Yandere! Patrick Hockstetter x Psycopath! reader
Description: Patrick meets someone who looks exactly like him, and he quickly becomes obsessed with them.
Warnings: Implied smut, animal torture, animal abuse, death. Patrick is his own warning.
Author's note: I based Patrick and the reader's relationship heavily on Nanno and TK's since I recently rewatched the series.
Patrick Hockstetter's world was a collection of disconnected sensations. The metallic taste of the air before a storm, the rough texture of tree bark against his knuckles, the satisfying sound of a bone crunching under his weight. People were just moving shapes, sources of irritating sounds or a fear he could smell like an animal. School was a cage of noise and stupid faces, and his only refuge was the rotten silence of his sanctuary at the landfill and the animals he killed.
Until the silence took on a shape and a name: [Y/N].
It wasn't love at first sight; it was a readjustment of his reality. The first time he saw her—really saw her—was in biology class. The teacher was talking about dissecting a frog, and most of the students were making faces of disgust. Patrick watched with mute interest, imagining the sensation of the scalpel gliding under the green skin. His wandering gaze fell upon [Y/N]. She wasn't making a face of disgust. Nor was she smiling. Her eyes, a color Patrick found irrelevant to categorize, were fixed on the dead frog with an intensity that felt instantly familiar. It was the same intensity with which he observed an insect trapped in a jar, waiting to see how long it would take to die.
From that day on, Patrick began to observe her as a new specimen. She was more interesting than insects, more complex. He discovered that her silence wasn't empty, it was cutting. People didn't move out of her way out of pity or indifference, but out of the same instinctive caution with which an animal avoids a poisonous plant. He saw how, with a smile that didn't warm her eyes, she could reduce a colleague to a bundle of trembling nerves with a few venomous and arrogant words. Where Patrick used his lighter and sometimes a knife to create space around him, [Y/N] used words and cruelty with such precision that she easily touched his most sensitive spots, even his hardest ones. She was an artist, and her medium was psychological pain.
Fascination turned into an urgent need to understand her, to dismantle her. He began to follow her. He learned her routine: the way she always sat alone in the cafeteria, reading a book whose cover he couldn't make out; the exact route she took home, avoiding the busiest streets; the time her bedroom light went out.
One afternoon, he saw her leave school with a canvas bag, not full of books, but something that seemed heavier and bulkier. An impulse, stronger than any hunger, led him to follow her beyond her usual route, into the woods that bordered the train tracks. The air smelled of damp earth and the sour sweetness of rotting garbage, a scent as familiar to her as her own.
That's when she heard it. Not a shout, but a low, steady whisper, a chant that wasn't a song, but a monologue. She slipped between the trees, becoming just another shadow, until she reached a clearing.
Kneeling on the ground, her clothes were stained with mud. She wasn't wearing her jacket, and the sleeves of her white blouse were rolled up to her elbows. In her right hand, she held a pair of scissors, the blades gleaming with a deathly dullness. Before her, a young opossum struggled, its tail caught in a wire loop that, Patrick surmised with a jolt of admiration, she herself had set.
But this wasn't an act of impulsive violence. It was a live dissection. [Y/N] watched the animal's spasms with the absolute concentration of a scientist before a crucial experiment. With the tip of one side of the scissors, she gently pressed against the joints, the soft belly, observing the reflexes, the cries of pain. Her lips moved, murmuring observations that Patrick couldn't hear, but which he imagined were of a clinical nature. There was no haste in her movements, only an insatiable, cold curiosity, a hunger for knowledge about the mechanisms of suffering.
Patrick felt the air burn his lungs. She was the most beautiful and monstrous thing he had ever seen. She was a mirror. A mirror that reflected his essence. The same fondness for the pain of others, the same disconnection from empathy, the same fascination with death. But where he was chaos and madness, she was order and precision.
He didn't hide. The need to be seen by her, to be recognized by her, was stronger than his instinct to stalk. He took a step forward, crunching a dry branch under his boot with clear intention.
[Y/N] froze. Her head spun so fast that her hair struck his cheek. For a split second, her eyes were pure animal reflexes, alert and dangerous. The scissors rose, not in a clumsy defensive gesture, but in a ready-to-attack position, her arm firm, the blade steady. Patrick saw the instant calculation in her gaze, the assessment of the threat,
The analysis of the options: flee, attack, negotiate.
