#tozier!reader

I got carried away af with this. I hope its up to standard, and since i used “you’re mine and I watch everything you do” already, I did the first prompt. Also, this is a one shot, I will not be doing another part, so enjoy it as a singular work, my duderinos.

Prompt Used: “You’re being too friendly with them”

Word Count: +2,500

Warnings: Possessiveness, drugging, that good kush, Patrick POV. Tozier!Reader.

Tagged: @dreamboathannah, @restoftheworldfallsaway @ghoulishtozier @itwasmathilda, @fangirlinganditswonders, @neoandersons, @basicwheeler, @leetime14, @passionfortrashin

(Anyone who wanted to be tagged for WYS automatically gets tagged for my other Patrick works as a bonus, my duderinos. Message me -through pm-  if you want to also be tagged! Love y’all.)

Patrick leaned against the front of his car, wiping the motor oil off his long fingers and watching the Tozier girl while she helped their classmates. Her hair was rolled up into a tight bun, the dark green button up she had worn over her t shirt all day tied at her waist while she peered under the hood of Dylan Pram and Cole Harris’ project car.

She was talking some auto mechanic nonsense and pointing out where their problems mostly laid, the two dipshits at her side feigning cluelessness. Patrick knew their game, others in the class had tried it once or twice too, but to no avail. He would know best, [First Name] was fucking oblivious when it came to flirting.

Dylan stepped closer to her as she rummaged under the hood, and Patrick’s fingers flexed under the rag he rubbed them with when the jock rested a firm hand on her lower back and spoke in her ear.

He must have said something utterly hilarious, because the trashmouth choked on a laugh and straightened. Cole shared their smile, but his eyes connected with Dylan, a silent conversation running between them as Patrick’s partner parted from them with a wave and a soft laugh.

“Nice one, Dylan. Remember to clean it up when you’re done, dude.” She waved them off, coming back to Patrick with flushed cheeks from her laughter. Behind her, eyes and sly grins sought her back, and Patrick ignored them, smirking at the Toizer girl when she arrived.

“You’re being too friendly with them, Tozier.” He said quietly, tossing the dirtied rag over the top of his tool box. “They’re going to think you got the hots for ‘em.”

“Who? Cole and Dylan?” Her lips tilted in a cute little lopsided grin. “I thought they were going to announce their engagement soon, I had no idea they swung for the other team.”

He allowed a laugh, but a certain fondness for the girl startled him. She was starting to really soften him up, and day by day he found himself leaning closer and speaking more frequently with her. Gone were the earlier days of the truly antagonistic ways since Henry had dropped his grudge towards her cousin and his friends, and Patrick had grown used to falling instep beside her while walking to class.

He guessed that this would be called friendship.

So that was clearly why a strange fire built in his stomach when he caught Dylan eyeing his partner with particularly hungry eyes, because she was his friend…Then again, his underlying pining for her also applied to that, but he would never admit that aloud.

No, he was a good actor. He could win a god damn academy award for his patience and tactful thinking. Patrick could keep [First Name] in the dark over his, well he hated to say feelings, but yes, feelings, for her.

So he frowned, and easily slipped into the role of a concerned friend, nudging her with his elbow as she went to sit on the hood of the Monte Carlo.

“What?” She mirrored his frown, resting her ankle across her knee and drumming painted nails on her jeans.

“Don’t think we’re the only bad guys around here, Princess. There’s plenty of sleazy fuckers hiding behind a football jersey in Derry.” He warned with earnest, but was met with a scoff.

“Dylan and Cole are fucking nimrods, and they couldn’t fix a lightbulb together if they tried.” She waved him off as the class bell rang. “I’ll see you at the bonfire tonight, yeah?”

Patrick had done his duty, he had given her the passing warning. It was up to her to listen, he supposed.

“Yeah. I’m bringing some good shit too, hope you’re not as fucking uppity as you were last time.” He bent his lean form down, collecting his leather jacket that was draped over the hood as Tozier slipped off the front and snatched up her backpack. “See you around eight.”

“Adios, Hockstetter. Don’t keep Bowers waiting.”

She left, patting Belch’s arm as she headed out past him and Henry. She said something in passing, making Belch smile after her. Henry watched her go as well, a certain gleam in his eyes as Patrick came to meet them by one of the open garage doors.

“Glad we don’t have to worry about being ambushed with a fucking tire iron now.” The bigger boy said, pulling his varsity jacket over his shoulders. The three watched her go, her back growing smaller as she jogged across the fields to get to the parking lot.

Henry huffed indignantly. “She was going to be a fucking problem, that’s the only reason I’m not tormenting her little shit of a cousin. Cigs?”

He threw a hand out to Patrick, demanding the taller boy share his pack. Patrick complied, digging around the pockets of his jacket before tossing him the pack, the trio of boys heading across the field as students began to file out of the school in mobs.

“She’s a good work partner too,” Belch said absently, the spring air nipping his cheeks pink. “I got an A on our last assignment, my coach and Ma were in tears, swear.”

“Yeah, whatever. Goody two shoe bitches like her are a dime a dozen, but I’m not gonna deal with another run in with her.” Henry muttered, lighting his cigarette after a few tries and stuffing Patrick’s pack in his own back pocket, something that the lankier boy would not forget before the day was through.

“Sounds like you got a crush, Henry.” Patrick dared to say, eyes lazily raking over the boy next to him. Henry tensed, shoulders under his bomber jacket rigid as he sent a glare to Patrick.

They both held a steely gaze before Belch interrupted, announcing the arrival of their smallest and blondest, Vic.

“Hey! Did you get the part?” Belch called out to the victorious looking boy, who nodded eagerly.

Henry took the opportunity to look away, but Patrick chose to keep a dark look on his friend. The rest of his pals dissolved into talk over Vic’s newest accomplishment, Henry berating him and Belch defending him, while Patrick ignored it all. He was itching to get to the canalside and have a good time, if only just to abolish the jealousy he felt twisting in his gut.

He didn’t have time for that shit.

Patrick sat the closest to the bonfire, the heat curling the ends of his hair, but significantly warming his fingers that had numbed from the cold of a spring night in Maine. There had been a girl at his side at some point, but she was long gone, having moved on to someone who was more interested in her than staring into the depths of flames.

Henry and Belch had raced off elsewhere the moment the four had found the party, Vic staying close to Patrick for a while until he was led away by a few drama friends of his. Patrick was happy to be alone in all honesty, it made dealing and keeping his high all the easier. The party raged around him, fellow classmates dancing and drinking away, high on the drugs he supplied or drunk off cheap liquor and nasty beer. The music that blasted through speakers was crackled and heavy, something with a strange beat and sliced with dark lyrics. Patrick enjoyed it, sitting by himself and waiting for his next costumer to find him.

He felt a lovely haze, his high improving his mood tenfold. There was a sloppy kiss mark on his neck, but he could barely recall who had given it to him. It was perfection.

And then someone plopped down beside him.

“You’re a hard guy to find, Hockstetter.” Drawled a voice to his side.

“Am I?” Patrick said loftily, slowly turning to look to his new companion, and then felt his nostrils flare upon recognizing him. “Harris.”

The brunette bristled, and Patrick realized he had turned to face him without a mask, instead showing him the slack and emotionless state he normally had when he was alone. He brought it back, and Cole was set to ease at the surprisingly friendly smile he was given.

