lexical-arson98

[lexical-arson98]

Waiting Game: Patrick Hockstetter x Female Reader Prt. 1

This is the story I have for Patrick Hockstetter x Female Reader so far. I'll add on to it with time and would love to hear any suggestions. This is kinda slow burn. Also please excuse any horrible grammar. I tried. The title isn't final so if you have suggestions send them my way please.

Summary: Patrick Hockstetter takes in interest in you and begins to stalk you. You've noticed and you are teasing him, almost playing a game with him. He starts to fall for you and your strange behavior, while you have already fallen.

TW: stalking, fire, animal death, Patrick, a scene where the reader undresses, Im not sure what else, Tell me if I missed anything.

Patrick Hockstetter was the first of the gang to take an interest in you, he realized you were different. You stood out, whether it was the way you smiled at times it didn’t make sense, like when the teacher explained dissection or a terrible historic tragedy, or it was the way that you didn’t talk to others much unless it was to threaten them or berate them. Maybe it was the fact that you had an obvious dislike for the losers. When you first showed up, Richie made a joke to you about something lewd, and you stared at him blankly before you shoved him into the wall and told him how easy and delightful it would be to watch the light go out in his eyes. Needless to say, Richie tried to stay away after that. Even Gretta stayed away from you, she tried to get you to join her gang of bitches and brats once, but it ended with her backing away in fear after you told her how you would mess with some of the kids at school, how you would quite literally mentally and emotionally torture some kids enough for them to either take their own life or take someone else’s and then their own. She basically said, Never mind, and walked off quickly. You smiled as she walked away, knowing you could control her with fear. That's when Patrick decided to stalk you, just to see what you were like outside of school.

He followed you home. On the way, you flipped your hood up and set a small fire in someone’s front garden while staring disgusted at the small, yapping dog that watched you. You walked away and watched chaos settle in for a bit, then continued on your way, flipping your hood down and hiding the lighter in your pocket. The small dog was a little too dumb and egotistical (as most small dogs are) to realize what danger was and didn’t run, it was dead before long, much to Patrick’s delight.

He continued to stalk you, you hummed to yourself as you walked all the way to Rines Street and turned, going all the way down the dead-end street. You lived close to him, he lived on the corner of the next street. He kept following you. You got to the end of the street and walked to the door of a two-story white and blue house with a black roof and a turret going up both stories. Quite a nice house. You unlocked the door and went in, shutting it behind you. There were no cars in the driveway, Patrick assumed your parents were at work or something. He snuck around the house looking for where your room might be until he saw you in the second-story turret window. There was some lattice leading up to just a bit below your window. He climbed up, being careful to not get caught. It was autumn, so the sun was already setting.

He made it to the top and peeked into the room, it was, in fact, your bedroom. There you were, your bag slumped down beside a desk with a slight mess of papers on it, you sitting on the desk chair concentrated on scribbling something on the paper infront of you, headphones on listening to a mixtape of God knows what.

Your room wasn’t entirely a mess, the floor was mostly clean except for a few random pieces of clothing thrown around and your shoes haphazardly kicked off near your bed. Your bed frame was a wrought iron frame and had some random hoodies hanging off one corner. Your bed seemed to have been left as it was when you woke up. Your plaid bedspread almost looked like some sort of nest, your pillow was sideways, and it seemed that you had thrown your pajamas on your bed after taking them off in the morning. Your walls were partially covered in posters and some photos.

Patrick climbed down smiling, he was somewhat delighted. You having a second-floor bedroom made watching you a bit harder, but he could watch you. And he did.

He started to follow you home almost everyday and over the weekends he would try and follow you to whatever you were doing, but it seemed most of the time you stayed inside your room.

