lavender vixen

• he doesn’t ask if you want a ride. he just shows up, engine rumbling outside your house like a warning

• you’ll hear the horn once. not twice. move fast or he’s driving off (he won’t, but he wants you to think he will)

• when you finally come out, he’s leaning against the driver’s side door, sunglasses on, smoke curling from his lips, checking you out shamelessly

• “took you long enough,” he mutters, but his smirk says he likes the view

• you reach for the car door, and he slaps your hand away, opens it himself, like, “what—you forget you got a man for that?”

• the passenger seat is a disaster: school supplies, food wrappers, old shoes, a lighter, cassette tapes he made himself, maybe even a switchblade

• you sit down and his hand is already sliding onto your thigh

• he always drives too fast, brakes late on purpose just to hear you gasp and clutch the door

• he laughs when you do, “what, you don’t trust me?”

• never uses turn signals. takes corners like he’s in a getaway chase

• his music is loud as hell, mostly The Cure, Bauhaus, maybe some early NIN or random stuff he won’t explain

• he never turns it down when you talk. if you want him to hear you, you have to lean in real close

• when you do, he glances at you sideways with that stupid grin and mutters, “careful, baby, keep leaning in like that and i’m gonna pull over.”

• half the time you’re talking, he’s not even listening. he’s staring at your lips, your legs, the way your skirt’s riding up

• “you wearing that all day?” he asks, eyes sharp. “you tryna piss me off?”

• jealous. but in that low-simmer way. he’ll let you wear what you want, but you better be loyal while you do

• glares at dudes in other cars who look at you

• sometimes he drives with just his knee so he can keep both hands on you

• if you’re fighting? he still shows up. honks like nothing happened. you get in, he lights a cigarette, drives in silence, hand still on your thigh like always

• pulls into the school lot like a menace, music blaring, windows down, parks crooked just to be a dick

• doesn’t care who sees. in fact, likes when people look. likes it even more when they look at you

• before you can open the door, he grabs your wrist: “wait.”

• pulls you in for a kiss, hard, messy, hand gripping your jaw

• bites your bottom lip, pulls back just a little, says, “now you can go.”

• sometimes slips your gum out of your mouth and pops it into his own

• fixes your lipstick with his thumb. “you look good, babe.”

• lets you go with one last grab of your ass or a whispered, “see ya at lunch” before you step out

patrick hockstetter driving you to school — neighbor edition (not dating)

• it starts because your parents ask him to—“patrick, would you mind giving her a ride? you know she goes to your school.”

• he says “yeah, sure” in front of them, but looks at you like don’t get comfortable, princess.

• first time he picks you up, he doesn’t even say hi. just unlocks the passenger door, already smoking, music blaring

• you slide in quiet, and he doesn’t look at you, just mutters “don’t slam my door.”

• his car smells like cigarettes, old cologne, and something sharp you can’t name

• there’s a knife in the cup holder. a lighter and cigarette butts in the ashtray.

• he drives fast. never speaks except to say, “you always take this long to get ready?”

• sometimes catches you looking at him and smirks like he knows you’re curious

• wears rings. wears apathy like a second skin

• doesn’t offer to carry your books, but you swear his eyes drop to your skirt when you climb in

• rests his hand on the gearshift near your thigh. lets it stay there. doesn’t say anything about it

• one morning he leans in close just to reach the radio, and his voice is in your ear:“your hair smells good.”

• plays music too loud. doesn’t turn it down when you talk. if you want him to hear, you have to raise your voice

• you notice he always checks your legs when you get in, even if he pretends not to

• says weird, offhand things that stick with you all day. like: “you got a boyfriend?”

• you don’t know what to say, so you don’t, but you think about it. you think about him

• you tell yourself you’re not into him, but you still peek out the window when you hear his engine in the mornings

• when other girls flirt with him at school, he barely looks at them, but sometimes he looks at you

• one day he says, real casual, “i could pick you up after school too, y’know. if you ask nice.”

• you ask. and that’s when the game really starts

patrick hockstetter driving you to school — younger sister edition

• complains every single morning about having to drive you. “get in. hurry up. you make me late, i’m leaving you behind.”

• but never actually leaves without you. your parents would flip out.

• you hop in with your backpack half-zipped and a toaster waffle in your mouth

• “you look like shit,” he mutters

• “so do you,” you shoot back, not even blinking

• you have a silent agreement to not talk to each other before 8am unless it’s to insult one another

• you always try to change the radio to something like Madonna or Cyndi Lauper—he smacks your hand away and turns it back to his creepy goth shit

• you says the band he likes sounds like “vampire vomit”

• he threatens to leave you on the side of the road

• has, on multiple occasions, swerved a little just to make you scream and spill your drink

• if anyone else picks on you at school though? he’s throwing punches. no hesitation

• once someone called you a bitch in gym class and Patrick showed up at their locker that afternoon like, “you like your teeth? then don’t say her name again.”

• you’ll fight like cats and dogs in the car, but if you’re crying or upset, he’ll get quiet

• pulls over. lights a cigarette. flicks his eyes over to you and says, “who was it?”

• you won’t say. he already finds out

• he’s the only one allowed to ruin your day. everyone else can go to hell

• on days when you actually look cute—hair curled, nice outfit on—he glares and says,“change your clothes. you’re in junior high, not a porno.”

• once you had a nosebleed in the car and used his band tee in the backseat to wipe it. he still hasn’t forgiven you

• one time, he let you paint his nails black while you were stuck in traffic.

• drops you off at school and says, “if anyone gives you shit, tell them your brother’s crazy. they’ll believe it.”

Henry Bowers

• Good at: Woodshop, gym, anything physical

• Struggles with: Reading comprehension, writing essays, sitting still

• Notes: Doesn’t seem smart but picks up on stuff when it’s hands-on. Will copy your answers with no shame.

Patrick Hockstetter

• Good at: Science (especially biology), art (sketching, ceramics), logic puzzles

• Struggles with: Group projects, deadlines & due-dates, following rubrics

• Notes: Weirdly smart but doesn’t brag. Will help you dissect a frog and then keep the organs.

Belch Huggins

• Good at: Math (surprisingly), geometry, cars/mechanics

• Struggles with: English, spelling, public speaking

• Notes: Acts dumb but isn’t. Lowkey patient and will explain fractions to you. Brings lots of snacks to the study session.

Victor Criss

• Good at: History, memorizing stuff, bullshitting essays

• Struggles with: Math, tests, not getting distracted

• Notes: Talks fast, writes fast, forgets fast. Knows weird historical facts and misuses them constantly.

————————

Victor’s got a stolen Walkman blasting Motley Crüe while he copies answers from the back of the history book, mouthing along to the lyrics like it helps him focus.

Belch is actually doing the math worksheet, pencil scratching while he taps his boot against the table. Every few minutes, he pauses to explain something—only to realize no one’s listening.

Patrick’s dissecting his pen like it’s a science experiment, black ink all over his fingers, sketching something vaguely human-looking in the corner of his worksheet. He hasn’t answered a single question, but somehow he knows all the answers.

And Henry sitting back in the kitchen chair, feet up, eating dry cereal out of the box and copying Belch’s paper while pretending he did it himself. Every so often, he flicks a Cheerio at Victor just to piss him off.

“You spelled ‘February’ wrong,” Belch mutters without looking up.

“Shut up, I spelled it cool,” Henry grins.

Obsessed!Patrick hockstetter x a obsessed!Reader. The reader is close friends with Hockstetter and she’s just like him as well. She’s always getting in detention, fights, arguments. Ima say that she is even worse than him. There are rumors going around derry that she killed her ex who cheated on her. Even saying that her ex’s skull is on her dresser. She’s also a bully who always try’s to get into fist frights with Henry

OMG AA I would love to see how you would write it

There are rumors about you. Always have been. Some say you bit a girl's ear off in sixth grade. Others say you poisoned your ex-boyfriend after finding out he hooked up with some chick from Bangor. The boldest one was that you keep his skull on your dresser, lipstick kisses smeared across rotting bone like a trophy.

Patrick never bought those rumors.

You met in detention, again. Your knuckles were scraped, blood crusted under your nails. His shirt smelled like gasoline and something else you couldn't quite place.

"Kids say you killed your ex," Patrick had leaned over and murmured when the teacher left the classroom.

You tilted your head. "Kids say you keep animals in a fridge."

There was a pause and then a slow grin. "Maybe we both just like keeping things that won't leave us."

You never dated him, not officially. You'd just show up together, at school, behind the football field, in the woods near the Kaspbrak house, whenever you were bored or pissed or wanted to vent.

You were usually touching, roughly, casually, cruelly. You'd shove him into lockers, laughing when he tried to gab your ass. He pulled your hair and slammed you into walls, just to see if you'd scratch his face again.

Sometimes you did. Sometimes you'd kiss right after.

Henry didn't like you, but you didn't care. You'd get in his face constantly, taunting him until hands were flying and Patrick was laughing in the corner with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

"She's a psycho," Henry muttered one time, jaw bruised.

Patrick only shrugs.

Your room is a shrine of madness. Posters of Mötley Crüe and Hellraiser. Knives under the bed. A cracked skull on the dresser with a name carved into the base. No one knows if it's real. No one dares ask. Except Patrick. And when he does, you don't answer.

He thinks he might love you, but he doesn’t say it. Not because he’s scared. But because love is too soft a word for what you have.

You meet near the barrens, under the half-rotten bridge where all the rats scurry after dark. You've got a flask in one hand, a switchblade in the other. Patrick’s got his dad’s lighter and a dead squirrel in his jacket.

“I brought snacks,” he jokes.

You stare at the squirrel and smile slowly.

“You’re so fucking weird,” you murmur. “That’s why I like you.”

“You like me?” he taunts, stepping closer. "Thought you didn’t like anyone."

“I don’t,” you growl, shoving him hard enough to make him stumble. “But you’re not just ‘anyone,’ are you?”

He grabs your wrist—tight—and yank you into him. Your faces are inches apart. Your breath is hot with stolen whiskey. His fingers dig into your bruised arm.

You don't resist.

"You really like me?" Patrick asks, voice soft, almost tender.

You tilt your head. “Don't be stupid, Hockstetter.”

Your mouths crash together, teeth clicking. It’s not a kiss, it’s a collision. Your fingers claw at his jaw. He bites your bottom lip until you taste blood.

You pull him in harder.

The kiss is savage. Messy. His hands are everywhere—your hips, your jaw, the back of your neck. You shove him back into the concrete bridge pillar, hard enough to make the structure almost groan. His head hits it, and he laughs into your mouth.

"You’re fucking crazy," he breathes against your cheek, voice shaky and delighted.

You grin. “So are you.”

His hands slide under your jacket. Calloused fingers trail over your ribs, up under your shirt, dragging your skin like he owns it. You moan low in your throat, more from defiance. Like daring him to keep going.

“I thought about you last night,” Patrick says. “Thinking about how your mouth looked when you spat blood on the floor in gym class.”

You laugh, breathless. “That’s sick.”

“Nah,” he says, dragging his tongue along your jaw. "It was pretty.”

You grab him by the belt and yank him forward.

“You think I'm pretty?” you ask, cocky and cruel.

He nods, too quickly, pulling you onto the concrete ledge with him.

“I think you're damn knockout,” he whispers.

“You're such a liar,” you say, and then you’re on top of him. "You're a good liar, though."

You straddle his lap on the ledge, knees scraping against broken glass and dead leaves. You don't even feel it. His hands are on your thighs, under your skirt, greedy and twitching. You grab his chin and force him to look at you.

“This doesn't mean anything, you know,” you say.

“I don’t want it to,” Patrick says back, fast, like he’s almost scared you might pull away.

Your grin sharpens. “Good.”

You kiss again, deeper, rougher. His hand tangles in your hair and you rock your hips against him until he’s panting into your mouth.

Somewhere deep in the woods, a branch snaps. Neither of you look.

Because this is where you live now, in the blood and dirt and heat of each other. You ride that line between love and hate. You don’t say "I love you." You don’t need to.

And she can dress quite revealing some times but mainly for herself and sometimes she talks about her boy problems to him but that doesn’t stop her from teasing patrick..

fem reader? 😼

The Kiss It was another ordinary afternoon—the kind that didn’t seem like it would lead anywhere dangerous. You’d been teasing him all day, just as you always did. You had a way of pushing Patrick’s buttons, something you did half out of curiosity and half out of boredom. He was quiet, always watching, always waiting. But he played along, as usual, pretending it didn’t matter, even though the tension between you both was palpable, lingering in the spaces between words, in the long, lingering glances.

You wore a loose, low-cut tank top that day. It wasn’t for anyone but you—it never was—but Patrick couldn’t help but look. You liked how it bothered him, how it made him uneasy, and yet he never said anything, always pretending like he wasn’t affected by it.

The air between you thickened. He was leaning against the wall, eyes trained on you, watching every small movement you made with an unnerving focus. His gaze was cold, but there was something in it—something darker. You knew he could get intense, but this was different. You felt a flicker of something, a warning, deep in your gut.

"You’re still talking to that guy, huh?" Patrick’s voice was low, almost mockingly sweet as he shifted his weight, pushing off the wall. His lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but it was there.

You rolled your eyes, not thinking much of it. “Yeah, and he’s cute. What’s it to you?”