“So how much?” He asked, and dug out his wallet, opening the folds and showing off a pretty stack of cash.

Patrick felt limply at his side, finding his backpack and unzipping it. “What do you want? I’ve got weed, coke, E, a few poppers and a few tabs of acid if you wanna have a real good time.”

Cole sat still for a second, eyes darting around the contents of the bag. He licked dry lips before lowering his voice, barely audible over the roar of the flames.

“Do you have any… Roofies?”

“Why.” The dealer snapped, more forceful than needed.

“Do you or don’t you?” Cole insisted, keeping his voice low even as Patrick’s raised. It wasn’t as if anyone would hear them, but it didn’t matter to either of them- they both knew Cole has crossed a line.

“I’ve got some Molly, and that’s the closest you’re getting, Harris.” Patrick dug out a small bag of violet pills, smacking them to Cole’s chest. “Don’t be a fucking idiot. Thats a gram, so give me sixty.”

Cole eyed him, hand raising to take the drugs offered. “You sure-”

“Sixty bucks, then fuck off.” Patrick sneered, and snatched the twenties that were held out to him, stuffing the money in his pocket.

“Jesus, fuck. Fine.” Cole stood, and shuffled away, pocketing his drugs before casting his dealer a nasty little glare.

Patrick watched him retreat with his tail between his legs, digging into his bag for a joint. He lit it and took heavy hits, the smoke tasting musky but sweet. The haze returned eventually, distracting him as he sat there. He took patient drags, letting the smoke curl and twist from his mouth, ignoring the worry that scratched at his thoughts, it wasn’t his business. Harris wasn’t his problem.

But Tozier was.

He stood then, hauling his bag over his shoulder and walking over the rocks and gravel that crunched under his feet, weaving between crowds of grinding teens. What time was it? Where was Tozier, he hadn’t seen her yet.

Fuck.

Somehow, through his high and the distraction of the dancing and drunkenness, he found Belch. The boy was working on a drink of his own, the brown bottle in his hand nearly empty and his face flushed.

“What time is it?” Patrick demanded, Belch blinking in surprise as the urgency. The boys he stood with part of his football team and seeming confused at Patrick’s arrival, but they welcomed him with a round of nods.

“Uh,” Belch shook his arm, the watch he normally wore glinting in the far off fire light. “It’s like eight forty-seven, why?”

Patrick’s gaze swept the heads of their classmates, but he couldn’t find hers. “Have you seen Tozier?”

“No?” Belch said, caught off guard as Patrick spun away with a curse. “Hey! Wait, dude!”

But Patrick was gone, slinking away and now targeting Harris or Pram. A blond and brunette pair, who wore blazers and had proper preppy haircuts.

[First Name] was never late. To anything. She arrived nearly twenty minutes early for class, she turned in her work a day in advance and had never left him or the others hanging if she agreed to meet them up for a meal at the malt shop.

So there was no way she was late to the spring bonfire, not if she had assured him she would be there at eight. No, she would have arrived at seven forty-five.

He caught a mullet in his peripheral vision, as well as the arm candy Henry was desperately sucking face with.

“Henry.” Patrick jerked his shoulder, tearing him from liplock. The girl, a senior the dark haired boy recognized as Carly Henderson, whined from loss of contact.

“The fuck, Hockstetter!” Henry hissed, grinding his teeth as he rolled his head to face his friend. “I’m fuckin’ busy.”

“I can’t find Tozier.”

Henry’s brows furrowed. “I saw her earlier with Harris and that fuckwit Pram, by the coolers.”

Patrick’s jaw set, and he dug his heels into the rocks, sprinting away. He shoved aside a few people, the coolers in his sight. It was then he saw Tozier, leaning heavily against Dylan Pram and in the middle of a fit of giggles, her eyes glazed and face burning. She held a solo cup, the contents sloshing out her cup as Cole Harris tilted it back to her mouth, encouraging her to drink.

“Chug! Chug! Chug!” The pair cheered, and she downed the contents, crushing the cup with a valiant cry.

He slowed, coming up on them slow and steady, a predatory tilt to his shoulders as his eyes burned hotter than the logs of the bonfire. Cole was the first to see him, and his expression flattered a mere second before he paled considerably.

Pram was oblivious, carelessly crafting heavy touches to the girls waist and hips, the hands trying to wander further before Cole shot a hand out and gripped the sleeve of his blazer, catching his attention.

“Well, what do we have here?” Patrick announced his arrival with a dangerous tone.

His friend gasped, and she tore herself from the blond, taking a few steps to stumble to the man who had inevitably caused this mess, wrapping her arms around his skinny torso. “Patrick! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

Protectively, no, posessively, Patrick secured her in his arms. He threaded strands of her hair between his ringed fingers, rubbing a comforting thumb to her scalp. “You found me, Princess.”

She nuzzled her face to his chest and he held her there, grey-green eyes dancing with malevolence at the boys just feet from them.

It wouldn’t take a genius to see she was high, and higher than he had ever seen her. She had always been a lightweight, barely touching a beer and still stumbling around like she had drank a bar dry after a few sips. He’d given her a hit of a joint once and been entertained for hours as she babbled on about Star Trek with Belch and professional wrestling with Henry.

Those had been good times, he had smiled an actual smile once or twice during those times. But now? Seeing her fucked up on drugs he had sold some fuckwit jock with intent to do the worst? He saw red.

“You smell nice.” She murmured, and it was only her voice that stopped from him slugging the frozen pair in front of them. She drew him back from his rage, and he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, his hold tightening.

“Let’s get you some water, sweetheart.” Patrick said, and he turned with her, the hollow glare he shot over his shoulder sending a clear message.

‘I’ll remember this.’

Mike Hanlon x Tozier!Reader

Requested by @admirableomission: it’s zona also i’m gonna request something with mike x reader where the reader is richies sister and he’s really protective and doesn’t like guys around her at all but mike tried to work around it and ask her because he likes her

A/N: I LOVE MIKE, I LOVE THIS REQUEST, AND I LOVE YOU ZONA. Let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list!

Warnings: you’re a trashmouth too boy so you gonna say some no-no words

Request something friends :)

“Geronimo!”, you heard Richie yell as he jumped off the cliff, slashing down into the water below. You sat on the edge from where your twin brother had just dove from, swinging your legs off the side, desperately wanting to cool yourself off by joining your brother in the cold water down below.

The problem was you were afraid of jumping off the edge, plummeting down over 50 feet into shallow water. Your brother had done it a thousand times before, but this was the first time he’d ever taken you with him. See Richie was crazy protective of you. He didn’t want anyone hurting you, so he would make sure you only hung out with people he approved of. This meant he only let you hang out with girls, so you had no interaction with any boy other than Richie.

I cheated and made them have a casually friendly relationship because I needed to throw in some fluffy shit. Still Tozier!Reader tho. I have waited eons to write a pairing doing a cigarette kiss, so i indulged myself a lil. Hope you like it??

Prompt Used: “I can’t stand the way they’re looking at you.”

Word Count: +1,200

Warnings: None

“I can’t stand how they’re looking at you.”