He said nothing. He only allowed his smile to spread, that slow, crooked stretching of his lips that held no warmth, only an expectant emptiness. He approached, completely ignoring the ground, and crouched beside her, at a distance that would have been intimate in any other context. His eyes met hers over the animal's panting body.
"It's going to die anyway," Patrick said, his voice a low snore that seemed to absorb all the sounds of the forest. "You could let me play."
[Y/N] didn't look away. The tension in her shoulders didn't ease, but the expression in her eyes changed. Animalistic alertness gave way to a lucid, almost intellectual recognition. She knew who he was. All of Derry knew Patrick Hockstetter by name and reputation. And in that moment, she didn't see a monster; she saw a colleague.
"Hockstetter," she murmured. Her voice was softer than he remembered from school, but it had a metallic edge, like the blade she held. She lowered the knife a few inches, but didn't let go. Her grip was firm. "Are you going to lecture me about compassion?"
He gave a dry laugh, a harsh sound devoid of joy. "No. I want to see."
She scrutinized him, and Patrick had the strange feeling that she was dissecting him with her eyes with the same meticulousness she had used on the opossum. She measured his smile, his empty eyes, the dried blood under his fingernails, his relaxed posture. Then, with a deliberate movement that seemed to carry the full weight of a pact, she extended the handle of the scissors.
"Make it interesting," she said, and it was a command, not an invitation.
Patrick took the scissors. The metal was warm from the contact with his hand. What followed wasn't a game; it was a ceremony. A ritual for two acolytes. Patrick didn't just kill the animal; he explored it. He did what [Y/N] was doing, but with a brutal force she lacked, opening, separating, revealing the inside of things. And she watched, unblinking, nodding sometimes, as if taking mental notes, comparing their methods. When they finished, they were stained with the same dirt and the same dark substance. The opossum was now nothing more than a broken thing between them, a sacrifice that had bound them in a mutual, bloody understanding.
Patrick handed her back the scissors, stained and sticky. She took them without disgust, wiping them on the grass with a practical gesture before putting them in her pocket.
"You have interesting ideas, Hockstetter," she remarked, rising and brushing the mud off her knees.
He stood beside her, closer than either of them normally dared to be. "So do you."
She looked him up and down, and for the first time, she offered something that resembled a genuine smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I guess so."
She turned and walked away from the clearing, without a glance back, as if what had just happened was the most normal thing in the world. Patrick stood there, smelling the blood on his hands and the faint scent of [Y/N] mingling with the smell of decay. In that moment, he knew. [Y/N] was his. The fact that she didn't know it yet was a minor detail. He would take care of that. His "infatuation" had already taken root deep within him.
The stalking phase intensified, becoming more methodical and personal. It was no longer just distant observation. It was a physical need, like breathing. He followed her home every day, hiding in the bushes across from her house, memorizing the times her parents left and returned. She learned that her room was on the second floor, and that at 11:30 at night, she turned off the light to sleep.
One afternoon, [Y/N] stopped halfway home, in an alley that was always empty. Patrick was crouching behind a dumpster, watching the back of her neck, the way her hair fell over her shoulders.
“You’re pathetically obvious, Hockstetter,” she said loudly, without turning around. Her voice echoed off the dirty bricks. “The idea is that I don’t see you.”
Patrick gasped. It wasn’t fear he felt; it was a rush of pure adrenaline, an electric tingle that ran down his spine. She’d figured him out. The game was real, and she was playing.
She turned slowly, leaning her back against the brick wall. A cold, mocking smile played on her lips. “If you’re going to stalk me, at least try to be discreet.” "It's embarrassing for both of us."
It was a direct challenge. And Patrick loved games, especially when the rules were cruel and the opponents worthy. Instead of getting angry or backing down, he stepped out of his hiding place, standing tall, his hands buried in his jacket pockets. His grin hadn't faded; it had widened.
"Your house is boring," he said, shrugging. "Your father snores. He sounds like a broken-down engine."
[Y/N]'s reaction wasn't anger or violation. It was pure interest. Her eyes narrowed slightly, analyzing him. "Did you come in?"
"Three in the morning. You were asleep. You stirred a couple of times. You talked in your sleep."
She nodded, as if processing data, updating a profile.
"Next time you decide to sneak in, bring something to eat. The fridge is almost empty." She pushed her body away from the wall and kept walking, without looking back, as if their interaction had been the most normal thing in the world.