The words came out a little too casually, a little too light, but you could tell it hit a nerve. His jaw tightened, just slightly, before he took a step closer. It was nothing new. He did this sometimes—came too close, like he was testing boundaries, but he never crossed them. Not yet.

"Well, you know... I’m just wondering," he said, voice dropping an octave, "if you can really trust someone like that. Guys like him, they don’t care about you. Not like I do."

You felt a knot tighten in your chest, but you refused to back down. "What, you think you're some sort of knight in shining armor?"

Patrick's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence between you two. It felt suffocating, like the room had closed in. Then, suddenly, he was closer, his breath ghosting across your skin.

Before you could step back, his lips pressed against yours—softly, almost gentle at first—but there was no sweetness behind it. It wasn’t a kiss of affection. It wasn’t a kiss that asked for permission. It was cold. It was a warning. A command. His hands gripped your wrists, holding you still as he deepened the kiss, tilting his head to press harder into you.

The kiss itself was suffocating, like his entire being was pressing you into submission. He was controlling it, dictating the pace, pulling you into a place where you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. His tongue slipped past your lips, tasting you, claiming you—not as a lover, but as something he could dominate, something he could own, even if only for a moment.

When he pulled back, his face was inches from yours. His breath was hot against your skin, and there was that same sickly sweet smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It wasn’t affectionate. It was chilling.

"You really don’t know, do you?" His voice was rough now, a sneer curling his words. "You think you can just mess around with me, but you don’t get it. You never do."

You could barely focus. Your heart was racing, your mind spinning, and your body was still tingling from the kiss—part confusion, part fear, part arousal. But you wouldn’t let him see the effect it had on you.

"That kiss," he continued, leaning in so close his nose brushed against yours, "was a mistake for you. Not for me."

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Patrick’s smile only deepened, as if he could sense the way you were unraveling. His eyes gleamed with something darker, something predatory. And you couldn’t deny that, in that moment, you felt like you were the prey.

But you weren’t stupid. You knew better than to let him see just how much it had shaken you. "Maybe you just got carried away," you said, forcing the words out, trying to regain control. But your voice shook, betraying the calm façade you tried so hard to maintain.

He laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. It was sharp, like the crack of a whip. "You think it was a mistake for me, huh?" Patrick’s fingers found the curve of your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. "I don't make mistakes."

platonic friends who maybe sometimes kiss, but gf and bf nahhh

gen/fem reader

anyways yeh! 💗🤗

Moonlight

You were on your knees in the grass, cursing like a trucker under your breath, trying to find your damn scrunchie. It had been holding your hair together all day like a miracle and now your hair was sticking to your neck like you'd been hit with a garden hose.

The sun was long gone, but the last batch of burgers hissed on the grill like angry cats. Your best friend Stephanie Villarreal lounged against the picnic table, lazily carding her fingers through Henry Bowers’ greasy hair like he was some kind of summer camp Adonis.

“This party’s the best one yet, Y/N,” she sighed, totally blissed out.

You blew a strand of hair out of your eyes and snorted. “Duh. It’s my party.”

Henry groaned dramatically, fanning himself like some drunk Southern belle. “It’s also the hottest. I’m dying.”

You sat back on your heels and raised a brow. “What? You weren’t hot last year when Belch came tearing outta the woods in that Bigfoot mask and made you piss yourself?”

Stephanie cracked up. “Oh my god, I forgot about that!”

“I didn’t piss myself,” Henry muttered, rolling onto his side.

“You definitely pissed yourself,” you and Steph said in unison, then lost it laughing.

“I thought it was your dad!” Steph wheezed. “Like, I legitimately thought we were about to get murdered with a spatula.”

“Mr. Huggins and his infamous sense of idiocy,” Henry muttered, but he was smiling, rubbing Steph’s leg as she leaned down to kiss him. She used to be so uptight about PDA. Not anymore. Now they made out in public like horny raccoons.

You pretended to keep searching for your scrunchie, but really, you just didn’t want to watch them tongue each other. Not that you minded. You were happy for her. But seeing people all wrapped up in each other just made you feel... itchy. Not lonely, exactly. Just... aware. Of your own skin. Of the fact that your last hookup had been months ago and barely worth remembering.

A car door slammed.

You stood up so fast you nearly toppled over, brushing dirt off your knees and squinting past the flickering light of your mom’s old paper lanterns.

At the end of the dirt drive, a pair of headlights cut out and a tall silhouette stepped out of a van, stretching like a cat. You’d know that lazy slouch anywhere.

“Patrick!” you hollered, throwing your arms in the air. “Holy shit, you actually showed up!”

You sprinted barefoot across the lawn, your feet slapping the dirt, boobs bouncing in your tank top, and launched yourself at Patrick Hockstetter like he was both God and a six-pack of wine coolers.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered as you crashed into him, arms slung around his neck, the momentum sending him stumbling a step back.

“I missed you, dumbass,” you said loudly, planting a kiss on his cheek that barely missed his mouth. You smelled like sweat, sunscreen, and that cheap vanilla body spray you swore that made boys lose their minds. “You smell like a gas station.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, wrapping his arms around you with fake tenderness, “you smell like beer and Aqua Net, so who’s the real winner here?”

Then he did something he always did when he thought no one was looking—he bent his head down, all faux-casual, and kissed you. Right on the mouth.

And—yeah. You kissed him back. Like, really kissed him. Just for a second. Just long enough to remind yourself why you didn’t go steady with anyone. Why would you? You already had Patrick’s mouth on demand like it was a jukebox and you were the only one with a quarter.

You pulled away first, but only by a breath. “We’re in public, Hockstetter.”

“And yet,” he said, his voice low and cocky, “you kissed me first, in case you forgot.”

“Only ‘cause you looked like shit and I felt bad for you.”

“Sure.”

Before you could sass him back, a familiar voice hollered from the backyard.

“Hockstetter!” Vic Criss.

You took a quick, guilty step back, wiping your mouth like you’d just tasted battery acid. Patrick’s hands dropped from your waist like nothing happened. Like they hadn’t been right there a second ago, his thumbs brushing skin under your shirt.

Vic jogged up the drive with Moose Sadler and Lindsey Sharp behind him. Moose was hauling a guitar and Lindsey looked like she’d just stepped off a Whitesnake album cover—tight jeans, teased hair, tits up to her chin.

“Barbecue started at four,” Vic said, mock-scolding. “Ever heard of showing up on time?”

“I show up fashionably,” Patrick drawled, already sliding into his cocky rhythm.

“You missed all the food,” Moose added, patting his lean stomach like a toddler. He gave Patrick a lopsided handshake and nodded at you. “Y/N.”

“Moose.”

Lindsey linked her arm with Patrick’s like she was claiming him in front of everyone. “You’re lucky I missed you,” she said, pouting. “Rehearsals have been such a shitshow without you.”

Patrick was still looking at you. He hadn’t looked away once since the kiss.

You’d already turned around, strutting back across the yard with your middle finger casually tossed over your shoulder.

You found your scrunchie—finally. Snagged under a folding chair, dirty as hell. You dusted it off on your tank top, muttered “close enough,” and looped it back into your hair. Not like anyone cared what you looked like tonight. Except maybe Patrick. And maybe you wanted him to.

But you were done thinking about that. Done. So done. Completely— …God, he looked good.

He was posted up at the picnic table now, legs spread like he owned the entire goddamn mountain, dark hair messy from the road, sunglasses tucked in his collar. Lindsey Sharp was perched beside him, leaning in close, talking about rehearsal and music festivals, twirling her hair like a twelve-year-old. You watched her touch his shoulder and wanted to rip your own hair out, but instead, you just popped open a warm beer and dropped down under the old apple tree like a feral little sprite.

You weren’t sulking. You were lurking. Big difference.

From your spot in the shadows, you watched him laugh at something Moose said. He did that thing he always did—ran a hand through his hair, leaned back like he was bored, but still listening. His eyes were scanning the crowd. Looking. For something.

For you.

You hated that you liked that. Hated it like you hated summer sweat behind your knees. Like mosquito bites under your bra strap.

You rolled the beer can across your forehead and muttered, “Cool down, slut,” to yourself.

You didn’t want Patrick Hockstetter to be your boyfriend. He’d be the world’s worst boyfriend. He wouldn’t call back, he’d definitely flirt with your friends, and he’d probably finger you in a movie theater then tell Vic about it before the credits rolled.

But God, the way he kissed.

Your fingers brushed your lips.

You weren’t in love. Please. You just hadn’t been kissed like that in a while. And not by someone who knew how to do it mean. Patrick kissed like he had something to prove. Like his mouth was a loaded weapon and he wanted to see what you’d do if he pulled the trigger.

And yeah, you sometimes kissed. You sometimes did more. But there were no strings. No pet names. No “what are we” bullshit. Just sweat, teeth, and bad decisions made under the buzz of lantern lights and too much Coke mixed with whatever Vic poured into the jungle juice.

You took a long sip and smirked.

Whatever Lindsey thought she had going on, Patrick was yours when it counted.

But then you saw it—Patrick glancing toward the porch. Not at you. Past you. At the screen door.

At Steph.

You tensed. Steph and Henry were back to their weird couple routine—her draped on his lap, his hand halfway up her back pocket. But Patrick’s gaze was sharp, unreadable.

You knew that look.

You’d seen it the night of prom when he’d walked you to the bleachers and asked if you wanted a cigarette and then kissed you before you could say yes or no. When your eyes were still swollen from crying over Peter Gordon, and Patrick didn’t care. He kissed you anyway, like kissing you was the solution to everybody else’s mistakes.

You hadn’t let him do it again for weeks.

Until one night, in the back of his van, he just said, “You’re gonna let me, right?” and you did. And you kept doing it. Because it was easy. Because it was fun. Because it didn’t mean anything.

Except maybe it kind of did.

But tonight? You weren’t gonna think about that. You weren’t gonna sit under this stupid apple tree like some tragic prom queen waiting for her dirtbag almost-boyfriend to make eye contact.

You slammed the rest of your beer and stood up. Your legs felt electric, wobbly and charged.

If Patrick wanted to play games? You were the ref.

“Y/N!”

You jumped. Belch Huggins had crept up under the tree like a giant lumbering bear, a red cup in one hand, a hot dog in the other.

“You scared the shit outta me,” you said, smacking him in the chest.

“I bring gifts,” he said solemnly, holding out the hot dog like an offering. “Also, you look like you’re gonna light someone on fire.”

You snatched the hot dog and took a savage bite. “I might.”

He sat down cross-legged and squinted toward Patrick. “Lindsey’s trying real hard to get banged behind the shed.”

“Let her. I hope she pulls a hamstring.”

Belch snorted. “Jesus, you're mean when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” you said through your mouthful. “I’m territorial. Difference.”

But before Belch could psychoanalyze that, Henry Bowers leapt up on the picnic table like an overcooked firework.

“EVERYBODY SHUT THE HELL UP!” he shouted. “I have a beautiful, life-changing idea!”

“Oh Christ,” you muttered.

Vic cut the music. Conversations died down. Steph looked like she wanted to crawl into the grill and cook herself.

Henry pointed toward the trees behind the cabin like he was Moses on a Red Bull bender. “Full moon. Ninety degrees. Everyone’s half-naked anyway. I say we go swimming.”

A pause. Then a roar of approval.

Except from Steph.

“What?” she blinked, stepping toward him. “Henry, it’s illegal to swim after dark. It’s a state park!”

Henry jumped off the table and grabbed her hand. “Oh, come on. Live a little.”

“There’s no lifeguard. It’s dangerous,” she said, glancing at you like you were gonna back her up.

You just raised your brows and licked mustard off your thumb. “What? Sounds fun.”

Steph stared. “You’re kidding.”

“Babe,” you said sweetly, “you’re the one who brought the red bikini and told me not to let you chicken out. Don’t get all valedictorian on us now.”

Henry gave you an approving nod. “Y/N gets it. Steph, you can stay here with the potato salad, or you can come make bad decisions like the rest of us.”

Steph frowned. You turned, tossed your hot dog in the grass, and started walking toward the path that led down to Fox Lake.

You didn’t wait for anyone.

Behind you, there was laughter. Footsteps. Yelling. Someone shouted, “Skinny dip!” and someone else screamed. You heard Belch yell, “If I see one snake I’m punching it,” which made zero sense.

The walk to Fox Lake was chaos.

Flip-flops slapping, beer cans cracking, Steph’s absence hanging heavy like someone forgot to pack the main dish. You kept drifting further back in the group, letting couples pair off like it was romantic full moon night instead of illegally trespassing at a state park.

You were frustrated. And horny. And hot. And not in the good way.

Patrick had been walking up ahead with Vic, going off about some band Tamara Foster’s cousin was in—some guy from Toronto, which apparently made him cool by default. Patrick had barely looked at you. Not once. Not after that kiss. Not after you stripped to your bra like a pinup in front of half the party. It was like he just…flipped some switch in his head.

God, you hated boys.

Henry took off ahead, yelling something about testing the water. Translation: he needed to go cry-sprint in the woods because Steph stayed behind. Honestly, you could sympathize.

One by one, the rest peeled off like it was a scavenger hunt for places to hook up. Marissa and Randy heard an owl and disappeared. Kristy and Matt vanished by the canoe racks. Gard and Alexa were already halfway to the raft. Which left you, Vic, and Patrick. Excellent. A dream throuple, you thought sarcastically.

