hey! Could you write one where Patrick is on a date with the reader in his car at night, like a lover’s lane type place in Derry, when they hear Pennywise outside? Maybe It taunts them or it’s just terrifying?? thanks!
"The Woods, the Dark, the Clown." (Patrick Hockstetter x Reader)
Your body moved with him, the slow, filthy rhythm of the car’s backseat giving just enough with every rock of your hips. Patrick was beneath you, hands tight on your waist, guiding you, his mouth trailing hot, open kisses along your bare chest. The car windows were fogged, the air thick with the smell of sweat, sex, and cigarette smoke. His jeans were shoved down just enough, your skirt pushed up too high, your breath ragged and shaky as you tried to keep up with him.
Then—a noise. A rustling. Somewhere outside the car, just beyond the tree line. You froze, mid-movement, your hands on his shoulders, pulse jumping.
Patrick groaned. His fingers dug into your thighs. “What the fuck?”
You were too still. Listening. “I heard something,” you whispered.
Patrick exhaled sharply, his head tipping back against the seat, frustrated. “It’s the woods. There’s always something.”
You glanced at the window. Darkness. The rustling stopped.
Patrick rocked his hips up impatiently, making you gasp. “Seriously?” he muttered against your throat, voice dark and teasing, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “You’re gonna stop right now?”
You still weren't convinced, your breath uneven, eyes flicking toward the window again.
Patrick sighed, tipping his head to the side, grinning lazily. “C'mon, it’s probably a fucking squirrel.”
Then it happened again. Louder this time. Something snapped in the trees. Your entire body tensed.
Patrick paused, exhaled through his nose, irritated. Then, just as quickly—he kept going. Deeper. Rougher. His grip on your hips tightened. “It’s nothing,” he murmured against your collarbone.
You couldn’t stop listening. The sound of your own heartbeat was so loud in your ears that you could barely hear anything else.
Patrick’s hands slid up your thighs, over your hips, up to your waist, slow and distracting, keeping you grounded. Keeping you with him.
Then—BANG. Something hit the back of the car. Hard. You screamed. Patrick froze. His entire body went rigid against you. Then, before you could even process it, he moved. He shoved you off him, reaching for his underwear and jeans, yanking them up, grabbing his boots.
You sat up fast, still dazed, confused, shaking. “What are you doing?!”
Patrick was already throwing his shirt over his shoulder, pulling the car door open. He grabbed the keys.
You scrambled forward, grabbing his arm. “Don’t go out there—Patrick, please!”
He smirked, cocky, dismissive. “What? You think it’s some psycho killer?”
You didn’t answer. Didn’t know how. "Please, don't go out there. Let's just go."
Patrick kissed you hard, shutting you up for a moment. Then he pulled back. “Stay here.”
The night swallowed him whole. Patrick moved carefully, stepping over damp leaves, his breath slow, steady. His hands flexed at his sides, ready for a fight. If this was some asshole kids fucking around, he was gonna scare the shit out of them.
Then—a whisper. Soft. Dripping. "Patrick."
He stopped. His stomach turned. He glanced over his shoulder—nothing. He exhaled. Took another step forward.
He whipped around. Something moved between the trees. Patrick’s breath hitched. Then, for the first time that night—he felt it. Something deep in his gut. The feeling that he was not alone. That something was watching. Something that wanted him to know.
The rustling came again. Then, out of the shadows, a shape. A figure. Tall. Too tall. Grinning.
Patrick went still. His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.
The thing tilted its head. The grin grew.
Patrick’s breath came shallow. His fingers curled into fists. “What the fuck,” he murmured.
You waited. Too long. The minutes stretched. He wasn’t coming back. The car felt wrong.
Your stomach turned, your skin crawling as you leaned forward, pressing your hands against the dashboard, staring out the windshield.
“Patrick?” you called out the open window.
Nothing. Your chest tightened. You opened the door. The air outside was colder now. Still. Too still.
Your feet were bare, your bra and skirt too thin, as you stepped toward the tree line. The silence was wrong.
Still nothing. You took a few more steps. Further. Then—something moved. Rustling. Closer.