You looked up from your homework, textbook and notes propped in your lap as you sat cross legged on the bleachers by the track where cross country was making an effort to warm up before their match against a team from Bangor. You thought you had been alone, using your after school time to be a diligent student and get a head start on bullet notes for Lord of The Flies, but with a quick turn of your head to the left, you found Patrick to be standing beside the bleachers.

“Gah-” You flinched, not expecting him to appear out of thin air like he had. “Jesus, give a bitch a warning, Hockstetter.”

His mouth was set in an uncharismatic frown, his focus elsewhere. You followed his eyes, finding them to be resting on a few track members from the Bangor school who watched the two of you while they stretched.

As with most (if not all) track stars, they were decently handsome boys. The lone girl on their team seemed bored to tears, talking absently to a team member as she bent and stretched her limbs in preparation. The boys paid her no mind, and you realized with a little grin that they were stealing glances at you.

“Ooo,” You wagged your eyebrows, waving delicately to the boys from across the track. One dared to wave back, flashing an arrogant little grin when he noticed you do so. “They’re cute.”

Patrick scoffed, hauling himself up onto the bleachers and dropping down beside you. A lanky arm snaked its way around your waist, a possessive hand grabbing at your hip as he unfurled long legs and leaned back against the metal seats with you. “You have shit taste in guys, Tozier.”

You attempted to bat away his hand, annoyed he would be so touchy. “Hands off the merchandise, bub. Don’t you have kids to terrorize.”

“I could take a swing at Bucky Beaver, if that tickles your fancy.” He offered uselessly, digging into the pocket of your bomber jacket and stealing your pack of cigarettes. You gave a little sound of irritation, stuffing a hand in your other pocket and procuring a lighter, which you tossed at the dark haired boy before he needed to ask.

“Don’t even try it, Hockstetter.” You asided, but you knew his threat was empty and he was more interested in sizing up the track boys from across the field. “What, you gonna eye fuck them to death?”

Patrick stuffed a cigarette between his lips, taking another out and graciously holding it out for you to take filter first. You leaned down, snagging the cigarette with your teeth and allowing him to light the end. You inhaled, blowing small clouds of smoke as Patrick pressed the unlit end of his cigarette to yours, where he sucked on the filter and lit his own after a few seconds.

The two of you parted, taking long drags and exhaling sweet smelling smoke as the track members began their sets. The same boy who had shot you an eager grin earlier stole glances all throughout the afternoon, even as Patrick leaned to murmur things in your ear and played with the hem of your shirt, always threatening to let his fingers wander.

You were honestly shocked when the boy came over later, a towel wrapped around his neck and running tanned fingers through his hair. His smile was dazzling as he meandered to your side by the bleachers, completely ignoring the burning stare Patrick set on him with his approach.

“Hey.” He said casually, and you rose an eyebrow with a small smile, feeling Patrick’s nails dig into your side in warning.

You decided to humor the cute boy who was obviously interested in you, biting the inside of your cheek to stop the smug grin that threatened to over take your innocent smile. You turned to fully face him, your back to Patrick. “Hey. Nice set, your times are fantastic.”

“Ah, thanks. I’m the team captain after all, so I hope they’re good.” He gained an ego boost from your compliment, and you wondered if you were supposed to be impressed with his title.

“Does the team captain have a name?” You said slyly, choosing to close your textbook and flick your long finished cigarette butt out from between the pages. “Mine’s [First Name].”

“Ian.” His light blue eyes sparkled. “You’ve got a pretty name. A Pretty name for a gorgeous girl.”

And then like death himself, Patrick rose to a straight backed sitting position, easily dwarfing you to glower over your head. He hovered before you found both his arms wrapping around your shoulders and with a sharp tug, your back met his chest. A sharp chin found its way to the crown of your head, and you felt the rumble of his voice through his broad chest as the dark haired boy spoke.

“I’m Patrick.”

It was a simple introduction, but the venom in his tone and the threat that weaved between his words was obvious. Ian tensed, not expecting Patrick to have the intimidating presence he held.

“Uh, you guys… A thing?” His words were awkwardly placed, and you could have sworn he paled slightly, the color in his tanned cheeks fading as Patrick shot him a wicked smirk.

“No.”

“Yes”

The two of you spoke in unison, confusing Ian further and hindering your chances at snagging track team ass significantly.

You craned your neck up, eyes narrowed at the leather jacket clad boy. “Excuse me?”

Patrick’s lips twitched, and he watched you through his lashes. “You heard me, Tozier.”

Before you could argue, he pressed a dry kiss to your lips, as if that answered the hundreds of questions you had. He pulled back, amused by your now horrified expression.

Ian clicked his tongue. “Kay then. See you around, uh, [First Name].” He stepped away from the bleachers while your eyes smoldered, your mouth set in a frustrated frown.

He left the two of you in a hurry then, and you wiggled out of Patrick’s grip, forcing him to scoot away with the bottom of your maroon docs, sliding him down the bleacher with a disgusted look.

“Gross, Hockstetter. Don’t pull that shit again, I wanna get laid, I don’t need you fucking with my mojo.”

“You know you liked it, Princess.” He laughed, standing and stretching. “That guy wasn’t worth your time.”

He began to stomp down the bleachers with his heavy boots, and you called after him.

“Don’t spread a rumor we’re dating or you’ll regret it!” The threat was playful all the same, and he glanced over his shoulder as he made it to the bottom of the steps, his eyes lazily scanning you up and down.

“Didn’t you hear me?” He spun, hands shoved in his pockets as his lips pulled into a broad smirk. “I said we were dating, It’s not some rumor, Trashmouth.”

Your brow furrowed. “Huh?”

Wait.

Oh.

OH. NO.

“See you around, Babe.” Patrick rounded the bleachers, leaving you.

You stood up, face red with humiliation as you yelled after him in a panic. “Patrick! Pat! What the hell?! No, get back here! Don’t you walk away from me!”

Of course! TBH Tozier!Reader prompts are the air I breathe and I’ll probably eventually make a mood board or playlist for WYS’s reader, because I’m a sucker for mood boards. Prompts are from this post, feel free to drop one in my inbox, or choose one of your own! 

Prompt used: “Where do you think you’re going dressed like that? Your body is for my eyes only.”

Word Count: +800

Warning: Possessive and controlling Patrick, I guess.

Your Uncle Wentworth didn’t trust Patrick Hockstetter, that much obvious to you. The two sat in silence in the living room as you changed upstairs, and you could only guess the animosity that grew there.

Earlier, your boyfriend had arrived on the porch steps of the Tozier household, tapping a pack of cigarettes against his palm and leering at Richie as the boy biked out of the driveway, off to see his best friend. Patrick had come to fetch you for a party the two of you had been planning to crash for the last week, and didn’t bother with formalities when your uncle answered the door.

“And who are you?” He had asked, dark eyes scrutinizing the shredded jeans of the boy in front of him, his frown deepening when he noticed the cigarette pack clutched between ringed fingers and a glimmer of mischief behind bright eyes.

“I’m here for [First Name].” Patrick said loftily, eyes flickering past your uncle and finding you, where you stood behind with a jacket under your arm. You shifted uncomfortably, watching the exchange with barely veiled nervousness. You scratched at the fishnet stockings under your shorts, wishing you had chosen a more comfortable aesthetic, but then again, beauty was pain.

You had heard the Monte Carlo’s purring engine before your boyfriend had pulled up and made a mad dash to the front door, hoping to avoid the exact predicament you found yourself in.

