• 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.”

"Nobody Touches What's Mine." (Patrick Hockstetter x Reader).

At first, it’s just a feeling. That sinking weight in your stomach, the one that makes you walk a little faster on your way home, the one that makes you glance over your shoulder every few minutes.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That maybe you’re just being paranoid. But then you start noticing him. The man. Too old. Too familiar. Too present. Always lingering.

At the gas station when you stop for a pack of smokes. At the record store when you’re flipping through cassettes. At the diner where you and Patrick usually mess around with the rest of the gang in the corner booth, tossing fries at each other, making jokes about the sad locals who drink their mornings away, all of you swearing you won't end up like them.

And every time you look up, he’s just there. Watching. Waiting. Like he’s circling you, getting closer every time.

That’s when you realize...this isn’t in your head.

Patrick Hockstetter doesn’t do jealous. He doesn’t do worried. And he sure as hell doesn’t do protective boyfriend bullshit.

So when you tell him some creep has been following you around Derry, watching you, waiting for you, he just snorts, shakes his head, and flicks his cigarette out the window.

"You’re hot, babe," he mutters, eyes on the road, one hand lazy on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. "Guys stare. It’s kinda your fault."

You glare at him. "My fault?"

Patrick grins, squeezing your leg. "Yeah. Walking around looking like that? You’re lucky I don’t follow you around just for fun."

You roll your eyes, but your stomach twists. Because Patrick does follow you sometimes. Just to see if you’ll notice.

When you whip around and catch him leaning against a lamppost, smirking at you from across the street like some handsome, deranged shadow? It makes you shiver in the best way.

But this isn’t Patrick stalking you. This isn’t fun. This is some stranger. And that’s different.

"Patrick, I’m serious," you murmur, fingers tightening around the hem of your skirt. "He’s always there. Walking behind me. Watching me. He was at the diner yesterday. At the fucking laundromat last week. He just stands there. I think he's the one who's been stealing my underwear."

Patrick sighs, shifting in his seat. And when he finally looks at you, really looks at you, his smirk flickers. Just for a second. Just enough for you to know that he believes you now.

And that means the guy’s already dead.

The next day, you’re sitting at some greasy burger joint, picking at a basket of fries, and when you glance up—there he is. The man. Standing outside, watching through the window.

Your stomach drops. Your fingers clench the napkin in your lap.

"Okay," you whisper. "You see him?"

Patrick doesn’t answer. He just keeps chewing his fry, his expression unreadable, lazy, eyes flicking to the man through the window. And when the creep finally notices Patrick looking back at him, he turns away.

Patrick exhales. Leans back in the booth. And grins. "You’re right," he mutters. "You got yourself a little admirer."

You shiver. "Patrick, this isn't funny—"

"Relax, babe," he murmurs, licking salt off his thumb, watching the guy like a hawk. "He won’t be a problem for long."

The following week, you're with Patrick at the gas station. You go inside, thinking you’ll be quick. You haven't seen your stalker all week. Thinking he’s gone. Thinking that Patrick was right, that the guy was just a creep with a staring problem.

But he’s not gone. He’s waiting. And the second you step away from the bathroom door, heading toward the soda machine, he’s there. Standing too close. Blocking your way. Smiling.

"You’re a hard girl to catch alone," he says, voice low, casual, too familiar.

Your stomach twists. That was not a normal thing to say. You glance toward the cashier. But he’s not there. It’s just you and this guy. And when you try to step around him, he blocks your path.

"You come here a lot?" he asks. "I think I’ve seen you before."

Your pulse kicks up. "Excuse me," you mutter, trying again to move past him.

"Relax," he says, grinning wider, like this is a game to him. "Just making conversation."

You don’t answer. You just take another step, but then his hand brushes your arm. Not grabbing. Just touching. Just enough to make your skin crawl.

"You got a boyfriend?" he asks, voice lower now, more deliberate.

Your stomach drops.

And then he leans in. Too close. "You look like you’d be fun to take out."

You shove past him. Hard. Fast. You don’t look back. You push out the convenience store doors, breath coming fast, pulse hammering in your ears.

Patrick’s leaning against the car, smoking, watching you. And the second he sees your face, sees the way you slam the door behind you, his expression shifts. He straightens. Steps toward you.

"What's up," he says, voice too calm.

Your fingers clench into fists. "He was inside."

Patrick’s eyes darken. He knows immediately who you're talking about. "Did he touch you?"

Your breath is shaky. "He—" You swallow. "Not—he didn’t grab me. But he—"

Patrick doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask more questions. Doesn’t need to.

Because he already knows. Because he sees him. Through the gas station window. The guy, still inside, watching.

Patrick exhales. Cracks his knuckles. Then he hands you his switchblade. "Stay here." Then he walks inside.

Patrick doesn’t make a scene. Not at first. He just walks up behind the guy, leans against the counter, and waits. Waits until the creep finally notices him. Until he turns his head, and sees Patrick Hockstetter grinning at him.

