do it with people behaving like animals."
She didn't leave. She sat on a desk, legs swinging, and watched him fight the printer. And then, shockingly, she helped. She rolled up her expensive sleeves, got ink on her perfect hands, and helped him dislodge the paper tray.
They spent three hours talking. And not the superficial stuff Mike expected. They talked about fears. About the crushing pressure of perfection. About how they both secretly thought Return of the Jedi was the weakest of the trilogy. Mike was a rambling, nervous mess, his hands shaking every time she looked at him with those big, intelligent eyes, but she just laughed—an overly warm, genuine sound that made his chest ache.
By the end of the day, the tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. The rain was hammering against the windows, sealing them in their own little world. Mike had been staring at her lips, paralyzed by his own insecurity, convinced he was misreading the signals. Because girls like Y/N didn't look at guys like Mike Wheeler. Not like that.
"You're going to pass out if you don't kiss me, Wheeler," she had whispered, leaning in close enough for him to smell her sweet, edible vanilla perfume.
Mike had stopped breathing. "I just... I didn't think..."
"Shut up," she had smiled.
She grabbed him by his shirt, yanked him down, and planted a kiss on him that effectively rebooted his operating system. It was soft at first, then hungry, and Mike had realized with a jolt that the coolest girl in school was actually trembling just as much as he was.
Now, six months later, they were keeping it secret. Mike insisted on it. He told himself it was to protect her.. Well, obviously, dating a very active member of the Hellfire Club wasn't exactly a status booster for a cheer captain. He didn't want to be the anchor that dragged her down the social ladder.
But tonight? Tonight, Y/N had other plans.
"I'm doing a toe-touch jump right at the 50-yard line," she had told him last night, her voice husky over the phone as he lay in bed staring at his ceiling. "And if you aren't there to see it, I'm, so seriously, breaking up with you. I'm tired of hiding, Mike. I want to show you off."
Show me off, Mike thought, feeling dizzy. She's fucking insane.
Back in the gym, the buzzer sounded for halftime. The lights dimmed, and the spotlight hit center court.
"Oh, look," Dustin groaned, rolling his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Pompoms. My favorite part of the evening. Wake me when the game starts again."
"Shut up, Henderson," Mike snapped, instantly alert. He sat up straighter, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The music kicked in, something rhythmic and loud, vibrating through the bleachers. The squad moved in perfect synchronization, a sea of green and gold pleats and white sneakers. And there she was.
Y/N.
She was absolutely mesmerizing, as always, Mike thought. She flew through the air in a basket toss, soaring higher than anyone else, her ponytail whipping like a lash, her smile dazzling enough to blind the front row. She hit every beat with a sharpness that commanded attention. She looked powerful, beautiful, and completely, utterly out of his league.
Mike felt a surge of pride so intense it nearly choked him. That's my girl, he thought. His and only his. The words felt reckless and golden in his head. The girl everyone is staring at? She kisses me. She likes my nerdy ass rants.
The routine ended in a pyramid formation. Y/N was at the very top, arms raised in a V, chest heaving, glitter catching the overhead lights. The crowd went feral.
But Y/N didn't look at the crowd. She didn't look at the judges.
She turned her head and locked eyes with the specific section of the bleachers where the band geeks and the Hellfire Club sat.
She found Mike. Even from this distance, he felt the weight of her gaze. It was a look of pure, terrifying possession. A smile curled the corner of her lips; soft, intimate, and knowing.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she raised two fingers to her glittery lips and blew a kiss.
It was a direct hit.
The bleachers around them erupted in confusion.
"DID YOU SEE THAT?!" Lucas grabbed Dustin's arm, nearly dislocating it. "She looked right at me! Y/N just blew a kiss at me!"
"You're hallucinating, Sinclair!" Dustin scoffed, frantically smoothing his curly hair under his hat. "She was looking at the hat. Chicks dig the trucker hat energy. That was clearly for me! It was a signal!"
"In your dreams! Why would SHE blow a kiss at you?"
"Why would SHE blow a kiss at YOU!? You're wearing face paint like a damn toddler!"
"Guys," Will started, looking at Mike. "I think—"
But Mike didn't say a word. He couldn't. His face was burning so hot he thought he might spontaneously combust. He stood up abruptly, his metal chair clattering back loudly. He looked like he'd just seen a ghost, or maybe God.
"I have to go," Mike choked out. "Stomach. Bad pretzel. Need air."
He bolted before they could ask questions, scrambling down the bleachers, tripping over people's feet, fleeing the scene like a criminal.
Twenty minutes later, the game was dragging into the third quarter. The crowd was roaring, but the party was distracted.
"He's been gone a while," Will frowned, looking at the empty seat next to him.
"He's probably crying in the car because the noise was too loud," Lucas rolled his eyes, though he looked concerned. "Or he went to 7-Eleven for a slushie and didn't invite us."
"Let's go get him," Dustin decided, standing up. "This game is a blowout anyway, and I refuse to watch the Tigers lose by thirty points. Let's go."