“[First Name] never said she had friends coming.” Your uncle said tartly, and you wormed your way between the doorway and the two men before Uncle Wentworth could embarrass you further.

Patrick’s lips pursed when he saw you, and you hurried to toss your jacket over the tanktop you wore, knowing your uncle would chastise you on having the nerve to bare your shoulders if he got the chance.

“Be back, love you.” You pecked a quick kiss to your uncles cheek and closed the door on him. He scoffed behind the door, but you heard his footsteps retreat to the living room as you turned back to Patrick with a grateful sigh. “That was a close one.”

“Mmhm.” He reached out, and stepped forward, leaving you cornered by him. “What’s all this?”

A cool hand traced a hole in your fishnets at the curve of your thighs, your shorts nearly covering it but not quite. He tugged at the lining, and it was then you noticed his frown.

You scrunched up your nose. “They call it fashion, I believe. I could teach you a thing or two about it, Hockstetter.”

“Change.” Patrick said, and you sensed the bitterness in his words as he stepped back.

You shot him an incredulous look, stifling a laugh. “Excuse me? Who do you think you are?”

Grey-green eyes flashed, and the fire in you dimmed for a moment as he tilted his head to the side.

“Where do you think you’re going dressed like that? Your body is for my eyes only, Tozier.” He said lowly, and jerked his chin at the door. “Change. I’ll entertain your stick-up-the-ass uncle.”

“I…” You raised a hand, dismissively waving him off. “Fine. Play nice, Patrick. My uncle probably thinks you’re satan or something.”

You opened the front door again, Patrick right behind you and shutting the door snugly before his eyes followed you up the stairs.

The stupid party better be worth the hassle, you thought, grinding your teeth as you tugged on jeans, the knees cut but still good enough that you were sure Patrick wouldn’t mind. A simple Duran Duran t-shirt added to the outfit nicely and you left your room, heading downstairs and making sure to stomp ever so little to let Patrick know you weren’t thrilled to have been ordered around.

You found your uncle and boyfriend right where you imagined, across the room from each other and glowering in their individual directions. Patrick looked out of place in a sea of soft lavender and cushioned couches the color of cream.

He was all harsh angles, swathed in dark clothes and casting long shadows as he sat still, like a gargoyle crouched over a peaceful garden. He stood immediately when you came into the room, jaw set tight and fingers scratching against his palms.

“Lets go.” Patrick said, taking long strides past you and opening the front door. You turned to follow, but heard a harsh clearing of your uncles throat.

“Sweetheart.” He called, and you glanced over your shoulder at him. “Be careful…”

Worry etched his tired expression, and you gave him a warm smile. “I will be. Love you.”

A request after my own heart! I love Tozier!Reader imagines, hence why ‘When You’re Strange’ is Tozier!Reader, lmao. This a Jealousy Prompt Request from this post, and a reminder that requests are open for Patrick only!

Prompt Used: “You have no reason to be jealous!”

Word Count: 759

Warning: Patrick being a possessive prick

Prompt Count: 2 / ?

You felt him before you saw him, the shiver that danced down your spine enough to leave you in a pause, your lab partner Daniel suddenly worried when you whipped your head around to scan the lunch pavilion outside during free period.

“[First Name]?” He called to you, but you sucked a sharp breath through your teeth and swore softly. “Is something wrong?”

You saw him then, his gaze absolutely scorching as he perched atop a lunch table, a cigarette caught between his lips. Your eyes met, and you knew there was no way Patrick was going to let you explain. Not when those eyebrows arched and he tilted his head, his focus finding Daniel instead of you. You knew nothing good could come from Patrick Hockstetter noticing your poor innocent classmate, and thought fast for your next plan of action.

“Oh hey, man, Daniel-” You spun to face him again, your voice cracking as you awkwardly fought for an excuse. “I, uhm, gotta go meet Richie outside the library to give him his lunch.”

You inwardly winced, lunch had passed two periods ago. “I mean, uh,” You fumbled over your words, thinking harder. “Rich needs me to give him a thing at the AV club, so I gotta go.”

You stood, and though Daniel was utterly criss crossed with your less than useful word vomit, he wearily waved you off. “See you fourth period, I guess.”

“Yeah man, see you later.” You started to walk off, scooping your backpack up and shoving your lab work the two of you had been working on inside, then rounded back, quick to add a word of caution. “If you see Hockstetter and you’re alone and stuff, I’d like… Run, really fast? Like, really fast.”

“…Okay?” Daniel helplessly said, puzzled with your strange actions but accepting nonetheless.

“Good lad. Tozier out.” You gave him a quick salute, and ran off, knowing that Patrick would be hot on your heels.

You made it past the empty halls of the cafeteria and english classes before darting into the library, knowing it would be your best bet at getting Patrick to keep quiet and calm. The librarian, Mrs. Grendel, saw you head to the back with the fiction and paid you no mind. There wasn’t a soul to witness the argument you were sure to be part of aside from her, and you prayed your boyfriend wouldn’t use that to his advantage.

Hiding behind a bookshelf of horror novels, you pressed against the coolness of the wood when the library door opened again. The librarian huffed a tart “Mr. Hockstetter” and you withheld a choice swear, hearing heavy footfalls stalk towards your hiding place. They stopped ever so close to your hiding spot and you held your breath, preparing for the interrogation.

“Playing hide and seek, Princess?” Came a cool voice, and you sighed heavily, pushing back from the bookshelf as Patrick slinked into your vision.

He still smelled of cigarette smoke, and you momentarily swore you’d give anything to have a drag right then and there. “You found me.” You awkwardly sang, throwing your hands up half heartedly.

He had the decency to bark a laugh before his facade dropped and he stepped closer, watching you through his long lashes.

“Who the fuck was the nerd?” He snapped, getting right to the point.

“Man Pattycakes,” You clicked your tongue, still keeping that token Tozier Humor, the Toizer family’s only defense mechanism. “You’re getting a little snappy there, aren’t ya?”

“No games, Trashmouth.” He said almost endearingly, tracing calloused fingertips along your jawline, the silver of his ring glinting under the light fixtures from above. “Unless you want me to bust that dorks cute little face in…”

You exhaled heavily, gaze hardening. “You have no reason to be jealous, Patrick.”

Those careful fingers brushed a lock of your hair behind your ear and he leaned down, letting you easily make out the cruelty dancing behind his bright eyes.

“Tell me why, Princess.” He worded his prompt as a question, but you knew it was an order.

“Because I’m yours, Hockstetter, and you know it.” You said evenly, and without hesitation you pressed your lips to his in chaste. He smiled at that when you ducked away, and you bumped shoulders with him as you made to leave the fiction section. “Now let’s go smoke, your Trashmouth needs a drag.”

A Patrick Hockstetter / Reader fic

Original Link

Warnings: Tozier!Reader cant help being an overbearing Mom!Friend, Patrick Hockstetter is a warning all on his own, Gretta Keene/Gretta Bowie as separate people, Threats because of course. Henry is Henry. She/Her reader.

Description:  As a military brat, you’ve learned to pick up everything and run at a moments notice. Ending up back in Derry for your senior year and moving in with your aunt and uncle, you’ve come to realize that with Patrick Hockstetter’s sights on you there is no room for running.