You froze. Swallowed hard. “Patrick?” you whispered.
And then, he came out of nowhere. Barreling through the trees. Covered in blood. His forehead dripping. His breathing ragged.
“Fucking run!” Patrick yelled, grabbing your wrist.
Your feet barely kept up. Your legs burned. You couldn’t breathe.
Patrick was too fast, too strong, pulling you harder, rougher, desperate. You stumbled and fell.
Patrick kept running. For half a second, he hesitated. Looked over his shoulder. Like he was going to leave you.
Then, you pleaded. And he saw it. It was running toward you. Patrick’s blood ran cold. He cursed, turned back, yanked you up roughly by the arm. Then he ran again.
The car was just ahead. Patrick went for the keys in his pocket, fumbled, cursing. He threw the driver’s door open, slammed inside.
Your side—jammed. "Patrick, it won't open!"
“Then climb over me, now!” he snapped.
You ran around and climbed over him, knees hitting the wheel, hands bracing against the seat. Patrick threw you into the passenger seat. Locked the doors. Then he turned the key.
The engine stalled. Once. Twice. Then the headlights flared into the woods. And it stepped out.
You screamed. Patrick’s head snapped up. He saw it again. And for the first time in his life, he felt real fucking fear. He turned the key again, the car roared to life.
Threw it into reverse, backed up fast, looking out the back windshield. He kept going until he reached the main road not far from where you'd parked. His arm slammed over your chest, keeping you from lurking forward.
He could still see it. In the mirror. Grinning. Then he turned the wheel—hard. Threw the car into drive.
Slammed his foot on the gas. The tires screeched, the car barreling down the road. He didn’t stop. Not until the woods were gone.
The road stretched out endless in the dark, a black ribbon of pavement, empty and silent except for the roar of Patrick’s engine, the growl of tires eating up miles.
You were panting, twisted halfway in your seat, your hands white-knuckling the seat, your body still trembling.
Patrick drove fast. Too fast. The speedometer hovered at eighty-five, but he didn’t give a shit. He barely felt the road. His hands on the wheel were tight, too tight, knuckles bone-white. His head was fucking spinning. What the fuck had he just seen? That thing…
The way it moved, slow but too deliberate. That goddamn grin, wide, stretched, too many fucking teeth. And it had spoken to him. Like it knew him. Knew his name. Like it had been waiting. Patrick swallowed hard, licking his lips, the coppery tang of his own blood still fresh on his tongue.
You were still gasping, trying to breathe, your legs pulled up tight against your chest. You hadn’t said a word. Not since they left. You were staring ahead, watching the yellow lines blur past, like you were still seeing it.
Patrick flexed his grip on the wheel, flicked his eyes toward you. You were still trembling.
He clicked his tongue. “Hey.”
You didn’t react. Didn’t even blink.
Patrick sighed, reaching over, sliding his palm over your bare thigh, gripping gently. You jumped.
Patrick smirked, but it was shallow, distant. His fingers traced slow circles, slow enough to remind you he was still there, still solid, still real. His voice came out low, steady, almost mocking, but not quite. “You’re shaking.”
You swallowed, forcing out something that might’ve been a laugh, but it was more like a choked breath. “No shit,” you muttered.
Patrick exhaled through his nose, turning his attention back to the road. His thumb kept tracing slow, lazy circles on your thigh, smoothing over goosebumps, half-soothing, half-possessive. “Relax.”
You snapped your head toward him, eyes wild, disbelieving. “Relax?!” you choked.
Patrick grinned, sharp and lazy. “Yeah, y’know, that thing people do when they’re not acting like a scared little bitch.”
You punched his arm hard, right on the bruised muscle, and he winced.
“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, rubbing it.
“You saw it too,” you hissed.
Patrick’s fingers flexed on your leg, his smirk fading slightly. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “…Yeah,” he admitted.
You exhaled, too sharp, too shaky. You dropped your forehead against your knees, gripping your own hair.