Vic slapped on his headphones, mumbled something about going to the rental shack, and wandered off. Patrick jogged after him, yelling “Yo, wait up!” like you hadn’t just spent the entire walk mentally planning your slow-burn eye contact reunion.

You stood there next to a trash can, flip-flops shuffling uselessly, watching them walk away.

You almost turned around. Back to the cabin. Back to Steph’s judging eyes and the ice chest full of disappointment. But the lake was quiet, and you were tired of pretending like you didn’t care. So you took a deep breath, muttered “fuck it” under your breath, and stomped down the trail toward the dock.

The water glittered black and silver. The air smelled like pine needles and cheap body spray. You peeled off your clothes, tossed them in a damp pile on the dock, and stood there in your low-cut one-piece swimsuit like an angsty Miss America runner-up.

You dipped one toe in. It was cold. Perfect. Bracing. Like a slap in the face you didn’t know you needed.

You stood at the edge of the dock, fiddling with your hair, trying to get it up in a messy bun with your scrunchie, like that was going to help any part of your mood.

“Don’t,” someone said behind you.

You jumped a little. Spun around. Patrick was there.

Barefoot. Shirtless. In a pair of old cutoff jeans, ones that were probably once pants he ruined trying to acid-wash like Kurt Cobain. His shirt was balled up in one hand, the other one reaching for your scrunchie.

“What are you doing?” you asked, heart skipping.

He stepped forward and gently tugged the scrunchie from your fingers, tossed it on the dock. “Just leave it down. You look better when you’re not trying so hard.”

You blinked at him. “Wow, okay, backhanded much?”

He smirked. “I meant it in a good way.”

“Oh.” Your voice sounded stupid and small and not at all like the girl you were ten minutes ago.

Patrick’s gaze dropped down to your lips, then your throat. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth to say yes, but instead you stepped straight back off the dock. One second you were standing there. Next second: splash.

You hit the water like a drunk otter, ass first. Your swimsuit wedged up instantly. You came up coughing, gasping, kicking. “Jesus Christ.”

Then a bigger splash. Patrick.

His arm snaked around your waist before you could even yell. “Are you okay?! Can you—?”

“I can swim, you dick!” you yelled, choking a little, already laughing.

Patrick looked worried—like real, human emotion worried—which somehow made you more annoyed. “You didn’t have to go full Baywatch.”

“You fell,” he said, breathless, hair soaked and sticking to his face. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Let me drown like a hot mermaid,” you said dramatically, flipping your wet hair. “It would’ve been poetic.”

He barked out a laugh and let go, floating beside you. “You’re such a freak.”

“You’re the one who made me fall.”

“You tripped on your own clumsy feet.”

“You distracted me with your…face.”

Patrick tilted his head, that lazy half-smile tugging at his mouth. “My face?”

“Yeah,” you said, swimming closer. “It’s annoying.”

He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. “You’re annoying.”

You shoved him underwater.

He came up sputtering and laughing. The moonlight reflected off his wet skin.

“Jumping in all at once is better,” Patrick said, floating in front of you, legs kicking lazy circles. “Rips the Band-Aid off. You don’t think. You just... do it.”

You smirked, wiping water from your face. “You would say that. You’ve probably never hesitated in your life.”

He shrugged, winked. “No one calls you a chicken if you jump first.”

You raised your brows. “Oh, please. You love when people call you names. It gives you a reason to be a menace.”

You were treading water in front of the ladder now, half-on, half-off. The wood scraped your lower back, but you didn’t move. Not with Patrick right there—arms braced on either side of your head, hands gripping the ladder like he had you caged in.

You were talking shit, but your voice was a little breathier now. A little too fast.

“It’s not about being cold,” you said. “It’s the other stuff. Hitting your head. Not being able to see the bottom. That irrational, childhood 'oh-god-what’s-under-me' dread. It sticks.”

He tilted his head. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “You think too much.”

“You don’t think enough.”

You meant it as a joke. But it didn’t land like one.

He wasn’t smiling anymore. Just watching you, water beading down his face, chest rising slow with every breath.

“You shouldn’t be so scared all the time,” he said quietly.

You snorted. “Wow. Thanks for the groundbreaking therapy, Dr. Hockstetter.”

“No, seriously.” His tone was gentle, almost too gentle, and it made your stomach twist. “You don’t have to be scared around me.”

The moonlight turned the lake silver around you. Your heartbeat thudded in your throat.

You looked down, arms crossing over your chest like that could protect you from what he might say next. Or from what you might.

“I’m not scared of the water,” you muttered.

“What are you scared of?”

You glanced up. He was too close. Always too close.

“I’m scared of…” you started, but stopped. Your throat was dry.

The moon made the lake look like silver oil, slick and rippling. You floated in it like a dirty secret.

Your arms crossed over your chest—not out of modesty, but defense. Patrick was watching you like he could see through it. Through you.

“I’m not scared of the water,” you muttered.

He drifted closer. “What are you scared of?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t know. But because he already did.

His hand came up slowly and pressed a finger against your mouth, just soft enough to make your pulse bang against your ribs. He didn’t speak. Just looked. Then his hand moved, slow and familiar—through your wet hair, down your shoulder, tracing the strap of your suit like it was something fragile.

He touched your throat. Then your jaw. Then your mouth again. You didn’t stop him.

The ladder dug into your back, grounding you as his body leaned into yours. Hard and warm and real. The space between your faces vanished.

Right before his lips met yours, he whispered, “You don’t have to be scared.”

You blinked once. "Of you?"

He grinned. “Of how bad you want me.”

Then you kissed him. Fast. Hot. Mean. Like you were mad about it. And it didn’t stop.

Not until your legs were tangled, the ladder squeaking under your weight, and you had to whisper, breathless, “Okay, okay—clothes stay on. We’re not giving Lindsey a fucking show.”

He laughed, low and thick in his chest. “You’re no fun.”

“You’re all the fun I need,” you shot back.

And then you climbed the ladder and didn’t wait for him.

The last few notes of “Dream a Little Dream of Me” floated across the lawn. Lindsey leaned back against a pine tree like she was trying to become one with it, eyes closed, voice syrupy sweet. Moose plucked along on his guitar like he was born with strings for bones.

The crowd gave a soft ripple of applause. Belch clapped the hardest, but didn’t smile.

“Lindsey, you gotta do Show Boat or something,” he said. “That was insane.”

Lindsey offered a polite smile, already glancing toward the driveway like she expected someone. “Moose is the star. I just sing so he doesn’t have to talk.”

“Yeah, well—” Vic started, but then froze. “Oh. Speak of the devil.”

All eyes turned.

You and Patrick were walking up the drive.

Wet hair. Bare shoulders. Linked arms. Matching smirks. Like two people who had just done something they weren’t supposed to—and liked it.

“Hey Hockstetter!” Henry called out, tone way too loud. “We thought you drowned!”

Patrick didn’t even glance at him. He just squeezed your hand and kept walking.

Gard moved to stop Henry. “Let it go, man.”

But Henry turned to Belch anyway, voice low and bitter. “Y/N always tells you everything. What’s going on?”

Belch hesitated. His eyes flicked to you. Then to Patrick. His jaw twitched.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Ask them.”

“Been going on long?” Henry asked, trying to sound bored and failing.

Vic answered before anyone else could. “Since about an hour ago. Maybe less.”

Then, quieter, “About time.”

"You guys are worse than girls," Jen Niles said, smacking Belch’s arm. “God, you act like she eloped. They're just holding hands.”

Belch didn’t say anything.

Jen blinked at him. “Wait. Are you okay?”

He still didn’t answer.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She gave his arm another squeeze. He flinched like she’d startled him. “It’s not the first time friends have… you know.” Her voice softened. “Fallen for each other.”

Belch looked at her finally. His face was still slack, eyes distant, like he was watching something that hadn’t finished playing out yet.

She pulled him away from the others, into the shadows near the driveway. “Reginald,” she said again, quieter. “Talk to me. Are you upset about Y/N and Patrick?”

That snapped him out of it. “What? No.” He snorted, bent down and started fidgeting with his shoelace like it owed him money.

“Because I—”

He stood up fast and kissed her. It wasn’t fast and hungry, or slow and sweet—it was still. Just still. Like holding something in place that wanted to move. When he pulled away, he tapped her glasses gently back up the bridge of her nose. His voice was hoarse. “Don’t be ridiculous. Since you, I haven’t thought about Y/N like that. Not even once.”

Jen searched his face. “Then what is it?”

He shook his head and gave a weak tug at his baseball cap. “There’s something off,” he said, eyes scanning the driveway where you and Patrick had disappeared from view. “But it’s not about you. Or us.”

Jen crossed her arms, voice lowering. “Is it something to do with him?”

Belch didn’t answer. He finally looked at her. Not panicked. But serious. Like his stomach knew something his brain hadn’t caught up with yet.

Belch watched Jen disappear into the house, then scanned the yard like he was trying to find somewhere to breathe. He made a move toward the hammock, but spotted Steph headed that way too. She was drifting toward Henry, who stood by the volleyball net like a lonely statue, spinning a deflated ball on one finger.

Steph touched his arm—barely—and handed him a beer. Henry took it, looked at her like he might say something, then set the can on the ground and turned away.

Steph kept walking. Right toward the hammock.

Belch rerouted.

“Belch?”

He flinched.

You were standing barefoot on the grass, cheeks pink, tank top clinging to your chest like it was doing damage control. Your hair was damp, tangled, and your mouth looked like it had been kissed within an inch of its life. You looked... alive again. Really alive.

Belch blinked at you, then gave a weak smile. “Y/N, you look—” He stopped himself. Cleared his throat. “You look good.”

You bit your lip, eyes darting down. “Yeah, uh…”

Your toe dug a shallow trench in the dirt. You looked so fidgety it was almost funny, like your own skin didn’t fit right anymore.

“I’ve got a couple minutes now,” you said. “If you wanna talk or whatever. Before, I couldn’t—I just…”

“Don’t explain,” Belch cut in. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. Not really.

He scratched the back of his neck. “I thought you and Patrick were just... you know. Friends.”

You grinned, crooked and dangerous. “Me too. Until like... ten minutes ago.”

He choked on a breath, but you grabbed his hand before he could spiral.

“Come on,” you said, tugging him toward the rusted swing set your brother never used anymore. “We can talk. Or not. But I need to move or I’m gonna combust.”

You plopped down on the swing and started swaying slowly, your toes carving half-moons into the dirt. Belch sat on the one beside you, elbows on his knees, watching you out of the corner of his eye.

You weren’t looking at him, though.

You were watching Patrick, who was across the yard helping Vic load Moose’s sound equipment into the back of the truck. His shirt was still off. His back glistened under the porch lights.

“I think I broke my own rule,” you murmured.

Belch sighed. “Which one?”

You looked at him, deadpan. “The ‘no kissing friends with jawlines sharp enough to cut you in half’ rule.”

He gave a tight, short laugh. “Yeah, that one’s tricky.”

Your eyes were locked on Patrick—muscles flexing as he lifted Vic’s busted amp into the back of Moose’s pickup.

You kicked off the ground, letting the swing sway. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not when your brain still tasted lake water and Patrick’s hands were still all over your skin.

Belch cleared his throat. “Uh, Y/N…”

You tilted your head toward him, absentmindedly tracing the chain of the swing around your fingers.

“I think you were right earlier. Whatever I wanted to talk about? It’s not urgent. It can wait till next week. When you’re back in Derry, just call me, okay?”

You frowned slightly but didn’t press. “Yeah, sure. Next week.”

He stood up, brushing rust from his pants and adjusting his cap like a nervous tic. He walked across the seesaw, wobbling like a clown in slow motion, then hopped off and offered a weak grin.

“I told Jen I’d help inside. She’ll kill me if I bail.”

“Go,” you said, spinning slowly on the swing. “Tell her I said you were being a noble idiot.”

He gave a little half-wave and turned. You didn’t see the way his jaw clenched as he walked fast toward the house, or the way he kept his head down until the screen door slapped shut behind him.

He didn’t go to Jen. He didn’t help with drinks or ice or the spilled bag of popcorn on the floor.

He went to the far corner of the porch, collapsed into a busted wicker chair, and stared through the screen at you like someone watching a slow-motion accident.

Patrick was already walking toward you. You didn’t see him at first. Not until his shadow passed over your legs and he stepped behind the swing.

“You looked like you were about to throw yourself into orbit,” he said, hands gripping the chains.

“Maybe I was.”

“You want me to push?”

“Only if you don’t mind me screaming bloody murder.”

He leaned down, real close to your ear. “You screaming doesn’t scare me.”

You turned to say something cocky back, but he was already pushing—gently at first, then higher, and higher, until your shrieks bounced off the trees and had you wheezing with laughter, feet kicking like a maniac.

Belch watched from the shadows. Your hair was flying. You looked wild and happy and dangerous.

You looked happy. And that scared him more than anything.

Because Patrick Hockstetter was dangerous. Not in the funny, Vic Criss sense. Not in the pull-my-fire-alarm Henry Bowers way. Patrick didn’t care about people. He didn’t feel things. And whatever was happening between you two? It wasn’t harmless.

Belch knew that look Patrick had. He’d seen it before—when Patrick tormented a kid in middle school until he transferred. When he laughed during a fight. When he smiled too long after a girl cried.

You weren’t just some girl he kissed in the lake. You were a game.