Word Count: +5,800

Other Chapters: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Part 4: The Promise

A/N: Back at it again with my Patrick/Reader nonsense. I took creative liberty of using Gretta Keene and Gretta Bowie as separate people, with Bowie being older and in the Reader’s grade, while Keene is The Losers Club’s age. This chapter time skips, ending up close to the week before halloween for plot reasons. Richie and the reader’s relationship is a key point of this series, and I’ll be building on it more and more as time goes on.  ‘The Promise’ by When In Rome is this chapters title. You’ll notice that there are parallels in this chapter, and i fuckin’ SHAMELESSLY LIVE FOR THEM *finger guns*

You were awake the next morning hours before your alarm sang. You didn’t move, you didn't adjust, you just laid there. The cut on your arm was a dull pain, the worst of it behind you, but, it reminded you.

You needed to be careful. Be smart.

It wasn’t just you on the line anymore, you weren’t alone in Texas and picking fights with punks who got on your bad side. You were picking fights with boys who had Derry in the palm of their hands, and had tormented Richie for years before you arrived. Your actions dictated Richie’s future harassment, you realized with a trickle of fear. One wrong move, and Richie could end up with worse than a broken nose and a busted lip.

What if next time, that cut by his eye was on his eye. What if Bowers blinded him because of your feisty nature? The thought itself worried you, and as the early morning sunlight filtered through your open curtains and you heard your uncle and aunt rouse for their work, you decided to take a back seat.

Avoid The Bowers Gang. Keep Richie and his friends safe. That was the goal. Your only goal besides getting into college and acing your SAT’s.

When the front door closed for a second time that morning with a hollow thud, you rose from your bed. Switching off your alarm, ready to get the day started, you pushed yourself out from under the covers and walked to your dresser.

Aided by the cool light that danced across the surfaces of your room and relaxed by the soft breeze that entered through your cracked window, you began to dress. A simple t-shirt, a pair of jeans and a strippy pair of socks made you feel a little more put together and so you headed down stairs, the clock reading 6:30 am.

The kitchen, arguably one of the largest rooms in the house, was neat and tidy in reflection of your Aunt’s more compulsive side. The floral curtains that hung above the kitchen sink where a window faced the backyard were parted, allotting you enough light to set to work on breakfast for you and the younger Tozier.

You dug some bisquick out the painted cabinets, jumping onto the countertop to reach the highest shelves for the mixing bowls and baking supplies. You tossed a carefully hidden bag of chocolate chips on the counter, figuring your Aunt Maggie had made them scarce because of Richie’s habit to eat chocolate chips right out the bag. He did similar things with packaged cookie dough, much like yourself.

With a grunt you hopped back to the linoleum floor, opening the bag of chocolate chips absently and tossing back a couple. You chewed the sweets, walking to the fridge and grabbing milk from inside. The door slammed shut, and you admired all that was hung on the beige metal surface of the machine.

Countless polaroids of Richie and his friends littered it, chunky fruit magnets and old wooden ones from his parents also held up report cards from semesters pass. Richie had always been an intelligent kid, always. The straight A’s written across his formal papers reminded you of that, as did a red ribbon from a science fair, where he had gotten second place. There were a few pictures Richie had drawn, going as far back as preschool judging by some of the sloppier work, but you could tell he had been working hard to improve his craft.

With a smile, you noticed a carefully taken polaroid from years past hanging in a corner. It had to have been from a sunday at the Synagogue, because the two of you were dressed to the nines. Richie was still a tiny little thing in the photo, and, to your surprise, so were you. You had on a polite and cute pink dress no doubt picked out especially for worship by your Aunt or mother, who had always insisted that you curl your hair properly and let them style it neatly and perfectly atop your head. Richie was dressed in a baby blue suit that was a little bit too big for him, with a pressed dress shirt underneath and a formal tie at his neck.

Despite the uncomfortable formal wear and the sunlight that was positively beaming down on the two of you as you stood in front of hedges by a building, the two of you were all smiles. You both squinted from the sunlight that tried to blind you, with your arm hooked around Richie’s shoulders and his hands thrown out in a pair of ridiculous finger guns.

You loved that photo, you decided, eyeing it with a grin now. Maybe you’d visit the local synagogue, it had been a long while since you practiced your parents faith, and even if you weren’t exactly a believer of god almighty, you still missed that sense of community that came from practising Judaism.

Turning back from the fridge, you set to making some chocolate chip pancakes; yours and Richie’s favorite breakfast.

You had made a nice stack by the time you heard a groggy voice from the kitchen doorway.

“Whats for breakfast?” Richie yawned, shuffling in with massive bedhead and with lopsided glasses, too tired to position them correctly. You didn't have time to respond before he flew to your side, drawn in by the sweet aroma of the pancakes. “Oh, no fucking way! Chocolate chip pancakes?!”

You grinned, flipping another done pancake onto the pile, nodding at the cabinets. “Get out syrup. How’re you feeling, Rich?”

Richie took to the cabinets, opening one and snatching a syrup bottle out and coming back with a shrug. “Sore. There’s a bruise on my back the size of canada but whatever.” He snagged the pile of pancakes, drizzling syrup over them so thickly that it pooled at the edges of the plate, threatening to spill over the side. “How’re you?”

You eyed him carefully, face falling when you saw the purple and black that blemished his face. He looked like Bower’s had used a bat to fuck him up, not his fists. Richie looked up from his food, mouth full of breakfast.

Upon noticing your worried expression, he swallowed and quickly added; “It's better than it looks. I swear.”

“Promise?” You echoed softly, wincing as he gingerly wiped stickiness from his busted lip.

“Promise.” He nodded, dragging the plate away from you and hopping atop the counter to eat. “How are you?” He repeated, sounding just as worried.

“I’m fine. Eddie is a fantastic medic.” You said with as much humor you could muster, pouring batter into the hot pan and listening to it sizzle and bubble. “Not excited to go to class. The Bower’s Gang is in my homeroom.”

Richie made a face. “Fan-Fucking-Tastic.”

“My thoughts exactly.” You flipped the pancake in the pan, looking wistful. “I sit in front of Hockstetter.”

“He’s such a creep.” Richie stabbed his food. “He hits on anything that had two legs, but I’ve heard from inside sources that he’ll fuck anything with four legs too.”

“Beep Beep Richie.” You groaned, shuddering. “Gross, quit while you’re ahead. We gotta be at school in thirty minutes, so eat and get ready, please.”

You gestured with your spatula to his pajamas, sighing and returning back to your cooking.

Stuffing the last of his pancakes in his mouth, which had originally been four, Richie dropped to the floor and dumped his dish in the sink, rinsing it out and tossing it in the dishwasher. “Thanks for breakfast, [First Name]. Can we grab Eddie again today?”

“Yeah.” You turned your back to him, frying up the last of the batter. “Call him though, I don't want to be late to class and we’re going to be cutting it close.”

Richie hummed in response, his foot falls growing distant before you heard him stomp up the stairs.

Pulling up to school, you let Richie and Eddie out before you. The boys had acted as if yesterday hadn’t happened, chatting playfully in the truck while you drove in silence, barely responding to their casual conversation.

You were itching for a smoke by the time you arrived to Derry High, and you waved the boys off when they prompted you to follow. “I’ll see you guys at lunch.”