Patrick watched you. It was weird—seeing you like this. He’d gone out with a lot of girls, liked you the best, but it wasn’t because you were special or anything. It was because you could keep up with him. Could handle his shit. Could run your mouth and not be afraid.
But now? Now you were shaking, curled up in his seat, breathing like you were about to pass out.
Patrick’s fingers tightened on your thigh. “Hey.”
You turned your head slightly.
Patrick flicked his eyes toward you, something calculating, something serious in the way he looked at you. “Nothing happened.”
You gaped at him. “Nothing—are you fucking kidding me?!”
Patrick’s smirk came back, slow and easy, but there was something underneath it now. Something measured. “Tell me, baby,” he murmured. “Did it touch you?”
You swallowed. “N-No, but—”
“Did it lay a hand on you?”
Patrick’s hand slid higher. “Did it touch me?” he asked, voice mocking, teasing.
Your mouth pressed into a thin line.
Patrick leaned in slightly, keeping one hand firm on the wheel, the other still on your skin. “So what the fuck’re you crying about?”
You stared at him, stunned into silence.
Patrick’s grin widened. “See? We’re fine.”
You swallowed. “Patrick—”
Patrick’s fingers slid higher, dipping beneath the hem of your skirt. You caught his wrist.
Patrick’s grin twitched. “Baby...”
His head tilted. “Don’t be goin’ all chicken-shit on me now.”
Patrick exhaled through his nose, tapping his fingers against the wheel. Then—he let up. He didn’t take his hand away, though. Just rested it there, a slow, familiar weight, steady and warm. He frowned again, softer this time. “It is weird though,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Why d’you think it let us go?”
Patrick’s eyes stayed on the road. His fingers traced absent-minded patterns against your thigh, his brows furrowing slightly, like he was still turning it over in his head. “That thing. The clown.”
Your stomach twisted at the word.
Patrick’s mouth twitched. “Coulda killed us,” he mused. “Didn’t.” His grip tightened. “Maybe it’s still playing with us.”
Patrick felt it. Felt the way your muscles locked, the way your breath caught in your throat.
His fingers pressed into the tender flesh of your inner thigh, deliberate, possessive. “Maybe,” he murmured, voice low, gravelly, sliding closer, “it’s still watchin’ us.”
Your breath came out sharp.
Patrick sighed. “You’re so fucking easy.”
You shoved his hand off you.
Patrick shrugged, licking his teeth, one hand still on the wheel, the other resting casually in his lap. He took a turn, the headlights cutting through the dark, guiding them back toward Derry. Patrick tapped his fingers against the wheel. His grin faded. His fingers traced the dried blood on his forehead. His breath came out slow.
Something was still unsettled inside him. That thing had spoken to him. Called him by name. Patrick licked his lips. Rolled his shoulders. Shoved it down.
He glanced at you again, watching the way you still sat pressed against the door, still shaking, still lost in your head. He clicked his tongue again.
You barely looked at him.
Patrick reached over, took your wrist, ran his thumb over your pulse. “You’re still alive.”
His voice was quieter now. “And we’re gonna go home.”
The road stretched long and empty in front of you, swallowed up by the night. The engine purred low and steady, but Patrick’s pulse wasn’t. Neither was yours.
Your breath still came shaky, fingers gripping the hem of your skirt, wringing the fabric. Patrick could see it from the corner of his eye, the way you couldn’t keep still, your knees tucked against your chest, your gaze flicking to every shadow. His fingers tapped the wheel. A slow, nervous rhythm. His stomach still felt like it was somewhere back in those fucking woods. His head hadn’t stopped spinning. He didn’t know how to process this.
Nothing scared him. Nothing. So why the fuck was his chest still tight? Why the fuck did he still feel like it was watching? The feeling wasn’t going away.
Neither was yours. You swallowed. “Can you… can you stay with me tonight? My parents are out of town for the weekend. I don’t want to be by myself.”
Patrick blinked. He should’ve teased you. Should’ve smirked, leaned in, murmured something filthy about how you needed him to keep you safe. But he didn’t. Instead, he just… nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. He didn’t trust himself to say anything else.