Patrick stood in the alley, a warm, strange feeling expanding in his chest. It wasn't love; he didn't know what that was. It was validation from an equal. It was like being patted on the head for being good. He felt seen, understood, in the only twisted way he could be understood. It was a "well done" written in a language only the two of them could read.
The thefts began soon after. At first, they were small, almost insignificant objects. A pencil from her pencil case that she had "accidentally" dropped, which he picked up and never returned. An eraser with a chewed corner, which he stored in a rusty metal box in his hideout, next to his dead insects. But soon, that wasn't enough. He needed something more personal, something that carried her essence in a more tangible way.
One night, he slipped into her room while she slept. The moon illuminated her face through the window, softening her sharp features, making her appear vulnerable. Patrick hated that vulnerability. He wanted to pinch her until she bled, to remind her of the hardness they shared. He approached the bed, watching the rhythm of her breathing. With a small, sharp pair of scissors he always carried, he carefully cut a lock of her hair, so close to her scalp that he could almost feel the warmth of her skin. She mumbled something unintelligible in her sleep, turning toward him. He froze, waiting, excited by the danger of being caught in the act. When her breathing calmed and she turned her back, he put the lock of hair in a plastic bag and slipped out of the room. Another treasure for his collection. A part of her, now his.
His most prized trophy arrived a few nights later. He opened the laundry basket, and there he found it: one of her panties she'd worn yesterday. He grabbed it, put it in his pocket, and left his house for the barrens. There, in the fetid gloom of his refrigerator, with the smell of rust, dirt, and death like incense, he masturbated with the fabric against his face, inhaling deeply her essence, "mgh—fuck, you do it so well." In his mind, he wasn't hurting her. He was possessing her. His imaginary hands weren't strangling her, but rather marking her, claiming her, leaving bruises in the shape of his fingers on her skin, bite marks on her shoulders, the mark of his ownership on every inch. It was the only form of intimacy his twisted mind could conceive.
Any potential threat was eliminated. A boy from another grade had offered to carry her books after she dropped them on the stairs. [Y/N] had declined coldly, with a somewhat cruel tone as he mocked her, but the fact that the boy had dared to approach her, to even touch the air around her, was enough to ignite a cold rage within Patrick.
He waited for him after practice, in a dark, poorly lit corner of the school's back parking lot. He didn't say a word. There were no warnings, no shouts. He just acted. He broke his nose with a satisfying crack, split his lip against his own teeth, and stabbed his hand, then used his lighter on him. The boy lay on the cold asphalt, groaning, his face a mask of blood and terror, unable to recognize his attacker in the gloom.
The next day, Patrick approached [Y/N] in the hallway, walking beside her as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if they had always walked together.
“That guy, the senior football player,” he said casually, as if commenting on the score of a game. “He’s changing classes. They say he was in an accident.”
She glanced at him, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow. There was no surprise on her face, only an assessment. “Was it you?”
He shrugged, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “I didn’t like the way he talked to you. The way he looked at you.”
A slow, almost proud smile spread across [Y/N]'s face. It wasn't the fake, cutting smile she used with others. This one reached her eyes, igniting a cold, calculating spark deep within them. It was the smile of someone who sees their investment paying off. "Jealous, Hockstetter?"
"Yes," he stated, without a hint of shame or doubt. It was a fact, as simple and true as the existence of the garbage in his landfill. He was jealous. She was his.
dry nest was music to Patrick's ears. "You look like a puppy."
Patrick loved that word. "Puppy." It implied that he belonged to her. That he had an owner. A master who recognized his loyalty and rewarded it with attention, with a look that wasn't one of contempt or fear, but of contented possession. He nodded, an unusual sense of peace washing over him for a moment. He had found his place.
A few days later, he decided it was time to show her his sanctuary, his true self. He took her to the dump after school, leading her through mountains of rusted trash, old tires, and torn plastic bags that exhaled a final breath of decay. The air was heavy, thick, and smelled of gasoline, burnt metal, and rotting organic matter. [Y/N] showed no repulsion. She didn't pinch her nose or frown. She walked through the misery with clinical curiosity, observing the glass jars Patrick had lined up in a rusty shopping cart. Inside them, a catalog of death: dead insects in grotesque poses, spiders devouring each other, small birds and mice in various stages of decomposition, their fur taut and their eyes empty.