The promise of your arrival for lunch was enough to chase them away, your cousin wrapping an arm around Eddie’s shoulders as they walked to the school, still discussing some nonsense you hadn’t bothered to pay attention too. Maybe Dungeons and Dragons.

You had pulled up in the back of the parking lot, where your truck was most shaded by the treeline and therefore, you could smoke in peace without worrying about being caught. You dug in your backpack, tossing it aside when you found your packet of cigarettes and pulling one out. It was bent and crumpled, but it still calmed your nerves when you lit it and took a long and well deserved drag.

You rolled down your window, the chilly morning wind tossing cigarette smoke out your cab while you leaned against your seat and closed your eyes, figuring you had a good ten minutes before class started.

Your peace was rudely interrupted when a thundering rumble came from your left and you heard the crunch of fallen leaves being driven over as a car slowed and stopped, pulling up right beside you.

“Oh god fucking dammit.” you cursed quietly, shoving your cigarette between your lips and cracking open an eye, only to find yourself meeting the hostile gaze of Henry Bowers.

You were quick to attempt to roll up the window, but Bowers was faster, jumping out the Trans-Am and grabbing the glass while shoving it down- effectively stopping your actions. Your door groaned as you made an effort to keep rolling it up, but Henry flexed his arm, pushing it down harder, your aged vehicle at the mercy of the mullet haired boy.

The two of you sat in silence for a moment before you finally let smoke escape your lips and pressed the lock of your door, glaring down at Henry.

“What, Bowers?”

Distracted, like a god damn fool, you hadn’t noticed Patrick rounding the back of your truck until, to your horror, you heard your passenger door open.

You flew into action too late, twisting in your seat and attempting to shove the lanky boy from your truck as he climbed inside with a feral grin.

“Get the fuck outta my car, Hockstetter!” You shouted, hitting and shoving the teen to no avail. He overpowered you all too easily, throwing you back against your seats and crawling over you. He smelt like cloves and patchuli, the lingering musk of cigarette smoke and maybe weed catching you as he pressed his chest to yours, reaching a long arm and unlocking the driver side door.

Your eyes widened when it was jerked open and Henry’s face loomed above beside Patricks, both boys staring down at you with haunting uncertainty.

“Listen here, cunt.” Henry sneered, grinding his teeth down at you. There was a purple blossom of a bruise on his temple, with a deep gash scabbing over, undoubtedly your handiwork from the day before. “You got us good yesterday, and that's not going to end well for you.”

He climbed into the cab, pushing you into a sitting position, placing you between himself and Patrick. A leather jacket clad arm was thrown over your shoulders, Patrick taking the cigarette from between your lips and taking a hit.

“Nice heap of shit car, Tozier.” Henry commented, surveying the inside of the truck with disdain.

“At least I have a car.” You shot, Patrick chuckling at your side. “So what's the deal. You guys going to rough me up, teach me a lesson?”

You crossed your arms, watching Patrick out the corner of your eyes but keeping your attention settled on Henry for the time being.

The sandy blond shot a hand out, taking your chin in a vice like grip and dragging you closer. A flash of something silver and you felt ice at your throat. You didnt need to see the object to know without a doubt that he was pressing a blade against your skin. You inhaled sharply and Henry smirked darkly, eyes narrowed.

“I’ve got bigger shit to deal with than some punk ass new kid, but lemme give you some advice, Trashmouth.” He hummed, keening the knife across your flesh, causing goosebumps. “Next time you wanna be the hero, dont be.”

He led the knife down to the neck of your shirt, toying with the hemline. “Or you’ll get something worse than a threat, like an early grave.”

His thumb rubbed against the softness of your bottom lip before he released you, where you flinched back and met the shoulder of Patrick.

You shot him a look of disgust. “How poetic, Bowers. Really, you’re wooing me now.”

“Can it, Trashmouth.” He hissed, flipping his blade dormant and stuffing it in his pocket. “You make a move like you did yesterday again, and we’ll end you.”

“If you touch Richie Tozier or his friends, I’ll kick your ass, again.” You snarled, hands clenched into fists. “And next time, I’ll hope Hockstetter doesn't have to try and catch me for you.”

Long fingers found your neck, wrapping there loosely as a ringed thumb stroked your pulse. You froze then, having forgotten about Patrick all over again. Hot breath played against your ear, cigarette smoke curling around your cheek as he spoke lowly.

“Maybe respect the man letting you off with a warning, Princess.” He advised, and to your utter disgust, you felt his lips caress the side of your neck. “I wanted to put you in that grave he’s talkin’ about.”

Henry eyed Patrick wearily, his tough guy act faltering slightly. “Lets go, Pat. She gets the message.”

He slid out the cab, and after a moment, Patrick released his hold of you and followed, stealing your cigarette and ego in one fell swoop.

You watched as they left, Belch and Vic talking quietly with Henry while Patrick walked in silence, shooting glances over his shoulder at you. You sat in your truck even as the first bell rang, signaling class had started, only leaving your car when you realized second period had started.

Your week went by slowly after that, crawling to Friday at a snail's pace. The Bowers Gang barely threw you a glance as they stalked through the halls and hovered behind you in homeroom. Computer Science had been a dud, the entire class full unfortunately, leaving you to scramble for an extracurricular in a blind panic. You faced Mrs. Donahue with your options, irritated that the most exciting class had been taken. Still, after looking over the options left open, you found one that sounded promising enough.

“Auto shop?” Mrs. Donahue rose a thin brow at your choice. “A lady shouldn’t dirty herself with motor oil and grease.”

You narrowed your eyes, much to her shock. “I like cars.” You said simply, but the malice you meant was there.

She huffed, but typed something up on a computer of hers, sliding you a form. “Sign this, you’re eighteen, right?”

“Yeah.” You took the form, signing it without question and handing it back. A few more minutes of fiddling with her keyboard and she looked over the rims of her glasses. “You can go to class now. Building C, room 103.”

You waved dismissively, worn out with all that had happened that week to spare the rude woman a polite farewell. You needed to get to class anyhow, you were late because of your last minute decisions.

You hurried from the main building, crossing sidewalks and rushing through a small covered passing hall to a medium sized brick and sheet metal building that sat across the football fields. It had few rows of rolling doors, all of which that were pulled up, the well lit inside showcasing a few frames of some older cars. Rock music, the good shit that you were ready to spend time listening to for the school year, reached your ears as you approached.

You ducked inside one of the folded doors, taking in the familiar scents of spilled oil, musky heat and hardwork. There were a few boys fiddling around, all of which starred as you passed by, looking like they were seniors as well. They were dressed in overalls or varying degrees of work uniforms. Your paint splattered jeans, more for aesthetic than anything, fit in well. Dirty faces turned when you tiptoed around working bodies, attempting to find someone who looked like they could be a teacher.

“Lost, Princess?” Came a familiar drawl once you had passed a sleek looking muscle car, the voice coming from underneath is body. “I know those shoes anywhere, Tozier.”

You tensed, head tilting to face the ceiling as you prayed that the voice didn’t belong to the boy you thought it did. After a swift roll of a mechanics creeper, you dropped your eyes, clicking your tongue in irritation when you found yourself staring into hues of grey-green.

“Hockstetter.”

