pattycake-hockstetter:

A Patrick Hockstetter / Reader fic

Original Link

Warnings: Violence, swearing up the ass, Tozier!Reader beating ass, Richie and Tozier!Reader’s Trashmouths. 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: +4,600

Other Chapters: Part 1, Part 2

Part 3: Rebel Yell

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A/N: I whipped this up pretty fast, but I’m going to take short break from WYS for work. I’ll be back in a few days though, worry not. Rebel Yell is by Billy Idol, check out the song you nerds.

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“You gotta death wish, don’t you?” Richie pushed his glasses up the length of his nose, squinting at you while you worked at the straps of the blue tarp that shielded your trunk.

“What’s that thing you guys yell at Richie when he’s being a pest?” You asked Eddie, not bothering to look at either boys while you climbed into the back of your truck, tossing the tarp aside and hauling Richie’s bike to the tailgate.

“Beep Beep Richie.” They spoke in unison, your cousin rolling big brown eyes and bouncing on his heels.

“I’m just saying, threatening the Bowers Gang? Really? We all saw you doing it from the cafeteria. You’re here for like, I dunno, less than 36 hours and you’re already picking a fight with those shit lickers?” Richie continued, taking the handle bars of his bike and helping you lower it to the parking lot asphalt.

“He’s got a point.” Eddie chimed in, much to your chagrin. The freshmen shared a look between them as you hopped out the back of your truck before slamming the tailgate closed with a satisfying clap.

You leaned against it, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your windbreaker and giving them an even look.

“Listen, I’m just…” You trailed off, sighing. “I dunno, trying to get them to back off? They seem to genuinely scare you guys. I thought it would help to let them know that I’d take a bat to their heads, y’know?”

Richie threw a long leg over his bike, Eddie climbing to sit on the edge of the seat that the taller boy left him. “Just don’t get yourself killed, we can take care of ourselves.”

Wearily your cousin kicked off, pedaling slowly to round your vehicle. “I’ll see you later.”

“By Eddie!” You raised a hand still stuck in your pocket, Eddie shifting to wrap his arms around Richie’s thin torso and waving back at you. “Make him come home by eight!”

“Nine!” Richie challenged, working his legs to pedal faster and out of ear shot before you could argue. In the distance, you saw him encircle Bill and Stan as they kicked off from their bikes, Beverly riding on Mike’s handal bars and Ben chasing after the other six as he quickened his pace to follow the group out the parking lot.

You clicked your tongue, dragging your keys from your pocket and slipping into your truck. Your backpack sat in the passenger side the two boys had occupied that morning, folded in on itself and limp. You leaned over after stuffing the keys in the ignition to let the car idle, shoveling out the contents in search of the mixtape that had been gifted to you. It took a moment, but you found it, hidden under the gym uniform given to you during your fourth period P.E. class. You had put it in your pocket earlier, but changing had forced you to toss it in your backpack for safe keeping.

Again, you flipped the tape to read over the songs. Beverly had chosen the first song, a Psychedelic Furs classic, ‘Pretty In Pink’. Mike had chosen The Police’s hit ‘Message In A Bottle’, Bill had gone surprisingly wayward and picked a Depeche Mode song ‘Policy Of Truth’. Someone was going through an edgy phase, you mused, impressed nonetheless. Ben as a wildcard with his Billy Idol choice, and you smiled a little, finding that his pick of ‘Rebel Yell’ was a perfect fit for you at least.

Stan had thrown in a surprise guest, Pat Benatar’s ‘Heartbreaker’. You had always wondered what kind of taste the Uris boy had, but honestly, Pat wasn’t too much of a surprise. He seemed like the type to enjoy dramatic and passionate lyrics like those you’d find in Pat Benatar’s music. Eddie had picked a Cyndi Lauper song that held a special place in your heart, ‘The Goonies r’ Good Enough’. You still had vivid memories of watching The Goonies with the four original nerds when it came out in theaters during a small gap in summer when you had flown up to Derry for a visit. It had been easy enough to convince them to dress up with you and go adventuring with them by the barrens, and easier still to let Richie and Bill lead the way for the five of you to build a crappy little fort in the woods.