When you arrived, your house felt too quiet. Not the usual quiet—the deep, suffocating quiet of a house that had been empty for too long.
You locked the door behind Patrick, flicking the lights on one by one, chasing the shadows away. Patrick stood in the kitchen, the landline phone pressed to his ear. The dial tone had rung three times before his mother picked up.
“Hello, Hockstetter residence. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Oh, thank God. Where are you?” you heard Mrs. Hockstetter ask immediately. “It’s almost midnight.”
Patrick didn’t answer right away. His fingers tightened around the receiver.
She asked again. “Patrick?”
His tongue felt too heavy. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to hear her voice. His mom had never really been the overly warm type. But she was real. She was something solid.
“…I’m at Henry’s,” he lied. His voice was flat, clipped. He cleared his throat. “I’m staying over.”
Silence on the other end. Then—“You’re lying.”
Patrick swallowed. His jaw tightened.
“You’re at that girl’s house,” she continued, voice firm, like she was already upset.
Patrick shifted on his feet. His grip on the phone tightened. “Yeah. So?”
She sighed. “Just…be home tomorrow morning.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He didn’t want to hang up. She was still there. She was real. More real than whatever the fuck he saw back there. His free hand curled into a fist.
She sighed again, annoyed now. “Patrick.”
“I know,” he said quickly.
Then—he hung up. The silence swallowed him whole again, and he went off looking for you upstairs.
The light in the bathroom was soft, fogged with steam. You stood at the sink in just a towel, your dry hair loose from it’s updo, cascading down your back. You felt numb, sluggish, the warmth of the room barely touching the cold in your chest.
Patrick was behind you, silent, shirtless, jeans low on his hips. His reflection in the mirror looked wrong. Not because of the blood on his skin—the dried smears across his jaw, his collarbone. But because he was unreadable. His eyes were dark, his brows furrowed just slightly, like he was still playing back what happened. Still trying to make it make sense.
You swallowed. “…It’s not your blood.”
Patrick barely blinked. “No.”
Your stomach twisted. “Then whose?”
He licked his lips. “It was in a balloon,” he said.
You felt ice run down your spine. “A… balloon?”
Patrick’s fingers flexed at his sides. “It popped.” He turned to you then, head tilted slightly.
The movement was too slow. Too controlled. Like he was trying to hold something back. He took a step forward, looking at the shower. “You want me in there with you?”
You hesitated. Then nodded.
Patrick didn’t smirk. Didn’t say anything. Just started unbuttoning his jeans.
The hot water pounded against your skin, too hot, burning the cold away. Patrick stood much taller than you under the stream, letting it run over his face, washing the blood down the drain in thick, pink spirals.
You watched the color swirl around your bare feet. It should’ve been his blood. But it wasn’t.
Patrick’s hands were on the tile walls, his head bowed, breath slow. He hadn’t spoken since he stepped in. You picked up the washcloth, soaked it under the stream, and pressed it to his chest. Patrick didn’t move. Didn’t react. You wiped away the dried streaks of red, slowly, carefully. You weren’t sure why you were being so gentle. Patrick wasn’t fragile. Not like you were.
But this wasn’t the same Patrick you’d been with earlier. This wasn’t the Patrick who teased you for being scared. This wasn’t the Patrick who smirked and ran his hands up your legs and whispered filthy things in your ear. This was a different Patrick. This Patrick was processing. This Patrick was waiting.
You dragged the cloth along his jawline, his throat. His pulse beat heavy beneath your touch.
You swallowed. “What did you see?”
Patrick’s fingers curled against the wall. His breath came shallow. Then, slowly, he exhaled. “I dunno,” he murmured.
You frowned, glancing up.
Patrick’s expression was blank. Then, finally—he smirked. But it wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t teasing. It was something else. “…But it saw me,” he said.
Your stomach twisted. You pulled back.
Patrick caught your wrist. Held it. He leaned in close, voice low, steady. “You’re still scared,” he murmured. “’S’okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
When the two of you got into your bed, the sheets were soft, the air cool, but you were still shaking. Patrick let you curl against him, let you tangle your fingers in his ribs, grip him like you needed something solid. His arm was draped lazily over you, but he wasn’t relaxed. His muscles were tense. His eyes were open and bloodshot. His breathing was slow. Too slow.