“That’s my name, Tozier.” He mused, cheeks smeared with grime as he rolled a rag between sticky and dark fingers. “Looking for me?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Shawl, actually.” Your eyes flickered to the other cars that dotted the large garage, only four more in total. “The rest of you here?”

No clarification was needed as the raven haired boy answered.

“Everyone but Vic. He takes drama for the pussy.” Patrick pushed himself up, his height towering over you. “Mr. Shawl is in his office. Why’d you need him?”

“Why do you think, dumbass? I’m joining shop.” You turned from him, searching the floor for an area that might be called an office. In the very back you saw a squared off set of walls, a door with ‘Shawl’ printed over the surface. “If you’ll excuse me.”

You caught Patricks indignant scoff, clearly amused by the idea of you joining his class.

You swaggered away, shouldering your backpack firmly in your tight grip as you avoided others. Henry’s sun kissed face popped out from the inside of a truck, where his blue eyes scorched you as you walked. Belch was bent over the front of the vehicle, the hood up as he tinkered around.

You grimaced, knowing that changing your classes would just be a heap of shit if you went back to Mrs. Donahue, and god dammit, if you weren’t such an idiot, maybe you would have thought of the possibility of The Bower’s Gang being part of an auto class.

But alas. You knocked on the office door and it was opened promptly, where a head full of stark white hair appeared along with a hunched and tired looking old man.

He pushed up his glasses with gnarled fingers, the little scars and burns evident from years of work behind his calluses.

“Can I help you, kiddo?” He asked, genuinely sounding kind and attempting to be helpful. Bloodshot and rounded eyes of green watched as you held out your transcript and your signed forms.

“I’m joining shop, sir. I’m [First Name] Tozier, It’s nice to meet you.” You greeted with an even tone, nervousness seeping into your words as you felt all eyes on you.

Mr. Shawl took your papers curiously, scanning everything before folding them tightly and gracing you with a smile. “Do you know the basics?”

Relief washed over you, the dread that had worked its way into you from Patrick’s snarky laugh and the confused stares that had been thrown at you were carried away instantly. “Yes sir. My dad and I used to work on cars, so I’m pretty good at what I can do- And I can obviously learned what I don’t know.” You said eagerly, stepping aside as the old man made to pass you.

“Well, the shop is always in need of hard workers.” Mr. Shawl led you back to the garage floor, tucking your papers in his overall pockets and clearing his throat. “Boys! We got a new one!” Like a pack of wild dogs, the boys descended, shooting you unimpressed glances as they arrived in pairs. Someone had turned down the rock music, which led to an awkward silence between you all. There were only nine in total, you realized with a frown, which meant this period was lacking full partners. You supposed that explained why Patrick had been working by himself on his car while Belch and Henry had been fixing a truck together.

“This is Miss Tozier.” He gestured to you, and he gestured to the boys in his class, naming each one. “This is Dylan, Andrew, Cole, Henry, Reggie,” You were surprised to hear someone refer to Belch with such a normal sounding name. “Patrick, Casey, Kent and Donnie.”

They all gave a round of muted greeting, side from Henry and Patrick, who watched you with a hawk like stare. The nicest sounding of the bunch, Donnie, actually waved a blackened hand and smiled.

“Not sure if you guessed, But Donnie’s the nicest.” Mr. Shawl winked, nudging you. For a moment you didn't understand the indication, but when Donnie’s cheeks flushed you understood, laughing awkwardly.

“Kay then…” You looked to the concrete floor, embarrassed.

“Well, Kids. Get back to work.” Mr. Shawl put a hand on your back, and ushered you towards one of his students. “Meet your partner, Miss Tozier.”

Patrick was either holding back some serious nefarious laughter, or he was about to shit himself out of surprise, because the boy had to clamp his lips together to keep from making a reaction. You, completely mortified, wished Mr. Shawl had just shot you instead, because watching Patrick Hockstetter eye you as cruelly as he was made your face burn in shame.

“Play nice, Patrick.” Mr. Shawl patted your shoulder and shuffled away back to his office. “Someone turn the music back up!”

The rest of the boys stepped away, getting back to work without a care. Even Henry and Belch wandered off, though you felt their eyes on you while you stood with Patrick.

“I can’t believe this is fucking happening.” You muttered. Convinced that if there was a god, that he was laughing at you.

“It’s like Christmas morning for me, sweetheart.” Patrick smirked, turning from you and heading off to his -your- project car.

After a moment of deliberation, you heaved a sigh and followed after him, clenching your hands into fists as he dropped back down onto the creeper.

“First off,” Patrick rolled his neck, cracking his neck with a delicious popping noise that made you shudder. “This is my car.”

You made a face, as if you were about to argue, and he continued. “I salvaged this trash from the junkyard and I’m gonna buy it out from the school, so she’s mine, Tozier. Do you know what kind of car she is?”

You glanced over the vehicle, recognizing some parts of it and the brand, though you were unsure about the year even with your excellent knowledge of cars. It needed a fresh coat of paint and had a bit of rusting on the mirrors, but it was in decent shape, Patrick had done a fantastic job at restoring it. “A Chevy Monte Carlo, either an ‘82 or an ‘83.”

Patrick considered you for a moment, certainly impressed. “Its an ‘83. Good eye, Princess.”

“Thanks. I like muscle cars…Like the Trans-Am you dicks drive around in.” You crossed your arms, pursing your lips. “Belch upkeeps it nicely.”

“He would kill for Amy.” Patrick scooted his creeper, laying down and watching you. “Hand me tools. If you don't fuck around, maybe I’ll let you work on her before the semester is up.”

“Dick.”

“Bitch.” He snapped back, though there was no emotion behind the word, it as as if he was just attempting to one up you over actually insult you. He kicked himself under the body of his car, humming along to the song that played over the radio from the center of the garage.

“1/4th ratchet wrench.” He ordered, a dirty hand reaching out. You turned to his tool box, finding the wrench easily and placing it in his palm. He took it, the sounds of his tinkering boring you. You dragged a little step ladder to the car’s side, dropping down on it and handing the boy his tools when you asked, growing more and more apathetic as time went on.

“So more than one of you can actually drive?” You asked casually, switching tools with him again.

“Just me and Belch. Vic skates and Henry can’t pass his test.”

You felt humored by that, smirking in Henry’s direction. “So, since we all have homeroom and shop together, does that mean we’re making peace?”

“You wish, Princess.” Patrick laughed hollowly, pushing himself out from under the car and tossing his last tool with a frown. “Just because you’re my shop partner doesn't mean I wont go after you if you step outta line.”

You eyed him carefully as he laid there, covered in grease and oil, his bright eyes watching you just as attentively.

“Why my cousin?” You asked, closing the tool box with the tip of your boot. “He’s a dork, sure, but he doesn't cause trouble.”

“Because Henry wants to wail on him.” Patrick shrugged, dragging a filthy hand across his wife beater, his jacket and throw over shirt laid across the hood of the project car. “And if you’re smart you’ll stop butting in.”

“You already know I wont, Hockstetter.” Your voice was stern as he rised, pushing a lock of his hair behind an ear.

“Then be ready for a fight, Tozier.” Patrick warned, lips quirking into a smirk. “Because last time just wasn’t enough action for me.”