And Belch had made it worse. Because this morning, at the Center Street Drug Store, Pete Gordon had shown up—nervous, pale, hands in his pockets like he was fourteen again.

“Is she seeing anyone?” Pete had asked. “Is it serious?”

And Belch—stupid, protective Belch—had said, “Not yet. But let me talk to her first.”

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t say Patrick’s. He just hoped maybe, maybe, you’d want something safer. Someone who meant it. Because he knew you and Patrick would never get together, not really

But now he was watching you twirl in the swing, your head tilted back in full-blown girlish delight—and Patrick was behind you, smirking like he owned the night.

Belch swallowed hard.

“Goddamn it, Y/N,” he whispered. “Please don’t fall for him.”

Because Patrick Hockstetter wasn’t the kind of boy you fell for. He was the kind of boy you disappeared into.

Patrick let the swing slow on its own. His hand still gripped the chain beside your shoulder, warm and steady.

You didn’t look back at him, not yet. You were too afraid he’d be looking at you like he meant something. Or worse—like he didn’t.

The party was still alive behind you—music, laughter, the occasional beer can cracking open like a gunshot in the dark—but you weren’t really there anymore. You were in that space between skin and want, between the night you thought you’d have and the one you’d ended up with.

You leaned your head back against the chain, your voice low. “We’re never gonna be boyfriend and girlfriend.”

Patrick didn’t answer. You didn’t need him to. You didn’t believe in fairy tales. You believed in moments. In heat. In two a.m. mistakes that tasted like power. You and Patrick weren’t a story. You were a pause. An in-between.

Sure, you’d kissed him. Sloppy, hands-all-over-each-other kisses. You’d straddled him once in the back of Moose’s truck, dared him to make you moan with your clothes still on—and he almost had. Almost.

But that's it, save for tonight. So far. And now that he’d touched your waist in the water, now that you’d let him mouth your name like it was a dare... you knew it was coming.

You weren’t scared of that. You were scared of what came after. Because Patrick wasn’t meant to hold anything gentle. And you weren’t meant to fall softly.

It started with a rumor. Of course it did. In Derry, everything spread—fast, feral, distorted.

"Patrick Hockstetter left Jenny Linder’s house at 3 a.m." "Her parents weren’t home." "She looked wrecked the next day. And smug."

You didn’t even ask. You didn’t have to. When Patrick showed up late to second period, eyes half-lidded, lip bruised and satisfied, you already knew. And he knew you knew.

Your hands were shaking as you pulled your locker open. Patrick was already there, leaning against the one next to yours like he lived in your peripheral.

He didn’t say hi. He never did when he was about to lie.

"So what’d you do last night?" Your voice was calm. Dead calm.

Patrick looked at you with that smug tilt of the head. Disheveled jacket. Silver ring glinting on his index finger as he scratched his jaw. He looked good. Which only made it worse.

"Don’t do that," he muttered.

"Do what?"

"That thing where you sound like you're gonna cry but you’re too proud to let it happen."

You slammed your locker shut.

"Did you fuck her?"

"We were drunk. It didn’t mean anything." His voice was low. Dangerous. Defensive.

You stared at him like he was a stranger. Like the boy who used to kiss your wrist before biting your neck didn’t just vanish overnight.

"Do you even like me, Patrick? Or do you just like the way I fall apart?"

That hit him. His jaw twitched. He stepped in close. "Don’t say that."

"Why? Because it’s true?"

He stared down at you. You were so close to crying, it burned. But you didn’t. You just turned and walked away. You didn’t break up. But you broke.

You didn’t answer his calls. Didn’t meet him behind the gym. Didn’t sit with him at lunch. Didn’t look at him in the halls.

Patrick was unraveling. Quietly. Violently. He slammed a kid into a locker on Thursday. Got detention. You didn’t even blink.

And Then Came Him. Dylan Grayson. Nice. Clean. Warm-eyed and safe. The kind of boy your parents would love.

He started walking you to class. Letting his hand linger on the small of your back. Sharing his cassette tapes. Sitting so close during lunch his thigh pressed into yours. He smelled like cedar and peppermint gum.

The first time he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, Patrick watched it happen. His fists clenched so hard, the knuckles bled white.

Dylan was laughing at something you said, hand on your waist, thumb rubbing idle circles through your sweater. You smiled. You actually smiled.

Then a shadow fell across both of you.

Patrick stood there. Black jacket. Eyes like storm glass. A walking contradiction—still, but brimming with violence. Hot in that way you should never touch but always do.

"Get your fucking hands off her."

Dylan blinked. “She’s not your girlfriend, man.”

"She’s not yours either." Patrick’s voice was soft. Deadly.

He turned to you.

"You done pretending?"

You stared at him. Heart in your throat. Dylan said your name—but it sounded distant. Faint.

Patrick’s jaw clenched, and he leaned in, breath hot against your ear. "You don’t get to ignore me."

Your breath hitched. "You miss me."

He looked down at you like you were his. Like you’d always be his.

"But I don’t miss you," you whispered. A lie.

He smirked. Eyes glinting. "Sure you don’t."

School Hallway. 1989. Between 4th and 5th period.

Beverly Marsh didn’t stop walking when she heard the footsteps pick up behind her. She could already tell who it was by the sound—too cocky, too close.

“Hey, Marsh,” Tommy Rowan said, voice dragging like his gum-smacking jaws. “How much for a peek under that skirt?"

She stopped. Not because she wanted to—but because if she didn’t, she’d do something that would get her detention. Again.

And Tommy was grinning. That dumb, crooked, no-upper-lip grin he always wore when he thought he was funny.

She rolled her eyes and turned to face him. “Go flirt with a power outlet, Tommy.”

Tommy laughed, but it was brittle. He stepped closer, all piss-stained bravado. “Aw, don’t be like that, Bevvy. I just wanna see if the carpet matches the—”

“Say it,” came a voice behind him, “and I’ll pull your tongue out with my house keys.”

Tommy froze. His whole body stiffened like someone had just brushed a live wire up his spine.

Patrick Hockstetter leaned against the locker next to them, casual as hell. His black jacket was unzipped, and his Walkman headphones hung crooked around his neck. There was a blood-red smear of marker across his hand—maybe from class, maybe not.

He had that same weird smirk on his face—the one that made most kids walk the other way. But his eyes weren’t smiling.

Tommy sputtered. “I was just messing around—”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, reaching into his backpack. “You do that a lot. Run your mouth. I’ve been thinking about how easy it’d be to shut you up.”

He didn’t pull anything out of the backpack, but Tommy flinched anyway.

“You know,” Patrick continued, voice calm, “I once watched a squirrel keep twitching even after I ripped the skin off its legs. You wanna find out if you twitch like that?”

Tommy blanched. He looked at Beverly, then back at Patrick, then mumbled something that might’ve been “sorry,” and bolted.

Silence.

Beverly stared at Patrick, one eyebrow raised. “You gonna start stalking me now too?”

Patrick gave her a look. “Please. I’d rather fuck a cheese grater.”

She snorted despite herself.

Patrick pushed off the locker and started walking past her, casually popping a piece of gum in his mouth. Over his shoulder, he muttered, “Don’t get used to it. He just annoys me more than you do.”

Beverly watched him go. “Thanks.”

yes! this whole setup works surprisingly well when you think about the setting, personalities, and small-town logistics. this is about to get very LONG.

the timeline & realistic overlap:

billy hargrove: 18 in 1985, born march 29, 1967 → graduated derry high that year (if he wasn't killed by pennywise). in 1989, he's 21, still in town—either attending a local community college, working a dead-end job, or just drifting and partying. his senior year, he was untouchable. one of the hottest, scariest guys in school. he ruled by sheer charisma, brute strength, and presence. he was loud, violent, magnetic. thrill-seeking behavior at its peak. shirtless in a leather jacket, burnout at the edge of the football field, lighting fireworks in the woods just because. party king, fights everyone. teachers hate him but couldn't really stop him. girls adored him, guys wanted to be him. no one says no to billy and lives unbruised. then he graduated in '85. but the ghosts of his reputation still hung in the derry locker room, and the boys who were once watching are now playing. billy's still in town in '89, still hot, still angry, but the throne is somewhat gone. he shows up to high school parties, flirts with teachers, his friends' moms, sneaks henry and patrick into bars. he's the "cool older guy" but also a warning sign. he works at a garage, maybe takes community college classes he never finishes. sleeps with people he shouldn't. flirts with mrs. hockstetter. screams at neil at 3 a.m. he's circling the drain but still glowing with that heat.

jd (jason dean): 18 in fall of 1989, born likely fall 1971 → senior at Derry High. smart-mouthed freshman when billy was a senior. had a dangerous glint in his eye. curious about everything, including billy. maybe even obsessed in a quiet, observant way. he's the kid who stalks billy home one time. he's starting to realize people are manipulatable. his brain is years ahead of his mouth, but his mouth is catching up fast. billy didn't notice freshman jd, but jd noticed everything about senior billy. by '89, jd is charismatic, sharp, terrfying in a quiet way. he debates teachers to their faces and wins. lures henry and patrick into games of "truth or dare." he's refined his persona. he talks like a cult leader. derry high is his lab. he gives out answers, fireworks, old chemistry notes, for a price. he controls the energy in every room he walks into. he's everything billy wasn't: controlled, quiet, smart, but just as dangerous. jd isn't intimidated by billy, but he is fascinated. jd plays nice when they hang out. he wants to see how far billy will fall.

henry bowers: 16 in 1989, born may 4, 1973 → should be a junior but got held back, making him a sophomore. was already fighting older boys, already pulling knives in the middle school lunchroom. trying so hard to get billy's attention. watched billy from afar, talked about him like a myth. when billy finally shoved him against a locker for being annoying, henry felt both scared and noticed. by '89, he's angry, dangerous, insecure. still trying to be billy. he gets loyalty through fear. still a pack leader in his own group, but increasingly unstable. leans on jd now for direction. fights, drinks, loses control. but he keeps coming back to billy because billy understands him better than anyone. billy gives henry what his dad doesn't: genuine attention.

patrick hockstetter: 15 in 1989, born february 4, 1974 → sophomore. silent. observing. dangerous as a middle schooler. not social. not friendly. but very interested in billy and not in a way he fully understood yet. patrick was the weird kid who knew too much about the missing cat and didn't flinch when billy screamed at someone. he was already desensitized. by '89, he's a muted menace. introspective, cold, magnetic in his stillness. uses selective attachment. only opens up to jd. obsessed with him. watches him constantly. worships his intelligence and control. stays close to henry. smokes quietly while jd monologues about entropy and destruction. kills small animals. feels seen for the first time. he still sees billy on occasion, probably even has a hand-me-down shirt billy once let him borrow. but jd? jd is his role model now.

derry's a small town. there's only one high school, one middle school, maybe two elementary schools. these boys would've crossed paths. billy would've been in high school while henry and patrick were still in middle school. jd and patrick 100% would've had overlapping classes at some point. henry and jd probably shared classes freshman/sophomore year.

billy + henry: brothers bonded in violence. billy is the guy henry bowers looks up to, the one he imitates, brags about knowing, and secretly wants to be. henry remembers being shoved into lockers by billy when he was in 8th grade. now? he wants billy's approval more than anything.

they connect over:

their dads: butch bowers (cop) and neil hargrove (bank security guard), both abusive, both deeply invested in enforcing their version of masculinity.

rage: billy sees that fire in henry's eyes and respects it. henry's down for anything: lighting stuff on fire, beating the shit out of someone for looking at them wrong, dropping acid at a bonfire. billy lives for that reckless loyalty.

parties: billy picks henry up in that loud-ass car, takes him to college parties where nobody questions their age because billy knows the right people, gets him laid. henry gets blackout drunk, tries to fight someone, and billy laughs it off, like "he's my kid. let him scrap." henry would break a guy's nose at a party for calling him a psycho. billy drags him outside, laughing, gives him a cigarette, and says, "you're gonna do great things, bowers. fucked-up things, but great."

jd + patrick: intellectual darkness. patrick finally finds someone who doesn't treat him like a freak. jd's not afraid of him. in fact, jd gets him. jd sees in patrick that raw, chaotic potential that hasn't found a shape yet. where henry pushes patrick around, jd plays chess with him, figuratively and maybe literally.

stoner philosophy sessions: they get high, walk through the woods behind the school, talk about whether evil is inherent or learned, whether a god exists, if souls are real.

music & style: patrick starts mimicking jd's taste by osmosis, industrial music, beat-up combat boots, old band tees. jd notices and lets it happen.

experiments: jd lets patrick help him build mini pipe bombs or pressure bottle bombs behind the school. patrick loves it. jd calls it science. patrick calls it punk rock. jd says something like, "everyone thinks you're a freak. they're not wrong. but maybe that's what makes you more evolved." patrick stares at him like he's god. jd smirks and offers him a clove cigarette.

jd + henry: frenemies with benefits (of convenience). henry doesn't get jd, but he knows better than to piss him off. jd has connections, brains, and that scary calm that makes henry feel uneasy. but jd gets him out of trouble, gives him answers for tests, and occasionally helps him rig pranks.

jd calls him "bowers" like he's a character in a comic book.

henry grumbles but takes his advice, especially when it benefits him.

they occasionally fight. jd once bloodied henry's nose for real. but they always go back to being "cool."