The rest of the Bowers gang noticed Patrick’s absence and the fact he wasn’t always with them after school, and eventually someone spoke up. “Hockstetter.” Henry called out, somewhat cold and somewhat angry. “What?” Patrick responded, somewhat annoyed he would be missing out on following you. “What gives, man? You’ve been leaving early for, like, two weeks now.” Victor said, “Yeah, and we know it’s not cause you want to go home, so what the fuck are you doing?” Belch asked. A beat of silence passed. “Is it because of that weird chick? The one who made Tozier piss himself in fear?” Henry asked, narrowing his eyes at Patrick. “I swear if you’re stalking another girl just to freak her out.” Vic added, rubbing his eyes with his middle finger and his thumb. “It’s not to freak her out, she’s just interesting.” Patrick said, as if that was any better. “You’ve seen how she acts, she’s different. She isn’t scared of us.” Patrick said. It was true you weren’t. Didn’t care much for their stares or creepy smiles, you just walked past or ignored them. “Come with me and—“ Patrick starts and then is cut off by Vic: “No! I'm not getting tangled up in your weird shit man.” Patrick made a sound close to a sigh and rolled his eyes. He knew you were different, that if the gang just gave you a chance, they might actually like you. He was annoyed: “Fine, but I’m leaving.” He said, walking away. “Have fun being a creep,” Vic shouted after him. Patrick flipped him off without looking back, picking up his pace so he didn’t miss you or whatever stunt you had planned today.

Meanwhile, you had stopped on your normal route from school, pausing at the Kissing Bridge to stare at the river below. You weren’t stupid, you had noticed the tall boy following you since day one. You were treating it almost like a game. It was amusing and maybe in some twisted way endearing. You had heard all the rumors about Patrick and the Bowers gang, but they didn’t scare you, if anything, they intrigued you. You wanted to get closer the only reason you hadn’t yet was because you realized that Patrick started to follow you, and you wanted to see how long he could keep it up. Today, when he didn’t show right away, you stopped walking. Waited. Watched. He did show, of course he did. You could sense him, most people would be unnerved by the crawling feeling, you weren’t. You looked up at the sky and hummed happily to yourself. Out of the corner of your eye, you could barely see Patrick hiding behind a tall bush. For someone so lanky, you’d think he would be easier to spot, but you actually found it somewhat difficult to find him sometimes. It impressed you. Some nights you could feel his eyes on you but couldn’t find him anywhere.

You laughed lightly to yourself. It was so fun to mess with him, to tease him. Since you had noticed he was stalking you, you’d started to purposely leave your window open at night. Just incase he wanted a better view. Sometimes you undressed slower than you had to, just to see if the air outside shifted.

You began walking again, still keeping track of the boy following you. You didn’t have a stunt planned today.

The sky was turning orangey pink by the time you reached your house. Just before sunset. You walk in and up to your bedroom, waiting a second or two until you sensed him again, watching you through the window. You dropped your bag at the door and kicked off your shoes. You went over to your bedside drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Since your room was connected to the turret of your house, you had a small angular add-on to your room where it was, all windows and built-in benches beneath them. The benches stored extra blankets and a few odds and ends. You walked over to the benches and just barely saw Patrick duck out of sight. You opened the window he had been staring through and sat down next to it, lighting the cigarette and taking a drag. Patrick had jumped down the lattice and was hiding behind a bush in your front yard. You could just barely hear his heavy breathing.

Patrick held his hand over his mouth, trying to muffle the sound of his breathing. You had almost caught him, and he was exhilarated. He waited a minute, then two. He slowly looked up at your window, you weren’t looking down at him. He debated climbing up again but decided it would be too risky with you right there. He waited until you finished your cigarette, stubbed it out, and got up. He slowly climbed up the lattice. It was dusk by now, the sky a deep blue. Patrick peeked into your room, you were shuffling through your dresser, eventually finding something. He watched, breath held, as you took off your shirt. Slowly. Teasingly. You had done this before, and Patrick loved it. He would imagine himself taking off your shirt the same way. You turned and removed your bra. Patrick had to keep himself from whining, you always turned around. You put on a tight tank top and took off your jeans in the same manner. You pulled on some pajama pants and walked over to your bed. You got under the covers. Patrick waited, you had left the window open, you always did. He watched through the window, he never climbed in. You were the one person he didn’t want to scare away, so he stayed outside. Watching.

The next morning, Patrick was already gone. It was Saturday, he had planned to get up early to see if he could catch you before you left the house. But the gang had other plans and showed up a bit earlier than expected, ruining his chance.

The gang went to their favorite breakfast joint, the one where the waitress knew their orders by heart. Belch and Henry were droning on about cars, and Vic offered the occasional grunt of agreement. But Patrick wasn’t listening. He stirred his drink with the straw and let his mind wander. He wondered what you looked like this morning, what you were doing. “She’s got him brain dead,” Belch muttered, looking at how drawn away Patrick was. Vic laughed. “Gone off the rails, man.”