You pressed your face into his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “…You’re still awake,” you murmured.
You looked up at him. “Patrick?”
His jaw was tight, his gaze locked on the ceiling. His fingers twitched against your back.
The sheets smelled like you. Patrick hadn’t really noticed before, but now, wrapped up in you, it was impossible to ignore. The faint, sweet scent of your shampoo, your skin, the warmth of you pressed against his side, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his T-shirt like you were afraid to let go.
You were still shaking. Not as bad as before, but Patrick could feel it, the slight tremor in your shoulders, the way your breath came uneven, like you were still trying to convince yourself you were safe.
Patrick hated that. Hated how quiet you’d gone. Hated that you, the cocky, sharp-mouthed girl who kissed and fucked him like you had something to prove was now curled into a shaking ball against his chest.
Hated that something out there had gotten to you. Gotten to him. His arm was draped over your waist, holding you firm, keeping you tucked against him, but his body was tense.
His jaw still felt tight. His fingers kept tapping against your back, slow, steady, like if he kept the rhythm consistent enough, neither of you would slip back into the fucking woods, the fucking dark.
He felt your breath hitch, then you muttered, “Can’t sleep either?”
Patrick smirked, but it wasn’t the usual one. More like a reflex, something automatic. “No,” he said. His voice was low, quieter than usual.
You swallowed. Your fingers, still twisted in his shirt, curled slightly.
Patrick’s long fingers kept tracing those lazy, absent-minded patterns on your back. Soothing. He could feel the hesitation in your body before you spoke.
“What… what if it’s still watching?”
Patrick stilled. His fingers froze mid-trace against your skin. A muscle in his jaw jumped. Then, he exhaled, slowly. His fingers started moving again. Slow, warm, steady. “Nah,” he murmured. “We’re too far now.”
You were quiet for a second. Then, your voice came small. “What if it comes back?”
Patrick’s grip on your waist tightened. “Then I’ll fucking kill it,” he said flatly.
You let out something that was almost a laugh. “Yeah?” you mumbled. “You gonna fight a… a fucking demon clown?”
Patrick smirked against your hair. “Damn right.”
You shifted, adjusting against him, pressing your cheek to his chest. “You were scared,” you whispered.
Patrick’s fingers paused, mid-trace. For a second, he didn’t say anything. His smirk returned, but this time, it was slower. “Was not.”
You huffed, shoving him weakly. Patrick chuckled, fingers tightening on your back, pulling you in closer like you were gonna get away or something.
“You ran so fucking fast,” you muttered, almost teasing.
Patrick licked his lips, amused despite himself. “Yeah? And who pulled your ass off the ground when you ate shit?”
You sighed dramatically, shoving your face deeper into his chest, inhaling him. “Shut up,” you mumbled.
Patrick grinned. “That’s what I thought.”
The silence stretched again.
He tilted his head slightly, feeling your breath warm against his skin. “Hm?”
You hesitated. “What if it tries to find us?”
Patrick stilled. For the first time since getting in your bed, something in his chest tightened. The image flashed in his head too quickly. That thing between the trees. That grin. The way it spoke to him. How it had let him walk away.
His fingers resumed their slow, steady tracing. His voice came out low, smooth, certain. “Then it can keep fucking trying.”
Your breath hitched. Patrick felt it. Felt the way your muscles locked again, the way your breathing grew uneven. His grip on you tightened. The smirk faded.
“…It’s not gonna touch you,” he murmured. Patrick’s fingers dragged up your back, slow, comforting, keeping you tucked into him. His voice was calm now. Steady. “Not while I’m here.”
You exhaled. It came out softer this time.
Patrick felt the tension in your body start to ease. Your fingers unclenched slightly from his shirt. Your breathing slowed. Patrick pressed a slow kiss to your hairline. His fingers never stopped moving. Tracing slow, steady patterns. Keeping you here. Keeping you his. And keeping that fucking thing in the woods away.
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