billy + jd: respect at a distance. they don't hang out often, but they know of each other. billy thinks jd's a freak, but a smart one. jd thinks billy is a narcissist but kind of pathetic, a guy who peaked in high school. but they understand each other's rage. there's this unspoken thing between them. they don't mess with each other's territory, they tolerate each other. jd would walk into a party with patrick and henry in tow. billy would be there, and they'd exchange a glance across the room, nod slightly. that's it. but it's loaded.

billy + patrick: history of bullying, new weird tension. billy used to shove patrick into lockers and flick lighters near his hair when patrick was in middle school. now? patrick still occasionally flinches around him, like a defense mechanism, but there's...something else. respect? fear? attraction? billy probably still calls him "freak," but less mean now. patrick would bring weed to a party. billy would smirk, sling an arm over his shoulder, and say, "guess you finally figured out how to be useful." patrick would smirk, and henry would watch from a distance, fuming.

one thing they'd bond over: daddy issues.

butch bowers is a man who wraps his rage in a badge. he likely has alcohol use disorder (severe), intermittent explosive disorder, narcissistic personality disorder (grandiose subtype), and possibly paranoid personality traits. he's a domestic violence perpetrator, too. butch is a classic authoritarian abuser. he thrives on control, respect, and fear. he views his family as extensions of himself, property. his masculinity is fragile as hell, so he overcompensates with brute force and physical abuse. as a cop, he abuses power both at home and on the street. he probably cheats, lies, takes bribes, and gaslights with impunity. he has sudden, disproportionate outbursts of violence, an inability to tolerate perceived "disrespect," a disdain for vulnerability, softness, or anything he deems "weak" (especially in boys). he also sees love as control. you obey, or you suffer. henry internalized that rage, misogyny, and obsessed with dominance. he learned love as terror, carries immense shame he masks with brutality, and may secretly hate his father, but mimics him out of fear and conditioning.

neil hargrove is the man who broke his son and blamed him for it. he, too, has narcissistic personality disorder (malignant subtype) and is a domestic abuse perpetrator. i'd also argue he demonstrates obsessive-compulsive personality disorder traits, possibly intergenerational trauma (untreated), and mild sadistic tendencies. neil is a control freak in every aspect of life. he cares deeply about appearances, obedience, structure, but not about love. he uses verbal and physical abuse to enforce his worldview. he presents himself as a stable family man, but his rage is precise, surgical. he's not impulsive like butch, he's calculated. he likely believes children exist to reflect their fathers, punishes perceived softness with humiliation, and never apologizes, ever. he claims to act out of love ("it's for your own good, billy.") billy self-loathes, a deep, corrosive self-loathing. he learned to equate love with violence and control, to fear his own emotions, and to create a performance-based identity: if he's not the best, the strongest, the hottest, he's nothing. billy learned to fake it to survive.

bud dean is a man who laughs when he should be listening. i'd diagnose him with dependent personality disorder, avoidant tendencies (emotionally conflict-avoidant, passively enabling), and possibly cyclothymic traits (mood instability without clear bipolar pattern). he also displays a permissive parenting style. bud tries to be "the cool dad" while jd is literally imploding. he avoids serious conversations with humor, often at his son's expense. bud lacks any real boundaries: lets jd drink, skip class, blow things up, as long as the neighbors don't complain. he weaponizes self-pity when jd expresses frustration: "i'm doing my best here, son. you think this is easy for me?" his grief over his wife's death gets sublimated into this weird forced cheerfulness, because he can't handle darkness. he calls jd "dad" as a joke, but also maybe kind of means it. because jd's the one with clarity. jd's the one who holds the pieces together. the reversal of roles? jd hates it. resents it. but also clings to the power it gives him. jd's never challenged, he's just left to rot in his own brilliance and nihilism, so he creates chaos to feel something real. he craves structure but sabotages anyone who offers it. bud never gave him a stable "no," so jd doesn't know how to cope with resistance from others. jd learned early on that adults are clowns in costumes, so he tests everyone: girlfriends, teachers, cops, to see who's pretending. he has a deep, gnawing hatred of his father's passivity. jd would rather be a monster than a wind bag. if someone asked jd how his dad is, he'd probably say: "he's like a beige couch. there, soft, sometimes smells like cigarettes. but you'd never cry on it."

patrick's dad is emotionally distant, unable to properly grieve the loss of avery. he pretends everything's fine. he hosts dinner parties, ignores the missing neighborhood pets, and tells the school patrick is "just going through a phase." mr. hockstetter is a firm handshake, a pressed shirt, and a severed conscience. i see him as being a high-functioning subtype of antisocial personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder (covert type), and possibly alexithymia (inability to recognize or describe emotions). he's polished, professional, well-established traveling paint salesman, and emotionally hollow. the kind of man who smiles wide for the hoa potluck and then ignores his wife crying in the bathroom. he views fatherhood as an obligation, not a connection. he taught patrick not with affection, but with silence, pressure, and subtle cruetly. he never needed to raise a hand, his coldness did the job. he likely dismisses emotions as "overreactions," sees himself as a provider and nothing more, and believes weakness is moral failure. he has a collection of vintage autographed baseballs and no actual interest in his son's life. patrick's sociopathy isn't just nature, it was modeled. he learned to mirror emotions from watching his dad manipulate people. his detachment, his game of masks, started at home.

would the dads get along in derry?

butch + neil: yes, for a while...until someone steps out of line and the testosterone boils over. fire meets steel, burns hot and fast. they both value control dominance, and fear as forms of respect. they'd get drunk together at a derry townie bar, talk about how "kids these days need a good smack." they'd smoke cheap cigars in the garage while complaining about their "useless" sons. they'd hate "pansy-ass teachers" at the school and make racist jokes and laugh like brothers. but butch is impulsive and paranoid, and neil is calculating and image-obsessed. neil might not want to be seen with "white trash" like butch once he starts getting sloppy. butch would suspect neil was cheating at poker or mocking him behind his back. neil would mock him behind his back. eventually, someone would throw a punch. neil's too cold to start it, but butch would. but their shared enemy is feelings.

butch + bud: absolutely not. butch would call him a "disgrace" and threaten to beat him with a wrench. rage meets the recliner. butch sees bud as a goddamn coward. bud doesn't beat his kid, doesn't set rules, probably lets the boy wear eyeliner and blow up mailboxes. butch would despise bud's permissiveness and emotional avoidance. bud views butch as intense, scary, and probably needs to see a shrink. bud would choose his battles around butch, try to joke to break tension, and butch would threaten to kill hi in the parking lot of a grocery store. bud would later tell jd, "that guy? total psycho." butch yells, bud plays it off, jd watches and files it away as another example of adults being stupid. butch and bud would have no common ground.

butch + mr. hockstetter: superficially, yes. they'd bond over conservative values and "discipline." but butch would be creeped out by his yuppie smarminess over time. the badge and the briefcase. on the surface, they might nod in agreement at pta meetings about "kids needing discipline." butch appreciates a man who keeps his lawn trimmed and his son quiet. but underneath, butch is loud, crass, emotionally volatile. mr. hockstetter is silent, evasive, surgically cruel. mr. hockstetter finds butch repulsive and emotionally messy. butch thinks mr. hockstetter is "one of those quiet sickos." they'd have a shared interest in public image maintenance, belief in control. but they're different breeds of predator. butch is a junkyard dog, mr. hockstetter is a wolf.

neil + mr. hockstetter: yes, and dangerously well. they'd see themselves in each other and be highly competitive. the mirror image, without reflection. these two are the ones you HAVE to watch. both are narcissistic, emotionally repressive, and deeply concerned with appearances. they'd exchange stock tips, make dry jokes about their wives, and judge everyone else in the room. they like hosting cookouts where no one talks about feelings and everything tastes like control. they believe weakness is a sin and boys must become men on their own. neil and mr. hockstetter could become allies or rivals. they might swap stories about "disciplining their sons" in that horrifying clinical way: no emotion, just strategy. they respect each other because they lack warmth.

neil + bud: no. neil would loathe bud's immaturity. precision meets tequila. neil views bud as unfit to be a parent. that bud's the kind of dad who creates degenerates. neil probably blames bud's parenting style for "all the commies and anarchists." bud views neil as "strict but probably means well..." bud might try to befriend neil once. it would end with neil saying something cruel and bud turning it into a chaotic, absurd moment. neil would never speak to bud again unless forced. bud tells jd, "he's just a little intense." jd rolls his eyes so hard they might detach.

bud + mr. hockstetter: weirdly, maybe. as neighbors, yes. as dads, no. mr. hockstetter thinks bud is a joke, and bud thinks mr. hockstetter is vapid. the manipulator and the man-child. they're both emotionally disengaged, prefer not to rock the boat. they might talk about lawn care, weather, school board drama, superficial things. mr. hockstetter might even tolerate bud, because bud poses no real threat. privately, mr. hockstetter thinks bud is a walking embarrassment, acting younger than his age, partying with high school kids, wearing flashy clothes. bud finds mr. hockstetter "a little stiff," but respects how he "keeps a clean house." they share space at hoa meetings and bbqs. they wave from across the street but don't know each other's birthdays. their unspoken dynamic is politeness masking total apathy.

what about max? if maxine is in derry in 1989:

she's probably 18, in jd's grade.

patrick and henry might tease her, but she's tough and mouths off. jd lowkey respects that.

billy is extremely overprotective of her, but he'll never admit it. if he catches henry looking at her sideways? all hell breaks loose.

she becomes kind of like a sister to henry and patrick by proximity. jd might let her hang around when she's bored and give her weird music tapes to borrow. patrick sneaks her cigarettes. henry reluctantly gets rides with her from school.

the other thing they'd bond over: mommy issues.

patrick's mom is barely a person in his world. i'd say she has a mix of persistent complex bereavement disorder, major depressive disorder, substance use disorder, unspecified trauma and stressor related disorder, and possibly some traits of ocd (rigid, avoidant, fear of confronting truth). patrick's detachment from human empathy is partly rooted in that emotional void. he doesn't trust women, but he desperately wants their validation. girls are puzzles, games, prey, but deep down, he's starving for someone to choose him. patrick's mom lost avery, her baby, her sweet, perfect second son. and she knows, somewhere in her bones, that patrick had something to do with it. no proof. no confession. just a mother's instinct, the cold pit of the stomach knowing that won't go away. she lives with it. sleeps next to it. wakes up and makes breakfast for it. it torments her, haunts her. she doesn't confront patrick because...then it becomes real. and if it's real, then she failed in the most absolute way a mother can. "avery was just a baby. babies get tangled up in blankets, can't roll themselves over. it was an accident. just an accident." she says it over and over. pills and vodka help her believe it. but she avoids being alone with patrick. she flinches when he walks into a room too quietly. she doesn't hug him anymore. she doesn't touch him much. she's stopped calling him "sweetheart." and patrick knows, of course he knows. he watches her take pills, watches her hands shake when she's slicing vegetables, watches her talk to the priest after mass. she's a little afraid of him. she avoids looking him in the eyes for too long, keeps the knives put away now, doesn't invite his friends over. there are screaming matches sometimes. late at night, not over anything specific. she says things like, "why can't you just be normal?" sometimes she cries, sometimes she laughs. patrick doesn't hate her, not exactly. she's locked in a grief spiral that has festered into dysfunction. her son avery's death, traumatic and ambiguous, has bred unresolved guilt, repression, and quiet terror. she uses pills, alcohol, and religion to survive the emotional noise in her head. she shows classic features of trauma-avoidant behavior: emotional numbing, selective denial, avoidant attachment to patrick, compulsive need to control her surroundings. she likely swings between dissociation and barely-contained panic. she's aware, on some level, that patrick did something unspeakable—but she cannot name it, because if she does, she loses everything. the child she has. the belief that she was ever a good mother. her grip on reality. she's a walking phantom, slowly decomposing in her suburban kitchen.

jd's mom is dead, and that changes everything. i'd tentatively diagnose her with bipolar 1 disorder (with psychotic features, untreated), or schizophrenia disorder, bipolar type. she took her own life, likely intentional via explosion (means of exit suggests impulsivity and emotional chaos). he doesn't hate her. he idealizes the memory of her. she becomes this angelic, tragic figure in his head, the one person who would've understood him, maybe even stopped him from turning out like his dad. her absence becomes his origin story. it fuels his whole philosophy: the world is corrupt, people are fake, everything dies...and she's the only pure thing that ever existed. his mother was probably mentally unstable, likely depressed or dealing with bipolar disorder, maybe even schizophrenic traits, and he was just old enough to remember everything, including her death. he remembers the good parts, the soft parts, the music, the way she hugged him. but he also remembers the manic energy, the paranoia, the way her hands shook. and the way she died, blown up in the same house where he lived, where he probably still sleeps. whether it was intentional or an accident, it scarred him permanently. "she didn't leave, she exploded." that's what he tells people. but there's this core wound: why didn't she take me with her? jd's view of women is bifurcated: they're either innocent angels (like his mom, like veronica, until they disappoint him), or they're part of the problem. he puts girls on pedestals until they challenge his control. then he flips. hard. he sees emotional intimacy as dangerous. a threat to autonomy. but he craves it. he romanticizes instability, finds beauty in broken women, feels safest around people who are just unstable as he is, idealizes lost love, chases intensity over consistency, views emotional chaos as proof of something real, hates his dad deeply but fears becoming him, so he keeps everyone at arm's length. jd's mom was likely intelligent, creative, unstable, deep in manic or psychotic cycles. she probably experienced grandiose delusions, paranoia, and mood swings that left jd confused but enthralled by her intensity. he saw her mania as magic and her despair as sacred. she may have played piano, painted, danced, read to him, only to fall apart for weeks at a time. she was the kind of woman people say "was just too much for the world." jd idolizes her because she represents freedom and authenticity—the opposite of his cruel, mechanical father. but he also inherited her instability, and he knows it. Her death becomes a creation myth: “i’m like this because she died.” his fixation on chaos, self-destruction, and existential philosophy are all rooted in her unraveling. she’s saint joan to him. a tragic heroine. a goddess of madness.