“He always was,�� Henry added, grinning into his cup.

“Shut the fuck up,” Patrick said, jabbing Henry in the side. Henry elbowed him back, laughing. The others joined in, the noise filling the booth. Patrick let his mind wander a little more. He wondered if your window was still open.

The noise of the others faded into the background. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, your window, your room, and your breathing when it finally slowed at night. He messed with the straw between his fingers. “She even talk to you yet?” Henry asked, his mouth partially full. Patrick didn’t answer, he was still thinking about you, how you slowly undressed like you knew he was watching. Like you were playing a game with him. “She’s not like the others,” he muttered under his breath. Vic leaned over the table, stealing a slice of toast from Patrick's plate. “What, you fallin’ in love now, Pat?” Patrick's lips curled, not in the usual cocky way, but slower and twitchier. “Fuck off.” But he didn’t argue. He didn’t deny it. “Looks like it,” Belch said, taking a sip of his drink. Patrick shifted, resting his head on his hand, staring into his drink. “What’s so special about her, Pat?” Henry asked tone more curious than mocking. “I’ve never seen you this hung up on a girl. Actually… I don't think I've ever seen you hung up on any girl.” He added. “Yeah, man,” Vic added, “let alone stalk one for any other reason other than to scare the shit out of them.”

“Should we be worried for you?” Belch added jokingly. Patrick stayed silent, still fixated on the dark swirling of his soda. The table quieted down, rare for them. “You actually like her, don't you?” Henry said. Patrick looked at him with something dark in his eyes. “She’s not like other girls,” he muttered eventually. His voice sounded dangerous, sharp, like the words didn't fit in his mouth right. “She knows I’m there. Doesn't freak out. Doesn’t run.” The rest of the gang looked at him. This was unusual for Patrick. He never liked girls, he barely liked anyone. Vic leaned back and let out a low whistle. “She knows you’re there and doesn’t bolt… That's impressive.” “Agreed. No joke, man, at this point most girls would scream bloody murder. But she hasn’t?” Belch added. Patrick shook his head. Henry looked at him. The table went silent for a moment. “That’s pretty cool, Pat,” Henry said, smiling and nudging Patrick. “Never thought you’d actually find someone who’d actually get you.” Patrick looked up. “I mean, if she isn’t running and you aren’t scaring her on purpose, then maybe this one is worth keeping,” Henry said. Vic huffed out a laugh. “It’s a match made in freak heaven.” Patrick smiled, a rare small smile but a real one. “She doesn't even know me yet,” he said. “Then let her,” Henry said. “You’re a freak, sure, but you’re our freak. If she sticks around after meeting you? Then yeah, she’s something special.”

The gang finished their meals and headed out. They walked to Belch's car and sped off. In the car Henry was talking about some plan, one that included fireworks and the quarry. Patrick was still in his head, though: “She doesn’t even know me.” The thought repeated in his head over and over. She didn’t know him, and still she left the window open. She still let him watch, still moved like she knew he was there. Patrick pulled at the loose thread of his jacket. What was she thinking when she did that? Was she playing a game? Was she just careless? Or did she want him to see her? Patrick could feel the pull already, that itch underneath his skin that always meant he was going to do something stupid. He wouldn’t be able to help it, not with her. She didn’t run, that made her dangerous. They pulled up to the quarry and got out. Patrick was already thinking about that window, how easy it would be to climb up again, how close he could get without you noticing. He smiled to himself, something not quite right gleaming in his eyes. The others were talking about explosions. Patrick couldn’t wait for the sun to go down.

Meanwhile, you were writing in your room. You had noticed the window was still open when you woke up and checked the yard just to see if Patrick had stuck around. He hadn’t but you found some cigarette butts below your window. He was good at stalking you, sure, but he was getting a bit messy. He had left a pack of his cigarettes in the bush he would hide behind. He left a note that simply said “I love you” scratched out in his handwriting by your window a week or so ago. You just smiled at it and kept it hidden in your desk drawer.