"Is all this yours?" she asked, her voice clear and calm amidst the desolate landscape, as if she were in a museum.
"Yes," he said, a thread of pride in his normally flat voice. It was his kingdom. His world. The only place where he didn't have to pretend, where the decay outside matched his insides.
She approached the old refrigerator, the place where he slept, where he kept his most precious treasures, where he masturbated to their scent. She placed a hand on the rusty door, feeling the rough texture. "And this?"
"It's where I sleep. Sometimes. When I don't want to be home."
[Y/N] nodded. She moved closer, until her nose was inches from the door seal, rotten and cracked. She sniffed the air, deeply. “It smells like you.”
Patrick couldn’t tell if it was an insult or a compliment. His brain, unaccustomed to nuance, struggled for a second with her neutral tone. He decided, with a certainty that instantly calmed him, that it was a compliment. She understood. She saw beauty in decay, just as he did.
It was there, in the gloom of his refuge, weeks later, that Patrick’s obsession reached its peak. It was no longer an impulse or a fascination; it was a religion, and [Y/N] was his deity. An indifferent, capricious deity, but his nonetheless. He needed a fitting offering, something that transcended stolen goods and acts of proxy violence. Something as permanent and irrevocable as his devotion. It had to be something of his, something that belonged only to him: her body. Her flesh. A canvas on which to proclaim his loyalty.
He took a pair of scissors from his pocket, the same ones she had given him in the woods but which he had stolen from her room when she took them, the ones they had shared in their first ritual. The blade was clean and sharp, dimly reflecting the light that filtered through the vents of the refrigerator. The air inside was thick, heavy with the smell of rust, damp earth, and death. There was no fear, no doubt, not even an identifiable emotion when the blade slid across the skin of her lower abdomen, just above her hip bone. Only a cold pressure, a furrow cutting into her flesh, and then the wet, hot, and surprisingly vivid sensation of blood gushing out, running down her pale skin and soaking the hem of her jeans.
It wasn't an act of desperation or blind passion. It was a ritual. A ritual. Cold logic. With ferocious concentration, the pain only excited him. He was getting an erection just as he cut the first letter, carving the rough, angular letters: [Y/N]. When he finished, he had to masturbate again. He didn't care about the pain; on the contrary, he liked it. He gasped slightly, cold sweat beading on his forehead. The wound was red, raw, honest, and perfect. Her name on his flesh. His property branded in the only temple that mattered.
He looked at himself in the distorted, dirty reflection of the refrigerator's metal door. The letters were clear, a brutal and primitive mark of ownership. He smiled, an expression of empty triumph. Now it was official, in the only record he considered valid.
Knowing she would be alone at home, he put on his jacket to cover the bloodstain on his shirt and walked home, feeling the wound burn and sting with every step. It was a constant reminder, a heartbeat of devotion that led him straight to her. He opened the back door—the lock was still a joke—and went straight up to her room, leaving a faint, dark trail on the wooden steps.
She was sitting on the bed, an open book on her knees. She looked up as he came in, showing no surprise. Her eyes went first to his face, then down to the dark, damp stain spreading across the room
on the side of her sweatshirt.
“You hurt yourself,” she said. It wasn’t a question, nor an exclamation of concern. It was a mere observation.
Patrick didn’t speak. Instead, he approached the bed, his shadow falling across it and the book. He grasped the hem of her sweatshirt and lifted it, revealing the wound in all its rawness. The blood had partially clotted, forming a red and black scab around the deep groove of the letters that spelled her name. The skin around it was swollen, raw, and a fresh, glistening trickle of blood slowly oozed from her name.
[Y/N] set the book aside without losing her place. She stood with a fluid motion and approached. There was no disgust on her face. No fear, no screams, no cries for help. Only an intense, profound curiosity, the same she had shown in the woods in front of the raccoon, the same with which she observed the people she despised. Her fingers rose and hovered over the wound, without touching it, as if measuring its truth, its depth, its pain.
"Why?" she asked, her voice a whisper heavy with a visceral need to understand the logic behind the act.
"So you know," Patrick said, his voice a rough snort, his throat dry with exertion and suppressed emotion. "So you'll always know I'm yours. That this…" he gestured to the wound with a flick of his chin, "…is yours. My flesh. My pain. Everything."