That’s when the guy’s face changes. Patrick already has a hand on his shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to make him tense.

"You and I gotta talk, man," Patrick murmurs, voice low, casual, calm.

The guy freezes. "I don’t—"

Patrick’s grip tightens. "I think you do."

"No, I'm gonna be late for—"

"This won't take long." Then Patrick steers him toward the bathroom. Where no one else can hear. Where no one else can see. Where no one else is going to interrupt him.

It’s only a few minutes later when Patrick returns. He wipes his hands on his jeans, flicks his cigarette into the pavement, rolls his shoulders like he’s dusting off something unpleasant. And when he looks at you, he just smirks.

"Man’s not gonna bother you again."

You swallow. "You—?"

"Nothing permanent," he interrupts, sliding into the driver’s seat. "Didn’t have time for that."

Then he shoots you a sideways glance, his smirk widening. "But let’s just say he’s gonna be real nervous around Derry for a while."

The car flies down the road, headlights slicing through the dark, the radio crackling with some song Patrick isn’t even listening to. He’s too wired, fingers drumming against the wheel to the music, jaw tight, still high on whatever he just did to that guy.

You’re watching him. Patrick isn’t just his usual brand of cocky and reckless. He’s seething.

"Can’t fucking stand guys like that," he mutters suddenly, shaking his head.

You raise an eyebrow. "Creeps?"

Patrick exhales sharply. "Guys who think they can touch something that isn’t theirs."

Your stomach flutters. "You seem worked up," you murmur, voice smooth, teasing.

Patrick snorts, shifting gears, eyes flicking to you like he already knows what you’re doing. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you murmur, tilting your head, dragging your fingers down his arm, feeling the muscle tense under your touch.

"Wonder what would happen if I ran into him again, and you weren't around," you muse.

Patrick’s grip tightens on the wheel. "You won’t."

You smirk. "What if I do?"

Patrick lets out a sharp laugh, but there’s no humor in it. "You tryin' to piss me off?"

"You already are."

Patrick’s jaw tics. Then, without warning, he veers the car off the main road—pulling into a dark, empty lot behind an abandoned warehouse. Throws it in park. Turns to you.

Patrick doesn’t say a word. Not at first. Raking a hand through his hair. His voice is low, sharp, edged with something dangerous. "That was not fucking cool."

You almost get goosebumps, shifting in your seat. "Patrick—"

"I should’ve killed him," he mutters, shaking his head, gripping the wheel like he’s barely keeping himself from turning around and going back.

"Patrick—"

"No," he snaps, finally turning to face you, eyes dark, burning, serious. "You don’t just corner a young girl by herself, touch her arm, and ask if she has a fucking boyfriend."

You shiver. Because yeah. When he says it like that, it sounds just as bad as it felt. But still.

"I don’t know," you murmur, biting your lip, glancing down, suddenly unsure. "Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe he was just being friendly, and I—"

Patrick snorts. "You think that was fucking friendly?"

You hesitate. He leans in.

"You ever see me walk up to some random girl in a gas station and ask if she’s got a boyfriend? Stroking her skin like I wanna wear it?"

You pause. No. You haven’t. Patrick doesn’t do that. He doesn’t have to.

"Coming from me," he mutters, "that’s not normal. That’s fucking weird. And you—" his fingers trail up your arm, ghosting over the spot that creep touched "—don’t just let shit like that slide. You're too pretty for that kind of blindness. That's dangerous."

Your breath catches. Because Patrick isn’t teasing now. Isn’t smirking. Isn’t acting like this is some joke. He’s serious.

"Maybe I overreacted, though..." you tried again, watching his eyes narrow in disgust. "Like you said, sometimes it's my fault that the guys at school look at me."

"Love yourself, dammit," he snaps, grabbing your wrist. "Don't be stupid. You see him again," he tilts his head, voice dropping to something dark, something low, something protective. "You tell me."

You nod. That's terrifying, and kind of hot. He turns the key in the ignition again, starting the engine.

He grips your chin, forcing your eyes to his. "No one touches you like that again." His fingers tighten. "Ever."

Your body burns. And before you even realize what you’re doing, you’re unbuckling your seatbelt, crawling over the center console, straddling his lap, kissing him so hard your teeth clash.

Patrick grunts as you grind against him, hands immediately gripping your hips, holding you there.

"What was that for?" he mutters, smirking against your mouth.

You shrug, tweaking his nose with a finger, knowing he hates when you do that. Patrick immediately cringes, scrunching his face, eyes squeezing shut as he shakes his head.

"For being my hero," you answer him, pressing a quick, teasing kiss to his nose.

Patrick exhales, still in thought, still gripping your hips, holding you against him. Then he smirks, tilting his head. "Hero, huh?"

His fingers tighten, sliding under your shirt, teasing the bare skin of your waist, slowly. "You know I only did it 'cause you're mine, right?"