Things were quiet for a while. Despite Henry’s claim to keep harassing Richie and his friends, you found that he and the rest of the Bowers Gang seemed to avoid them. You had turned in an essay on The Catcher In The Rye and received it back with an even ninety-eight grade and an ‘A’ proudly stamped on the pages. Classes were alright, though a girl named Gretta Bowie had hawked on you a few times in History and P.E. but it wasn't anything you couldn't handle.

She was a pretty girl, you reasoned, with long blond hair and baby blue eyes. If it wasn't for the devil horns that threatened to poke out from underneath her waves of gold, you’d have thought she was a normal girl. A little nasty, certainly rude, and cruder than you on trivial matters like locker room gossip, she did not make your list of people in Derry that you liked.

She wasn’t to be confused with Gretta Keene, another blond with greener eyes than blue, who had apparently given Beverly hell back in junior high. She was the same age as Richie and his friends, a freshman and dominating their grade’s popularity with an iron fist.

Gretta Bowie and Gretta Keene, two girls certainly cut from the same cloth, were also friends. More so school sisters, taking great joy in bullying kids in their respective grade and probably meeting up after class at the malt shop and gloating about their latest conquests while sipping away on strawberry shakes.

Which is why you didn’t feel any remorse at shooting Gretta Bowie a nasty glare when she tripped you during your P.E. track warm up.

“Oops.” She tossed the word over her shoulder, long locks pulled high in a scrunchy. “Sorry, Trashmouth.”

You pushed up off the ground, knees scraped up and burning. Wordlessly, you set back to running along the track, ignoring the remorseful gazes that rested on you from fellow girls in your class. It was weird being in a gendered period, you thought, brushing past girls who seemed out of breath despite the easy task given to them. Then again, running wasn’t for everyone, and that was fine.

What wasn’t fine, however, was being stuck with nothing but angry small town girls for an entire hour every single day. They used the class as an excuse to get their anger out it seemed, and you were at the mercy of some of their casual malice. The added fact that your gym teacher still allowed dodge ball was shit too, because while you were good at running in a circle, you were shit at catching a ball. Especially if that ball was aimed at your face.

The gym was divided by a taped line during your P.E. period. Girls on one side, boys on the other. Dodgeball was gendered too, which you guess you were thankful for, because The Bowers Gang (of fucking course) shared your P.E. period as well. Thanks to separate classes, however, you were left alone because there was barely any chance for one of them to run up and antagonize you.

But oh boy, did Gretta Bowie fill their place.

You sprinted past her, nostrils flared. It was so annoying that problems in ‘girl world’ had to be handled sneakily, silently. You were always more at ease with ‘boy world’ where it was acceptable to fight it out with, say, a tire iron and a knife.

“Work it, Princess!” You heard a voice call, and your eyes fell on Patrick Hockstetter as he and the rest of the boy’s gym class filed out their side of the gym to the track field for their warm ups as well.

You were coming up fast on their group, and you rolled your eyes, hair flying behind you as you continued at your face pace. Henry and Belch collected themselves beside Patrick, but Vic wandered far behind, eyes on the other boys in their class.

The boys fell in a neat line, their gym teacher shouting stretching positions at them. It was with a smile that you noticed Richie and Bill next to each other deep in the crowd, bending as they were ordered but offering you silent waves in hello. You slowed, waving at them too.

Heavy footfalls and the crunch of gravel alerted you to your contender, and in a blaze of glory, Gretta Bowie passed you. She eyed you with a smirk, diamond studs twinkling in time with her hues of baby blue.

“Catch up, Trashmouth.” She taunted, her eyes leaving you and finding Patrick as she passed their group. You noticed Patrick’s eyes find her too, his lips spreading into a knowing smile.

The race was on as you shot off like a bullet, catching Bowie and easily doubling a distance from her with a snarky little cackle. “Catch up, Bowie!”

You slowed to a trot, bouncing in place as you reached the end of your designated three laps. Your coach eyed you carefully as wiped sweat from your brow and stepped off the path to sit on the bleachers provided. Catching your breath and slowing your breathing, you squinted as he approached.

“Sir?”

“Tozier, did you do track down in Texas?” He stood at the end of the bleachers as Gretta came to a slow stop, her eyes burning into you.

“Yeah, kinda… I’m not interested in it anymore really.” You offered easily, watching as the boys were ordered onto the track.

“Shame. We’re down a runner for our cross country team. We also do pole vaulting, if that’s more your style.”

“I’m sure it is.” Gretta said under her breath slyly, climbing the bleachers with a snort of a laugh. You watched her with hard eyes, biting your lip in attempt to not smack talk her back.

“I’m good, thanks Coach.”

Coach Feldman either pretended to hear her or his hearing was shot after years of visiting football games and he gave a heavy sigh.

“Let me know if you change your mind, Tozier. You’ve got the stuff for it, and schools love and athlete.” He walked back to the trackside, more than half your class barely finishing their first lap. It seemed the warm up was going to easily take half the class and you sighed, watching the students run.

Bill was obviously more athletically gifted than Richie, who looked like he was about ready to die half way through his first lap. You clicked your tongue, shaking your head. He wasn’t pacing himself, just bolting forward once he got a wind of energy and wasting it in an effort to get his laps done faster. Bill was talking to him, probably warning him not to give his running too much of his energy at once, but he was being ignored as Richie waved him off. You stepped down off the bleachers, waiting with your arms crossed as they rounded the track, Richie panting heavily and Bill a little winded, but fair.

Coach Feldman didn’t bat an eye as you joined alongside your cousin and his friend, picking a slow and easy pace that the boys jogged along to steadily.

“You can’t just sprint willy nilly, dumbass.” You chidded lovingly, receiving a glare from Richie.

“S-see?” Bill said with barely a stutter, looking smug. “She agrees.”

“So where is the rest of The Losers Club?” You passed Richie and Bill, letting them trail behind you.

“Ben and Bev are in History with Mike, Stan is in english. Eddie’s checked out with his mom for a doctor's visit, but he’ll be back before school ends.” Bill answered smoothly.

“So we’re left alone for P.E.” Richie practically groaned. “And Henry Fuckin’ Bowers is all pissy today for some reason and he-”

You looked behind you as Richie cut off, noting how Bill’s hand dropped back to his side in a flash. They both shared a guilty look, mouths clamped shut.

“Oh no. The fire’s been lit. What happened?” You flipped, jogging backwards with ease and eyeing the mullet haired boy far behind them who chose to trot beside Vic and Belch. Patrick was behind them, walking at a leisurely pace as if he was taking a stroll.

“Nothing. Just locker room shit.” Richie muttered, but he saw the narrowing of your eyes. “Look, I swear, if you break into the boys locker room with a tire iron, you’ll never get a boyfriend at this school so cool your jets, hot stuff.”

Henry’s eyes found yours, and they locked. You both kept your pace, but the tension in the air was clear.

“What’d he do, Bill?” You asked lowly, knowing Richie wasn’t going to fess up.

“Nope. Nuh uh.” Bill shook his head vigorously, and ran ahead of you Tozier’s. “Not g-getting between this!”

“Tell me what he did, Richie.” You returned to jogging normally, watching Richie’s expression as he weighed his options.

“He shoved me. I mean, it's not too bad, but with my bruises, it hurt like a bitch. I’m fine, this is the first time in a while he’s fucked with me. Please don’t start shit again.”

“I won't.”

You would.

“Promise?” Richie prompted, sounded weary.