Her eyes met his. And in them, Patrick didn't see the horror or the rejection that society told him he should see. He saw understanding. He saw a deep, twisted approval. Something warmer and darker ignited in the depths of that gaze, something that finally resembled possession. Total acceptance. It was the look of a collector who has just received the centerpiece of his exhibition.
“My devoted pup,” she murmured, and the words rang with absolute truth, an unquestionable scientific fact.
And then, [Y/N] leaned in.
It wasn’t a kiss on the lips. That would have been too commonplace, too human, too gentle for what they were, for the pact they were sealing. She lowered her head and, with a deliberation that took Patrick’s breath away, pressed her lips directly onto the open wound, onto the “Y” carved into his flesh.
It was a cold, wet kiss. Patrick gasped, his whole body tensing like a steel cable. He felt [Y/N]’s warm breath against his lacerated skin, the soft, firm touch of her lips on the exposed, bleeding flesh. A violent shiver, a spasm of pure ecstasy, ran down his spine. It was more intimate, more possessive, than any sexual act he could imagine. It was a communion through pain and possession, a seal of blood and saliva. It was the final confirmation that she accepted his offering, that she claimed him not just as hers, but as a part of herself she was willing to taste.
When [Y/N] pulled away, a small, perfect trail of his blood stained her lower lip. She didn't wipe it away immediately. She held his gaze, defiant, as she ran her tongue over the spot, savoring it, before wiping it off with the back of her hand. The gesture was incredibly obscene, profane, and beautiful.
"Now you're truly mine," she declared, and it was a statement, not a question. A fact established in flesh, blood, and a kiss.
Patrick nodded, a final, deep, monstrous peace washing over him. For the first time in his life, everything made sense. Everything fell into place. The emptiness, the constant irritation, the disconnection—it all subsided. She had found her place, her purpose: to belong to him. To be his possession, his cub, his living work of art.
“So I guess this makes us boyfriend and girlfriend,” she said, with a smile that was both triumphant and cynical. It was the end of one hunting game and the beginning of another, much larger and more complex one, a game for two whose rules only they understood.
Patrick smiled, a genuine expression, devoid of any warmth. But instead of holding back, his hands grew bolder. As his teeth nipped at her neck, one hand slid between their bodies, finding the warmth between her legs through the fabric of her clothing.
[Y/N] gasped for a split second, her body arching slightly against him. It wasn't a gesture of rejection, but of surprise at the intensity. Patrick didn't wait. His fingers applied firm, circular pressure right where she needed it most, a skillful movement that betrayed an instinctive understanding of her body.
A gasp escaped her lips, followed by a low, husky moan as his fingers found the perfect rhythm. "Patrick…" she murmured, and this time her voice lacked any defiance, only urgency.
He increased the pressure, rubbing harder through the fabric, feeling her body respond, how she grew wet even through the layers of clothing. Her own moans grew louder.
They grew stronger, less controlled, punctuated by ragged breaths. Her nails dug into his shoulders, not to stop him, but to hold on as the sensations overwhelmed her.
When he finally unbuttoned her jeans and slid his hand inside, finding her wet and hot, [Y/N] let out a stifled gasp. His fingers didn't explore tenderly, but with an intensity that matched the bite on her neck. Two fingers slid inside her with a firm motion, while his thumb maintained steady pressure on her clitoris.
"There… keep going…" she gasped, her voice cracking, her body moving in sync with his hand. All her careful manners, her meticulous control, crumbled under this brutally effective stimulation.
It was this loss of control, this being reduced to pure physical sensation by his expert hand, that made her moans louder, more desperate. Patrick watched as her mask completely cracked, and he knew this was even more intimate than marking her skin.
Only when he felt her on the edge, her muscles tensing around his fingers, her moans turning into a continuous groan, did he push her down onto the bed and position himself between her legs. His entry was as abrupt and intense as everything else, making them both cry out in unison.
The sex that followed was ferocious, a power struggle where whoever moaned louder lost a battle they both enjoyed losing. And when [Y/N] reached her climax, it was with a piercing scream that came from the depths of her being, followed by violent spasms that gripped Patrick until he reached his own orgasm.
Afterward, panting and covered in sweat, [Y/N] stroked the bandage on her abdomen. "You belong to me now," she murmured, her voice still hoarse from the screams.
"And you to me, my goddess," he replied, sealing their pact once more.
They were lovers. And in the stillness that followed, they knew their relationship would be built on this ability to break down each other's defenses, to find in the rawest physical surrender a language only they understood.