You didn’t leave your house much on weekends, you mostly wrote in your room. When you did go out, it was to see if Patrick was around town, you never interacted when you saw him, just watched from a distance. You finished writing a short story, and the sun had started to go down, casting a golden light through your window. You grabbed a new page and started to draw Patrick. You had done so before, it was comforting. It was your way of getting closer to him before you actually did. The sun brushed your skin and covered your desk in a warm golden glow. You hadn’t looked up in a while, finishing your sketch. His shaggy hair, dark eyes, cigarette between his fingers. You knew it all. You smiled lightly to yourself, lost in thought, until you heard a soft knock. You looked up towards your window. Patrick was there, cast in shadow from the setting sun. He wasn’t smiling exactly, but he didn’t look away. You stood and walked over to the window, opening it slowly. It was silent for a moment. Patrick looked up at you, silently asking to come in. You moved and gestured for him to come in. He crawled in and sat down on one of the benches below the window. You moved back to your desk and sat in your chair. It was silent, not uncomfortable, just silent. “Want a cigarette?” You asked, pulling the pack he had left out of your desk and showing it to him. He blinked slowly. He knew it was his, he had drawn a centipede on the side that was now just visible behind your fingers. “Yeah,” he said, reaching for the pack. You gave it to him, your fingers just barely brushing his. It sent a shiver down your spine, how close you two were. He was in your room. He offered the pack back to you, but you just took one. “Keep it,” you said Yours anyway you added in your head. He looked at you like he could hear the last part. Something twitched at the corner of his mouth. A smile, maybe.

[lexical-arson98]

quick summary of it so far

basically Patrick Hockstetter takes an interest in the reader and ofc since it’s patrick he starts to stalk you, but you aren’t stupid and have been noticing him and you quite enjoy it.

that’s all i have for now it would be Smutty

[lexical-arson98]

a little Patrick scenario I made

(Im so new to this)

Sitting in his room and talking to him, you notice a lot. His room smells like cigarettes, weed, some sort of cologne or body spray you can’t quite figure out, old fabric softener, old wood, gasoline or lighter fluid, rubbing alcohol, and a strange dusty smell you can’t quite place.

He keeps the few things people give him: an old, small fox plushie is barely visible behind his pillow; a Zippo lighter with his friend’s name carved into it (you hope he didn’t steal it); a silly note you gave him forever ago is slipped behind a tacked-up photo of you two; you see the hair tie you gave him a little while ago on his wrist. In the mess of bracelets he wears, you see the green and black one you made for him (you didn’t know if he would even wear it, but it looks like it hasn’t been taken off since you gave it to him).

You realize his room is covered in memories or moments in time—Polaroids of his friends who seemed to not notice him taking the picture, notes that seem to be from his mom stuck to the mirror above a dresser, pictures of you that you honestly didn’t notice he took (you’re laughing in one of them, and you look so happy you just smile at the picture when you see it), names and dates scratched into his bed frame. Most are from his friends; some seem to be things he did himself.

The music playing from his radio sitting in the corner drifts around you both as you sit below an open window, sharing a cigarette, laughing about the day, and just talking. You look at him as he takes a drag of the cigarette, leaning his head back and blowing out the smoke that swirls in the air before drifting out the window. He looks so peaceful in that moment.

You stare for a second or two, looking at his side profile, noticing the piercing you somehow hadn’t seen before that’s about halfway down his ear. You notice his nose has a small bump, his eyelashes are long and almost angelic (despite himself), his lips are a light pink and dry (despite your best efforts to get him to use chapstick). His black shaggy hair falls in loose strands around his eyes and ears. He has a small scar next to his eye (he says a cat scratched him—you asked why, although you’re pretty sure you know). He has dark circles under his eyes (you hope he sleeps enough). He’s wearing a necklace that has a ring you bought for him on it.

“You’re staring,” he says. You continue to stare until he looks at you. “What? Think I’m pretty or something?” he says, chuckling a bit. You smile. “Yeah,” you say and lean into him.

You’re tangled together on the floor—your legs wrapped together, his hand resting on your knee, your head now resting on his shoulder. You’re wearing his flannel; it smells like him, it’s big on you, but it feels nice. Both of your shoes were discarded long ago and sit in a pile near his bed. He hands you the cigarette and you take a drag.

Everything feels right in this moment. You feel safe, despite the psycho beside you. You’re both messed up in the head (hey, who isn’t?). You’re both strange and unsettling. Yet here you are, together. He puts his arm around your shoulder, and the conversation continues as it was before.

This is a moment you hope you don’t forget.

[lexical-arson98]

I think I've read every single Patrick Hockstetter fic I can.