The three boys trudged out into the cool night air, leaving the roaring, sweaty gym behind. The parking lot was a sea of metal, quiet and still under the buzzing streetlights. The distant sound of the announcer echoed eerily.
"There's his car," Dustin pointed to Mike's beat-up, beige sedan parked way in the back, under the shadow of a large oak tree. "I bet he's asleep. Grandpa Wheeler strikes again. Probably taking a nap."
As they got closer, weaving through the rows of trucks and vans, Lucas slowed down. He squinted.
"Hey... is it just me, or are the windows... wet?"
The car windows weren't just wet. They were opaque. Completely fogged up with heavy condensation, obscuring everything inside like that one scene from Titanic.
"Weird," Will murmured. "It's not that cold out."
Dustin marched up to the driver's side, a mischievous grin on his face. "Watch this. I'm gonna scare the soul out of his body." He raised his fist to bang on the glass.
Then, through a small clear streak in the condensation, his eyes adjusted to the interior.
Dustin's hand froze in mid-air. His mouth dropped open so wide a damn demogorgon could have crawled in and set up camp.
Inside the car, illuminated only by the warm, amber glow of the dashboard lights, was a scene that defied every law of the high school social universe.
Mike's seat was pushed all the way back. And Mike wasn't sleeping.
He was buried.
Y/N was straddling his lap, facing him. Her green and gold cheer skirt was hiked dangerously high, gathered at her waist, the pleats fanning out over Mike's denim-clad legs. Resting on the dashboard, next to a half-empty bottle of water, was a massive, expensive-looking bouquet of red roses with a card that screamed CONGRATS, LOVE <3 in bold marker.
But nobody was looking at the flowers.
Mike Wheeler, the lanky nerd who argued about dice rolls and refused to dance at prom, had his head thrown back against the headrest, his mouth devouring hers.
It wasn't a polite high school peck. It was feral.
Y/N had her arms wrapped tight around his neck, her fingers tangled deep in Mike's messy black curls, holding him in place as she ground her hips down into his lap. And Mike... Mike looked like a man starving. His hands were gripping her waist with a desperation that turned his knuckles white, his long fingers digging into the bare, soft skin of her thighs just below the hem of her skirt.
Y/N broke the kiss for a split second to gasp for air, a string of saliva connecting their lips, and Mike chased her immediately. He didn't let her pull away. He groaned something against her throat, a low, vibrating sound that was audible even through the glass, and buried his face in her neck.
He kissed the sensitive cord of her throat, open-mouthed and wet, his hand sliding up from her waist to palm the curve of her hip possessively, dragging her closer until there was zero space between them.
She whimpered, her head falling back, exposing her throat to him. She grabbed the collar of his Hellfire Club t-shirt, yanking on the fabric so hard the neck stretched. She bit his lower lip, hard, pulling it between her teeth, and Mike surged up to meet her, his other hand tangling in the back of her cheer uniform.
It was messy. It was frantic. It was the hottest thing any of them had ever seen, and it involved.. Mike. Jesus Christ! The Mike Wheeler.
Lucas looked like he had been slapped in the face with a wet fish. Will looked like he wanted to dissolve into the pavement.
Dustin just stood there, his brain unable to process the data. Mike? With Y/N? Making out like they were trying to invent a new form of fusion energy?
The cognitive dissonance was too much.
Inside the car, Y/N shifted her weight, pressing down harder into Mike's lap, arching her back. Mike let out a rough sound and moved his hand higher, his thumb grazing the skin of her inner thigh, his face flushed, eyes squeezed shut in pure, agonizing bliss. He looked powerful. He looked like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Dustin couldn't take it anymore. The universe was collapsing.
He didn't tap politely. He banged on the window with the force of a SWAT team.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
The reaction inside was explosive.
Y/N shrieked, a high-pitched sound of terror, scrambling backward and hitting her head on the rearview mirror. Mike practically jumped out of his skin, his limbs flailing as he tried to cover Y/N and locate his own dignity at the same time. His elbow hit the dome light, flooding the car with unforgiving brightness.
Mike whipped his head toward the window.
He looked wrecked. His black hair was standing up in every direction. His lips were swollen, red, and slick. His t-shirt was twisted. And on his neck, blooming in vibrant high-definition, was a fresh, purple hickey right above his collarbone.
He looked at Dustin with eyes the size of dinner plate; terror, shame, and fury all mixing together.
Dustin stood there, illuminated by the sudden flash of the interior light. He looked at the disheveled cheerleader trying to smooth her skirt down over her hips. He looked at the giant bouquet of love roses. He looked at Mike, whose hand was still instinctively resting on the thigh of the most popular girl in school.
Dustin threw his hands up, gesturing to the entire tableau, his voice rising to a screech that echoed across the parking lot.
there is an overwhelming amount of cool in the background details of these photos if you look at what she’s got at her desk, which i really really hope and believe was her actual everyday desk