we barely see henry's mom (henrietta bowers), but canon and fanon often lean toward her being mentally unstable, possibly abused herself, maybe institutionalized or dead. i'd say she likely suffered from ptsd (chronic, complex), depersonalization/derealization disorder (secondary dissociation), major depressive disorder (severe, possibly psychotic). either way? she was a domestic abuse victim, and she's not there anymore. henry grows up in a house where the only mother is a broken mirror of what love should be. she couldn't protect him from butch. she couldn't protect herself. she tried to nurture henry, but it came too late, and it wasn't enough. henry's rage toward his dad tuned inward and sideways. he lashed out at women, especially those who showed any softness. he didn't know how to process care or gentleness. it makes him feel weak, and he cannot be weak. he doesn't hate his mom, but her absence taught him that women are unreliable. he needs control, power, and fear to feel safe. henry's mom was likely battered into silence. a woman who started out bright and full of hope, only to be worn down by butch's rage, cheating, and control. she was probably cheated on with someone like rena davenport, some trashy mistress in town. eventually, she cracked, or maybe she just vanished one day. she packed a bag and left henry behind, which might be the greatest betrayal of his life. he doesn't know where she is, never heard from her again, doesn't even know if she's alive anymore. she didn't fight for him, didn't stay for him. she knew what butch was and left her son with that man anyway. it gave henry a deep-seated misogyny masked as bravado. he reacts violently to softness, because softness was never safe in his house. he internalizes guilt: "she left because of me." he's obsessed with control and fear, because love has always proven unreliable. henry doesn't talk about her. but if someone mentions her name, you'd see that flicker in his eyes. jd probably notices. patrick probably probs. billy gets it. henrietta is a textbook case of battered woman syndrome. she likely experienced prolonged emotional, physical, and possibly sexual abuse by butch. she may have stayed for years out of fear, shame, or learned helplessness, retreating further into herself until she ceased to function as a parent. her "cracking" was likely a psychotic break or full emotional withdrawal. her eventual disappearance may have been a desperate escape, or a complete abandonment. to henry, her absence is betrayal, but also something darker: proof that love cannot be trusted. she might still be alive, but henry doesn't want to find her. because if he does, she might confirm his greatest fear: that she chose to leave him behind. she’s not a saint or a demon in his mind. she’s just gone. and it hurts.

billy's mom left. she abandoned him. she's alive, she just chose to be somewhere else. and that cuts deeper than anything. i'd say she likely had dependent personality disorder (with elements of learned helplessness), generalized anxiety disorder (moderate), adjustment disorder (with depressed mood, chronic), and ptsd (domestic abuse survivor). he remembers her as this beautiful, warm, glowing creature. she brushed his hair as a little boy, told him he was special. and then she left him with neil. billy's mommy issues are abandonment and over-idealization, similar to jd but still different. he's furious at her and still loves her. every girl he touches is a proxy, he wants to be loved by her, but he also wants to punish her. he sexualizes women to reclaim power but never feels safe with them. even when they want him, he pushes them away or uses them. under all that bravado, he's just a little boy waiting for his mom to come back and apologize. billy's mom is a holy wound. she didn't die, she didn't vanish, she just left. she's alive somewhere. that's worse. because that means billy wakes up every day wondering why he wasn't good enough, that she had to go off and start another family. why she didn't fight harder. he remembers her putting sunscreen on his shoulders at the beach, holding his face and calling him her "sweet boy." she was everything good, and she left him in hell. billy doesn't hate her, but he hates what she did to him. and he makes sure no one sees that pain, not even max. his deep abandonment issues are masked by sex and aggression. he seduces women for power, not connection. he's attracted to motherly figures but punishes them. he hates vulnerability in himself but craves comfort so badly it hurts. he worships her memory while resenting every piece of it. if he ever saw her again, he wouldn't know whether to hug her or scream in her face. bottom line, billy's mom is still alive, which makes her one of the most wounding maternal figures. she likely suffered years of abuse and emotional trauma from neil. she finally left—but didn’t take billy. whether that was out of fear, powerlessness, or manipulation by neil, billy doesn’t know. all he knows is she could have, and she didn’t. she probably remarried. had another child. started over. but there's a piece of her that never talks about billy. she loves him, from a distance, but has told herself a story where leaving him was the best option. that he was safer there. that she had no choice.

how the four boys view the disappearances in derry (pennywise's work):

jd - the one who's not surprised. "if evil is systemic, then derry is just doing what it was built to do."

jd already believes the world is cruel, corrupt, and rotting underneath a pretty facade. so when kids start vanishing? he doesn't panic. he doesn't mourn. he observes. he starts keeping a tally of names.

he visits spots where kids were last seen, not to help, but to see.

he talks about it like it's inevitable. "it's entropy, bowers. everything breaks down eventually, even kids."

he jokes about it dryly. "maybe it's a government experiment. maybe it's your mom, patrick. that'd explain the smell in your basement."

to him, derry is like a festering wound with no bandage. the disappearances just confirm what he already thinks: that people are either blind or complicit. he'd suspect something bigger is going on, not supernatural, necessarily, but systemic. a big conspiracy.

he tells patrick to "keep an eye out," but not in a protective way, in a testing way. "you might be next. let's see how you handle it."

he tells henry, "if someone took belch or vic, would you even care? or would you just miss the echo?"

jd turns it into a game of who's paying attention. he watches them for fear. he wants to see what they'll do.

billy - the one who's angry. "this town's always been poison. now it's just eating itself and dying."

billy would take it personally. not because he's scared, but because the disappearances represent a loss of control. he might act like he doesn't care, but underneath, it bothers him. he can smell the fear in the air, and it pisses him off. plus, he has max to worry about.

he blames derry. the people. the system. the adults. "these assholes just let their kids walk into the dark. what the hell did they think would happen?"

he starts acting more aggressive. picking more fights. showing up to parties already drunk.

he might even suspect patrick at some point. not seriously, but in that way where you say it just to watch someone squirm.

to henry: "you see anything weird, you tell me. got it?" it's protective, almost like an older brother. billy's on edge, and he trusts henry enough to want him close, but he also knows henry will snap if pushed.

to patrick: "you better not have anything to do with this. i swear to god, freak." it's not a real accusation. it's a threat. billy can't handle the idea that his circle might be part of the rot.

to jd: "you think it's funny? this shit? kids are dying."

jd: "everyone's dying, billy. some just do it louder."

patrick - the one hungry for meaning.

patrick isn’t involved in the disappearances, but he’s obsessed with them. he might not feel scared.

he sketches things in notebooks: missing kids, bloody teeth, the word "float," though he's not sure why.

he hangs around places where kids were last seen. not to help. just to feel something.

he asks jd weird questions: "do you think the thing taking them...likes watching them cry?"

jd just raises a brow and lights a cigarette. "you're killing me, hockstetter."

henry - the one who's terrified but won't admit it.

henry might act like he's not scared, but he is. deep down, he knows something's not right in derry, and the disappearances are waking up old fears. stuff about his mom. about the voices. about the shadows that move when he's alone.

he lashes out harder. beats kids up for looking at him. lights things on fire.

he knows people suspect him. he likes it. it makes him feel powerful. but it also isolates him.

he clings to billy, jd, and patrick more than ever. not obviously, just always being near them, always showing up.

"Hold Still, Kid." (Patrick Hockstetter & Younger Sister!Reader)

Patrick was lying on his bed, flipping through a crumpled magazine, when you walked in and flopped down beside him with a sigh. He barely glanced up, exhaling lazily through his nose as he turned the page, jaw working a piece of gum in that slow, deliberate way that made girls at school stare.

"Mom won’t let me get my ears pierced."

That got a reaction—barely. A twitch of his eyebrow. He still didn’t look at you.

"Yeah?" he muttered, licking his thumb and turning another page, eyes dragging over some half-naked blonde sprawled across a motorcycle.

"She says I have to wait until next year. That’s so stupid."

Patrick snorted, shifting so one arm rested behind his head, the other dangling the magazine over his chest. "And you actually give a shit what Mom says?"

You frowned. "Well... yeah?"

That was when he finally looked at you. Narrowed eyes, lazy smirk, jawline sharp even in the dim glow of his bedside lamp. He sucked his gum back between his teeth and shook his head, tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek in amusement.

"Jesus, kid. Thought you were smarter than that."

You scowled, shoving his arm, which did absolutely nothing. "Oh, shut up."

But Patrick just kept grinning, because now he had an idea. He tossed the magazine onto the floor and sat up, stretching, his muscles shifting under his t-shirt. "You really wanna get ‘em done?"

You nodded without hesitation. "Obviously."

"Then I’ll do it."

You blinked. "What?"

"You heard me." Patrick leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers playing with the lighter in his pocket. "I’ll pierce your ears. Right now."

Your stomach flipped. "That sounds... unsafe."

He grinned, cocky and mean, like he knew he had you. "Fine, wait until next year."

"Okay, but..."

And before you could think to say no, he was already up and moving, crossing the hall into your parents' bedroom, digging through Mom’s sewing kit, grabbing a needle, flicking the lighter to life with a click-clack.

"C’mon," he said, jerking his chin toward your parents' bathroom. "Let’s do this before Mom gets home."

And like an idiot? You followed him.

Patrick worked fast, but not carelessly.

He sat you down on the bathroom counter, legs spread so he could stand between them, holding your chin with one hand while he pressed an ice cube against your ear with the other. The cold burned, numbing your skin, and you winced as he held it there longer than necessary, watching you with that unreadable half-smile, eyes flicking between your ear and your expression.

"You nervous?"

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "No."

Patrick laughed, shaking his head. "Liar."

Before you could snap back, he pulled the ice away and, without another word, shoved the needle through.

"Ow, ow, ow—Patrick, you asshole!"

Patrick just laughed. "Told you to hold still, dumbass." He twisted the needle through before you could jerk away, thumb swiping the tiny drop of blood off your earlobe with surprising gentleness.

"You could’ve warned me!"

"Didn't want you to tense up."

Your ear throbbed, warm and sore, but… it wasn’t that bad.

Patrick held up a small silver hoop earrings that belonged to your mom, slid it into place, and clicked it shut. "One down."

You barely had time to brace yourself before he did the other.

And when he finally stepped back, hands on his hips, admiring his work, you turned toward the mirror and—holy shit.

"It actually worked."

Patrick grinned, tilting his head as he flicked his lighter again, absentminded. "Fuckin' a." He nodded toward your reflection. "They look good. You should be thanking me."

You turned, crossing your arms. "Yeah, sure. Thanks, Patrick."

Patrick was already walking out of the bathroom. "Have fun shoplifting earrings from Sears."

Dinner that night was tense. Not that you noticed. You were too busy admiring your reflection in your spoon. You could feel Mom's eyes on you, the way she kept glancing over every time you tucked your hair behind your ear.

Patrick, sitting across from you, was completely unfazed, shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth with all the grace of a caveman.

And then—

"Wait a minute."

The entire table stilled.

You froze.

Mom’s eyes zeroed in on your ears. "What are those?"

You swallowed thickly. "Uh—"

Before you could come up with some bullshit excuse, Patrick—in all his smug glory—decided to speak. "I did it."

Silence. Your stomach dropped.

Mom’s face went red. "You what?!"

Patrick, cool as ever, kept eating. "Relax, they look great."

Mom lost it. "Do you have any idea how unsanitary that is? She could get an infection! She could lose an ear!"

Patrick just leaned back, completely unbothered, his shit-eating grin only growing wider. "Nah, she’s fine."

"That's not the point!" Mom snapped.

You saw the rage contorting on your mom's face, then your dad, who up until this point had been completely checked out, finally looked up from his glass. He blinked, looked at your mom, looked at you, then at Patrick. Then back to you.

"The hell you let him do that for?"

You sputtered. "What do you mean why did I let him? He just did it!"

Patrick shrugged. "Yeah, Dad. She begged me."

Mom threw her napkin onto the table. "She did not, Patrick!"

Dad sighed, scratching his temple, looking between you and Patrick with thinly veiled amusement. "Well," he muttered, chewing, "guess you got your ears pierced. Can't un-pierce 'em now."

Mom whipped her head toward him. "Excuse me? That's all?"

He shrugged. "I mean, what do you want me to do about it? Rip 'em out?"

Patrick snorted. "Damn, Dad. Kinda metal."

Mom slapped her palm against the table. "You think this is funny?"

Patrick flashed his sharpest grin. "A little."

You had to choke back a laugh. Mom was about to lose it, but before she could start another full-blown rant, your dad set his fork down and looked Patrick dead in the eye.

"You sterilize the needle?"

Patrick set down his drink, smirk lazy. "Lighter and ice."

Dad nodded. "Alright."

Mom's jaw dropped. "Seriously!"