Richie’s contribution was what really made you beam though, his carefully chosen song for you was a personal favorite of yours. ‘How Soon Is Now’ by The Smiths.

You carefully switched out the tapes, retiring the other one to your wrinkled and torn up cardboard cassette box that rested in the beaten up floorboards of your cab and taking off as the slow rhythmic beats of The Psychedelic Furs filled your truck.

You carefully searched the parking lot for any sign of a blue Trans-Am, surprised not to see any edivdence of it. You shrugged off a rather nervous feeling in your gut at the observation, figuring the Bowers Gang must have snuck out of school after lunch. They didn’t exactly seem like the type to conform to the social norm and actually attend a full day of school anyhow.

The greenery in Derry was a nice change from the ever browning palm trees and sandy tropical gardens of Galveston. The skies were just as blessedly blue, streaks of cream casting cool shadows from the clouds that covered Derry on that October afternoon. It didn’t reek like the ocean in the small town, it wasn’t clogged with smog, and the muggy heat of texas had thankfully not followed you north. You felt close to your element in Derry, to your great surprise. It was the right kind of environment for you, but you would admit to already missing the bustling populace of Houston or even the smaller city of Sugarland.

Rolling down your window, you left Derry High behind you, creeping down Pasture Road before turning down the Kissing Bridge to cut over to Canal Street and head back home. You neared the overpass that stood above the canal ways, but slowed with a curse when you spotted that goddamn blue Trans-Am.

It sat empty, but what worried you the most was the pile of bikes left forgotten by the roadside, completely deserted.

“Fuck.” You swore, pulling off to the side and snatching your keys out, kicking the driver side door open in a rush. You hesitated a moment in silent deliberation, eyeing a tool beneath the cassette box.

A sudden hoarse yelp of pain, one you listened to with horror when you recognized it as Richie’s, decided your actions for you. You shoved the cassette box aside, grabbing the heavy tire iron from the floorboards and jumping out the car. You flew through the underbrush by the bridge, hearing what sounded like grunts and swears- namely from the mouth of your Trashmouth cousin.

You stumbled out of the woods, finding a break in the path and crashed out in a flurry of crunched up leaves and panic, tire iron raised.

From the looks of it, you had ended up by the canalside, the rocks littered with the fighting forms of your cousins friends and four enraged, hostile and very unlucky seniors.

Eddie was out cold, face pressed into the ground, a little scratched up but seeming mostly unharmed. Stan was attempting to over power Belch’s hulking mass, who had Bill’s collar in a death grip and was smacking him around like a rag doll. Mike was taking on Patrick and Vic alongside Beverly and Ben, the latter of who was flushed in the face and positively livid. Mike’s torn lip and Beverly’s scraped knees were nothing compared to the absolute wreck that was Richie Tozier’s face however.

Glasses? Shattered. Lip? Busted, bruised and split. Richie’s nose bent at an awkward and certainly painful angle, and there was a long cut alongside his eye, as if someone had carved him with a knife or a piece of glass. That didn’t stop his mouth from flapping though, and even with his cracked voice and split lip he shot zingers like the Tozier he was.

“You fucking-” He spat at Henry Bowers, who wrestled with the smaller boy and dug his back into the tough and jagged rocks of the canalside. “Bruce Springsteen lookin’ mother fucker!”

“Aw? Mad, Flamer?” Henry taunted, gritting his teeth and driving Richie harder against the stones. “Upset we knocked out your little faggy boyfriend?”

He cocked his fist back, knuckles bruised and red with Richie’s blood.

You launched into action, roaring with a feral rage and lurching off from the path, bringing your weapon down on Henry’s side with as much weight behind it as you could muster.

“FUCK-” Bowers howled, clutching his side and pushing himself off Richie, who gurgled some kind of greeting that you didn’t hear, your vision going red as you knocked Henry further back with the bottom of your docs.

You raised the tire iron, eyes burning and teeth bared, bringing it down where the mullet haired boy would have been if he hadn’t scrambled back.

From your side vision you spotted Belch, who was coming at you with arms out, ready to take you down. Side stepping him, you knocked against his back using the tire iron with a positively bruising force, kicking him for good measure as well and returning your focus to Henry.