"What?" Dad said with a shrug, picking his fork back up. "That's how we did it back in the day."

Mom looked like she was on the verge of a stroke. "That's how criminals do it!" She shot daggers at your brother. "You are grounded, Patrick Hockstetter. A whole month!"

Patrick snorted. "Yeah, okay," he said, looking bored, stretching back in his chair.

Mom’s glare hardened. "I mean it, mister. No car, no friends, no girls, no leaving this house except for school and work—"

Patrick sighed, not entirely upset, pushing his mostly empty plate away. "Jesus, Mom, you act like I took her to get a tattoo."

Your fork clattered onto your plate. Patrick’s grin turned sharp.

Mom’s eyes narrowed. "Don’t you dare."

Patrick winked at you. "Next weekend?"

"Patrick!"

He just laughed, rolling his eyes as he slouched back in his chair, flicking his lighter open and shut beneath the table.

Mom didn’t let it go.

After dinner, she was still fuming, pacing around the patio while your dad lit a cigarette by the door, clearly trying not to get involved.

"I swear to God, if she gets an infection, I am marching her right to the ER, and you are paying for it."

"I'm not gonna get an infection, Mom," you muttered, leaning against the window, fiddling with your new earrings.

Mom shot you a glare.

"And you!" She pointed at you like you’d personally betrayed her. "You let Patrick pierce your ears! Patrick! The boy who nearly set our house on fire last Christmas!"

"Okay, in my defense," Patrick shouted from where he was slouched on the couch, legs kicked up on a chair, flicking his lighter open and shut, "that was not technically my fault."

Mom whipped around, looking past you into the house. "Oh, so the lighter just jumped into the curtains by itself?"

Patrick shrugged. "Probably."

"You are unbelievable!" Mom stormed off, muttering under her breath about “irresponsible kids” and “what did I do to deserve this” before disappearing down the hallway.

Silence.

Dad exhaled smoke through his nose, rubbing his forehead. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.

You chewed on your lip, fingers still playing with your earrings, the dull ache fading into something kind of satisfying. You turned to Patrick. "Think she’ll actually let it go?"

Patrick snorted. "Hell no." He leaned back, popping his gum. "She’s gonna be on your ass for weeks, kid."

Later That Night – Patrick’s Room

You were still awake. Still admiring your new piercings in Patrick’s bathroom mirror, tilting your head side to side, brushing your fingers over them like they weren’t brand new wounds.

Patrick was sprawled across his bed, half asleep, arms tucked behind his head, a cigarette burning low between his fingers.

"You keep looking at ‘em like that, they’re gonna fall off," he muttered.

You rolled your eyes. "I still can’t believe you actually did it."

Patrick snorted. "Said I would."

You turned from the mirror.

"Did it hurt when you did yours?"

Patrick cracked one eye open. "Not really." He smirked. "But then again, I was wasted."

You hesitated. "Did Mom freak out when she saw it?"

Patrick barked a laugh, shaking his head. "Are you kidding? She lost her goddamn mind."

You climbed onto the end of his bed, sitting cross-legged. "What’d she say?"

Patrick smirked. "Pretty much what she said to you tonight—‘Patrick, do you want to get tetanus?’ Blah, blah, blah. You know how she is."

"And Dad?"

Patrick scoffed. "Thought it was cool."

"Of course he did."

You both grinned.

"So," Patrick drawled, lazily flicking ashes into an old beer can, "what’s next, kid? You gonna let me tattoo you?"

You snorted.

"In your dreams, Patrick."

"Oh, c’mon. You’d look cool with a little dagger on your ankle."

"Yeah, and Mom would actually kill you."

Patrick grinned like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. "Worth it."

You just rolled your eyes, leaning back against his pillows.

"Alright, out of my room now." He said, shoving you so you rolled off the bed, hitting the floor with a small yelp. "Leave."

The next morning, the throbbing in your ears had dulled into a low, warm ache, the kind of pain that wasn’t exactly pleasant but also wasn’t bad enough to regret. You were tired as hell—thanks to staying up half the night talking shit with Patrick—but there was still a small, smug thrill every time you turned your head and felt the slight weight of the earrings.

You had actually done it.

And, of course, word had already gotten out.

It started when you got on the school bus, sliding into your usual seat by the window, cracking your knuckles and preparing to zone out until the morning announcements.

But the second you sat down, a voice chirped from the seat across from you.

"Holy crap, did you get your ears pierced?"

You turned to see your friend Katie gaping at you, eyes wide like you had just sprouted horns.

You resisted the urge to smirk. Instead, you shrugged, tilting your head slightly so the little silver hoops caught the light.

"Yeah."

Katie practically launched herself across the aisle, gripping the back of the seat in front of her. "But your mom said you weren’t allowed!"

You finally smirked. "Yeah, well... I didn’t exactly ask."

Middle school level gasps from the small cluster of girls listening in.

"Oh my God," one of them whispered.

"Did you go to the mall? Oh my God, do you have, like, a fake ID or something?"

"No," you said, leaning back, cool as hell. "Patrick did it."

More gasps. More scandalized looks. One girl actually clapped a hand over her mouth like this was the biggest sin to ever happen in the freshman grade.

"Your brother did it?"

"With what?" Katie asked, horrified.

"A needle."

She paled. "You let Patrick stab a hole in your ear?"

You just grinned.

Katie shook her head, pulling back, whispering something to her friend about "that explains so much."

You didn’t bother defending yourself.

Let them whisper. Let them talk.

Because, honestly, the best part of doing shit you weren’t supposed to was making sure everyone knew about it.

Patrick did not take the bus. He had his own car but opted for rides courtesy of Belch's rustbucket Trans Am, packed with Henry and Vic. It smelled like gasoline, cigarette smoke, and whatever cologne Belch had doused himself in that morning.

Patrick, sprawled in the back seat, feet up on the middle console, snapping his gum like he had nowhere better to be, was already bored.

Until Vic, sitting in the backseat, snickered.

"So, heard you played beautician on your sister last night."

Patrick frowned. "How?"

"She called Tori yesterday," Vic went on. "You know my sister can talk. I'm sure she's told half the freshman class by now."

Belch, behind the wheel, chuckled. "Shit, man. You pierced her ears? What, with a fucking switchblade?"

Patrick stretched, cracking his knuckles. "Needle. Ice. Lighter. The works."

"Jesus Christ," Vic muttered, shaking his head.

Henry, up until this point, had been silent. Which meant he was thinking. Which meant this was about to get good. "So what, she asked you to do it or something?" Henry finally asked, flicking his cigarette out the window.

Patrick grinned.

"I mean... she didn’t not ask."

Belch snorted. "You probably held her down and did it anyway."

Patrick shrugged, not confirming, not denying.

Vic leaned forward, amused. "She cry?"

"Nah. But she did scream for a second." Patrick smirked. "Twice."

"Well, yeah," Belch said, taking a slow drag off his cigarette. "You shoved a fucking needle through her ear."

"Told her to hold still," Patrick said, popping his gum.

Vic shook his head, chuckling. "You're gonna give that girl a complex."

"Nah." Patrick stretched, rolling his shoulders against the worn leather seat. "She's tougher than she looks."

Henry, still staring out the window, exhaled through his nose. "She's gonna be a real pain in your ass when she gets older, ain't she?"

"She's already, man."

By lunchtime, it was official. Your ears weren’t just a secret anymore. They were a school-wide topic of discussion.

At your table, Katie and the other girls still weren’t over it.

"Okay, but, like," Katie leaned in, dramatic as hell, "did it hurt? Like, was it horrible? Like, do you regret it?"

You took a sip of your soda, smirking. "Nah."

Katie looked betrayed. "You’re insane."

You shrugged. "Maybe."

Across the cafeteria, Patrick sat with the gang, half-listening to whatever Henry was ranting about, absentmindedly spinning a pencil between his fingers.

Then, slowly, his gaze drifted over to your table. To you. To the way you were grinning, showing off your new piercings like some kind of battle scar.

And Patrick just chuckled. That was his work, and he was kind of proud.

The second you stepped through the front door, Mom was already waiting. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Dangerous.

"Let me see."

You blinked. "See what?"

"Don’t play dumb."

You sighed, pulling your hair back, showing her the piercings.

Mom examined them like she was about to drag you to the hospital. "Any pain?"

"A little."

"Swelling?"

"Not really."

"Redness?"

"Mom, I’m fine."

She huffed, rubbing her temples. "This is not fine. You let Patrick pierce your ears, for Christ’s sake. You don’t even know where that needle’s been—"

"I sterilized it," Patrick called from the front door, coming in behind you, slinging his backpack on the floor.

Mom whipped around. "You shut up."

Patrick grinned.

You sighed. "Mom. It’s done. It’s over. And I like them."

Mom looked at you for a long moment. Then, with another sigh, she rubbed her forehead.

"Fine." She pointed a finger at you. "But if you get an infection, I am marching you straight to the doctor, and Patrick—"

"Yeah, yeah, I’m grounded for life, whatever," Patrick muttered, stretching lazily.

Mom glared. "You’re damn right you are."

"You're Still My Sister." (Henry Bowers & Younger Sister!Reader)

Henry never really paid attention to school shit. Didn’t care about pep rallies, football games, any of that dumb crap. So when he saw you—his little sister—standing in front of the bleachers, cheering, smiling, shaking pom-poms like some airhead—He froze. Stared. Scowled.

"The hell is this?" he muttered under his breath, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

Belch, standing next to him, just snorted. "Ain’t that your sister, man?"

Patrick, of course, was grinning. "Damn, Bowers. Didn’t think you had it in the family."

Henry’s jaw clenched. Because he already hated this. Hated the way guys were looking at you, the way some of them were talking, the way you were standing there, smiling like you didn’t have a single clue.

Henry hated that most of all.

It started fast. Some guys—some assholes from the football team, a couple of upperclassmen—had started hanging around you too much. Talking to you. Flirting. Getting too close.

Henry wasn’t about to let that shit fly. So when one of them—some smug, letterman-jacket-wearing jock—tried to put his arm around you in the hallway, pull you in, whisper something in your ear, Henry was there. Grabbing him by the collar. Slamming him against the lockers. Getting right in his face, voice low, dangerous, sharp.

"You keep your fuckin’ hands off my sister."

The guy stammered. *"Jesus, man, I—I didn’t mean—"

"Didn’t mean shit." Henry’s grip tightened.

And everyone was watching now. Because when Henry Bowers made a threat, he meant it. So when he finally let go—when the guy stumbled, face red, hands shaking—Henry just scoffed, shoved him aside.

"Go find some other chick to bother."

That was the end of that.

"What the hell is your problem?" You stormed up to him after school, arms crossed, fire in your eyes.

Henry just rolled his eyes. "Jesus Christ, what now?"

"You know what!" you snapped. "Why do you always have to scare off every guy I talk to?"

Henry snorted. "‘Cause they’re idiots. And you’re too stupid to see that."

You clenched your fists. "Oh my god. You don’t own me, Henry."

"Yeah?" He tilted his head, mocking, amused. "Well, guess what, kid? You’re my sister. And as long as I’m around, ain’t nobody treatin’ you like some cheap little cheer slut, got that?"

Your face burned. "I can handle myself."

Henry just laughed. "Sure you can, princess."

Then he ruffled your hair. Like you were still some little kid. You wanted to kill him.

Despite all the shit-talking, the teasing, the overprotectiveness—Henry actually liked that you were a cheerleader. Wouldn’t say it out loud. Wouldn’t ever admit it.

Sometimes, at games, he’d be standing in the back, arms crossed, watching. Making sure no one tried shit. And if they did, they weren’t gonna last long. Because Henry might be an asshole. Might be a bully, a delinquent, a total lost cause. But you were his sister. And he’d be damned if anyone treated you like less than that.

Maybe he hated that you were a cheerleader. Maybe he hated that other guys looked at you. Maybe he hated that you didn’t need him as much anymore.

But at the end of the day, "You’re still my sister, kid."

That was never gonna change. You were done. Done with Henry acting like he could control your life. Done with him scaring off every guy who so much as looked at you. Done with him treating you like some dumb little kid.

So when he showed up at your practice after school, leaning against the bleachers, cigarette dangling from his lips, watching you like he was your goddamn bodyguard—You’d had enough.

You stomped over, hands on your hips, scowling. "Why are you here?"

Henry didn’t even look at you. Just took another drag of his cigarette, exhaled slow, eyes on your teammates. "Just watchin’."

You scoffed. "No, you’re babysitting. Again."

Henry finally met your gaze. "You got a problem, kid?"

"Yeah, actually, I do," you snapped. "You don’t own me, Henry! I can talk to guys if I want! I can date if I want!"

Henry just laughed. A slow, mocking, this-isn’t-up-for-debate kind of laugh. "Not while I’m around."

You gritted your teeth. "Jesus Christ, Henry, it’s like you don’t even want me to be happy!"

That actually made Henry pause. Made his smirk falter—just for a second. Then he flicked his cigarette away, stood up straight, all six feet of him towering over you. "That ain’t it," he muttered.

You crossed your arms. "Then what is it?"

Henry didn’t answer. Not at first. "You ever seen what happens to girls in this town when they don’t watch their backs?"

Your stomach tightened. Because you knew what he meant. Knew about the missing girls, the weird deaths, the way shit just... happened in Derry. But that wasn’t the whole truth. That wasn’t why Henry was like this.

You both knew it.

"Henry." Your voice was softer now. Less angry. More understanding. "Is this really about me? Or is this about you?"

Henry’s jaw tightened. Because fuck that. Fuck you thinking you knew what was in his head.

But you did. Of course you did. You were his sister. And that meant you saw all the shit no one else did. The bruises. The nights he came home late, face busted up, hands shaking. The way he flinched when Butch raised his voice. The way he lashed out because it was the only thing he knew how to do.

Henry didn’t give a shit about cheerleading. Didn’t give a shit about your friends, your grades, your stupid routines. But he did give a shit about you.

That scared him. Because when you cared about something, it could be taken from you.

Henry sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. Shook his head. "Look. I know I ain’t—" He paused. Grimaced. "I ain’t exactly good at this shit."

You raised an eyebrow. "No kidding."

Henry rolled his eyes. "I just don’t want you gettin’ mixed up with the wrong people. That’s all."

You frowned. "And what? You get to decide that?"

Henry scoffed. "Somebody’s gotta, since you’re too damn dumb to do it yourself."

"Henry—"

"Listen to me." His voice was suddenly sharp, serious. He grabbed your wrist—not hard, not rough, but just enough to make you look at him. "You think them football boys give a shit about you?"

You hesitated. "You think any of these idiots would be there for you if somethin’ bad happened?"

You swallowed hard. Because you didn’t know. Henry did.

"You’re a Kaspbrak?" (Henry Bowers x Eddie’s Older Sister!Reader)

Henry didn’t believe it at first. He heard the name. Kaspbrak. He felt it in his mouth, muttered it under his breath, let it sit on his tongue like something rotten, something wrong. It didn’t fit you. Didn’t fit the way you stood, weight shifted to one hip, all confidence and sharp smiles and that way you looked at him. Like you weren’t afraid of him. Like you weren’t supposed to be afraid of him. Now it was clear as day.

Now he was staring at you in the dim light behind the school, cigarette burning down between his fingers, heart hammering like a drum. And he felt sick.

"You’re a fucking Kaspbrak?"

You just blinked. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like this wasn’t the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to him. "Uh. Yeah?"

Henry let out a sharp laugh. Shook his head. His stomach churned. His jaw clenched. Because this wasn’t just some random girl. This wasn’t just some pretty thing he could fuck around with, mess with, toss away when he got bored.

This was Eddie fucking Kaspbrak’s sister. That pathetic, whiny little freak. That useless, pathetic waste of space. Now Henry wanted to put his hands on you? Now he wanted to kiss you, touch you, maybe even keep you? Now he wanted to let you get away with shit no one else could?

No. Fuck no. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t. Then Henry was a joke. And Henry Bowers was nobody’s joke.

Days passed. He avoided you. Tried to. Didn’t work. Because you were always there. Like you were daring him. Like you were waiting for him to make a move.

When you finally cornered him behind the bleachers, hands on your hips, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. "Take it easy on my little brother."

The words hit him like a train. Henry scoffed. Flicked his cigarette. "What, you got some kinda death wish? You think you can just ask me that?"

You didn’t waver. Didn’t blink. "I know I can."

Henry hated that. Hated that you weren’t scared. Hated that you had the guts to tell him what to do. Hated that he didn’t want to shove you off him, tell you to fuck off, end this right now.

Instead, he found himself gritting his teeth, exhaling slow, muttering—"Yeah. Fine. Whatever."

And then he stormed off before you could see just how much he hated himself for saying it.

His boys didn’t buy it. Patrick was the first to speak.

"That was bullshit, right?"

Henry didn’t answer.

Patrick smirked. "C’mon, Bowers. You’re really gonna go soft ‘cause some girl with nice tits told you to?"

Henry shoved him. Hard. Patrick laughed, but he shut up. Because Henry was dead serious.

But he wasn’t soft with you. Not in the way they thought. Not in the way he thought, either. Because yeah, maybe he quit smoking around you, because you told him it made you sick. And yeah, maybe he didn’t go out of his way to trip Kaspbrak in the halls anymore.

And yeah, maybe he let you sit in his car, let you talk about whatever you wanted, let you take up space in his head. But he didn’t take you home. He didn’t let you see Butch. Didn’t let Butch see you.

Not even when Butch asked. "Where you been sneaking off to, boy?"

Henry just shrugged, didn’t answer, didn’t even look up from the dinner table. Butch didn’t like that. Didn’t like it when Henry kept things from him. Didn’t like it when Henry had things of his own. But Henry wasn’t giving this up. Not for him. Not for anyone.

Henry laughed anyway. If he didn’t, he might actually have to deal with the fact that you meant something to him. And that was a nightmare.

And if Henry was going down for it, then he was taking you with him.

Eddie knew. He had known for weeks now. Had known since he saw you climb into Henry’s car, since he saw the way Bowers looked at you, since he heard Patrick Hockstetter crack some disgusting joke in the school parking lot.

Had known and had been praying—praying—that it wasn’t true. Tonight, Eddie had finally had enough. So when you slipped back into the house late, sneakers barely making a sound on the carpet, thinking everyone was asleep—Eddie was already waiting.

Sitting in the dark, hands clenched into fists, voice shaking as he spat—"How the fuck could you do this to me?"

"Eddie—"

"Don’t."

His voice was sharp, angry, unlike anything you’d ever heard from him before. He was breathing fast, his little chest rising and falling too quick, like he was about to have a panic attack.

"Do you even know what you’re doing? Do you even know what kind of person he is?"

You sighed, ran a hand through your hair, tried to keep calm. "Yeah, Eddie. I do."

That was the wrong thing to say. Suddenly, Eddie was on his feet, shaking, screaming at you—"Then you’re just as fucking crazy as he is!"

Henry could see it from a mile away. Could see Eddie losing his shit, could see the way you looked shaken, could see the way you hesitated before walking into school the next morning.

Henry didn’t like that. Didn’t like Eddie talking to you like that, didn’t like you coming to school with that look on your face, like maybe you were thinking about ending this, like maybe you were thinking about leaving.

So when Eddie Kaspbrak walked past him in the hall that day, eyes burning with pure rage—Henry grabbed him. Hard.

Shoved him up against the lockers, held him there, leaned in close. "You don’t tell her what to do, Kaspbrak."

Eddie gritted his teeth, his tiny hands balling into fists at his sides. "You don’t fucking deserve her."

Henry just laughed. "Yeah? Well, I got her anyway, so what the fuck does that say about you?"

And when Eddie tried to swing, tried to throw a punch that barely even grazed his jaw, Henry just grabbed his wrist, squeezed way too hard, grinning as Eddie yelped in pain.

"Try that again, little man, and I swear to God—"

"Henry!" Your voice cut through the hallway, sharp, panicked, furious.

Henry let go. Only because you were there. Only because he didn’t want to scare you off. Not yet. Not when he was this close to having you for real.

That was the same week his father found out. Henry knew it would happen eventually. It was so much worse than he expected. It happened in the worst way.

Henry didn’t think his old man knew shit. But he did. And that made Henry furious.

It happened in the living room, same as always. Butch sitting in his recliner, smoking, bottle of whiskey half-empty on the table, the static drone of the TV filling the silence. Henry had barely gotten through the front door when Butch spoke.

"I know about the girl."

Henry froze. Fingers curling into fists at his sides. "What?"

Butch took a long drag from his cigarette. Didn’t even look up. "The Kaspbrak girl. The one you been sneakin’ around with. Don’t be stupid, boy."

Henry snorted. "Right. Thanks for the advice, Dad."

Butch kept going. "Don’t you dare get her pregnant. You hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever—"

"No. Not whatever." Butch finally looked up, eyes dark, dangerous. "You knock her up, you’re out of my house. Done. You figure your own shit out. I ain’t dealin’ with it."

Henry felt something snap. "Like I’d give a fuck."

Butch exhaled slow. Then he stood up. And before Henry could blink, before he could mouth off again—Butch grabbed him by the shirt. Shoved him hard, back slamming against the kitchen wall. Not enough to really hurt. But enough to make a point. Enough to remind him who was in charge.

Henry saw red. So he did what he always did. He fought back.

The fight was short, ugly, pointless. Henry threw a punch. Butch blocked it, shoved him again, barked something about ‘respect.’ Henry spat on the floor. Then he grabbed his keys and left.

Didn’t look back. Didn’t care. He just got in his car. And drove. Because there was only one place he wanted to be right now.

It was late. Your house was quiet, lights off, everyone sleeping. Henry parked on the street. Sat there for a minute, breathing hard, gripping the steering wheel. Then he climbed out. And up.

Your balcony wasn’t hard to reach. He’d done it before. And when he knocked—sharp, impatient, needing—You were already awake. Already at the window, looking at him with wide, confused eyes.

"Henry?"

"Come with me."

Your stomach tightened. "Where?"

"Just come." His voice was low, rough. Begging, but in that Henry Bowers kind of way.

You didn’t ask questions. Didn’t argue. Just grabbed your jacket. And followed him.

The car ride was silent. Tense. Henry drove too fast, too reckless, hands gripping the wheel like he wanted to strangle something. You watched him. Waited. Didn’t push.

And when he finally pulled up to the quarry, killed the engine, just sat there—breathing hard, staring out at nothing—You knew. Something had happened. Something bad. And you knew exactly how to get his mind off it.

It started fast. Fingers gripping. Mouths crashing. Teeth, tongue, heat.

You barely got the words "Henry, are you okay?" out before he was pulling you into his lap, hands sliding under your shirt, voice all low and rough and desperate.

"Just shut up, baby."

So you did. You shut up. And let him take. Because that’s what he needed. That’s what you both needed. And in the backseat of Henry’s car, windows fogged, bodies tangled, breathless and wanting, nothing else mattered.

Not Eddie. Not Butch. Not this town. Just this. Just him. Just you.

After, it was quiet. Not awkward. Just quiet. You curled up against him, head on his chest, his arm slung lazily over you, the smell of sweat and cigarette smoke thick in the air.

Henry was distant. Eyes staring out the window, lost in something else. You traced slow circles on his skin. Watched him.

"You okay?"

It took him a second. Then he exhaled. Long. Slow. Ran a hand through his hair. "I just can’t wait to get the hell out of Derry."

His voice was flat, tired. But then he glanced down at you. And smirked. "With you."

Your heart skipped. You realized he meant it. Henry meant it. That scared you more than anything. Henry Bowers didn’t make promises. Now he was making one.

"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.”

And then—he was gone.

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.

"Patrick."

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.

And the thing laughed.

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.

“Patrick?”

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.

You screamed.

“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?”

You shook your head.

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—”

“We’re alive.”

You didn’t answer.

Patrick’s fingers slid higher, dipping beneath the hem of your skirt. You caught his wrist.

Patrick’s grin twitched. “Baby...”

Your grip tightened.

His head tilted. “Don’t be goin’ all chicken-shit on me now.”

You didn’t let go.

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?”

You blinked. “What?”

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.”

You froze.

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.

“Hey.”

You barely looked at him.

Patrick reached over, took your wrist, ran his thumb over your pulse. “You’re still alive.”

You swallowed.

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?”

“Mom, it’s me. Patrick.”

“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.

Patrick didn’t answer.

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.

“…Patrick.”

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.

"You're Cute, But You're Dumb." (Patrick Hockstetter x Oblivious!Reader)

Patrick Hockstetter is a liar. A good one. But most people catch on eventually. They get wary of the way he grins when he talks, the way his words sound a little too smooth, too rehearsed, too good to be true.

But you believe everything he says. And that might just make you the most entertaining thing he’s ever found.

“Your eyes change color depending on your mood.”

They don’t. But now you keep checking the mirror every time you feel a new emotion.

“Swallowing gum makes your stomach stick together.”

You nearly start crying, thinking you’ve ruined your insides forever.

“If you say ‘Bloody Mary’ three times in the mirror, she actually comes out.”

You refuse to go into the bathroom alone for a week.

“If you don’t hold your breath while passing a cemetery, the spirits can enter your body.”

You almost pass out in Belch’s car one night.

“You can’t get pregnant if it’s your first time.”

He doesn’t even let you believe that one for long—just enough to see your reaction.

Patrick lives for your reactions. The way your brows furrow, your lips part, your whole body pauses like you’re downloading new information. Like he’s reprogramming you. That just makes him want to see how far he can push you.

It starts with a bet. You’re sitting on his lap, twirling your hair, looking too cute for your own good.

Patrick smirks, tilting his head. "You ever heard of the magic trick where a guy can make a girl cum just by kissing her neck?"

Your eyes go wide. "No way."

Patrick grins. "Wanna see?"

And you actually nod. And that’s when Patrick realizes. You’re not just a dumb little thing. You’re his dumb little thing. And he’s gonna have so much fucking fun with you.

Patrick doesn’t do relationships. Doesn’t do girlfriends. Doesn’t do anything that ties him down. But you’re so easy to play with. So sweet, so gullible, so soft, so fucking trusting. Patrick isn’t letting go of that.

Because who else is gonna believe all his bullshit and still sit pretty in his lap afterward? So the next time someone tries to warn you about him, the next time someone tells you he’s bad news, a liar, a sociopath...

Patrick just leans in, presses a slow, lazy kiss to your jaw, and murmurs: "Don’t listen to them, baby. They’re just jealous ‘cause you’re mine."

i'm jealous 😠❤️