“What did I say?!” You screamed, throwing the weapon down again and again, growing more and more irritated as you missed him.

“You’re fucking crazy! Bitch!” Henry spat, pushing up from the ground and scattering pebbles in his wake.

“What did I say?!” You repeated with even more venom, Vic and Patrick hovering beside Belch, who watched your dance with Henry wearily.

“You’re dead!” Henry ignored your prompt, pointing at you and digging into his pocket, whipping out a knife.

You gripped the tire iron tighter, eyes flashing and lip curling. “I like my odds, Bowers. Do you like yours?”

Blue eyes flickered to his wounded friend and the other two who seemed content to keep out of this particular fight. “Get her, Patrick.”

“With pleasure.”

You whirled around, slashing at the lanky boy who was a safe distance from you, a wild look in your eyes. “You think I’m above kicking your ass too, Hockstetter? Don’t fuckin’ try me!”

Patrick edged around Belch, watching you carefully. “Why don’t you settle down, Princess?”

Adrenaline pounded through you, your blood a rush in your ears. You let out a growl, pointing at him with the weapon. “You wanna dance? Let’s dance, Hockstetter.”

“[First Name]!” Stan shrieked, the crunch of pebbles shifting with weight alerting you back to the threat that loomed behind.

Spinning with the weapon ready, you landed a solid blow on Henry’s shoulder, but he had used your distraction to his advantage and you felt the white hot hiss of a cut rake down your right arm. The knife sliced through your windbreaker easily, slicing your forearm good, and scarlet poured freely as Henry stumbled back, looking pained.

Panic set in now, Patrick’s presence hovering along the sidelines, a snarl at his lips and Henry raised his knife in silent challenge once more.

“One more good whack, Bowers, and you’re in the hospital.” You sneered, rolling the weapon to your other hand, knowing you’d be sloppy with the change, but still effective. You spared Patrick a glare. “And I’ll aim for your head, Hockstetter.”

“Sounds tough coming from you, Tozier.” He taunted, a bottle of hairspray shaking in his hand as he fixed on you with an eerie gaze. “I’ll melt that Trashmouth right off your pretty little face.”

You saw the kids scramble to Richie and Eddie, the Bowers Gang focused on you entirely. Belch attempted to rise, but stumbled back down in a kneel, swearing. You had gotten him good, it seemed. Vic didn’t want to press the matter at hand, attempting to help his friend stand instead of facing you.

You winced, bending your wounded arm and taking your keys out of your pocket, hurling them at Beverly, who caught them with an uncertain look.

“Get in the truck, have it running. Id im not out in five, drive.” You ordered tensely, eyes flickering between Patrick and Henry, the latter of whom seemed to be having trouble standing, his breathing uneven and restless.

The freshmen swarmed the two broken boys, your cousin fighting their helping hands and calling after you. You ignored him, waiting for either of the bullies that crowded you to make their move.

“What now, boys?” You carefully stepped to the side, eyeing them as you edged back to the path that would lead you to the truck, Richie’s friends racing away with him and Eddie in tow.

A spout of fire that curled and preened shot out at you, Patrick closing in all too fast in response. You swore, not expecting him to have that much range, Henry throwing himself at you when you faced Patrick.

The two of you went flying, the cut burning as Henry shoved you to the bank, the action knocking the air out of your lungs as your back met the uneven and sharp rocks. You struggled, throwing the tire iron up to block his jabs and slashes of the knife, the edge coming dangerously close to your eyes.

“Look at you now, Trashmouth!” Patrick hooted, running up to come beside Henry.

You writhed under Henry, finding an opening and, with a valiant cry, jerked the bottom of the tire iron to strike Henry’s temple. He gave a cry of pain and ripped himself off you, roaring as he clutched his now bleeding head. You kicked yourself up, just barely breaking from Patrick’s grasp as he hurled himself after you.

Henry was down for the count, but Patrick was more than happy to pursue you through the winding and twisting limbs of the underbrush. The path was caked with wet leaves, unsteady earth and littered with specks of blood from Richie and probably Bill, but you came out the other side and skidded across the Kissing Bridge, chest heaving, victorious despite the challenge of the terrain.

Patrick was right on your tail, always inches from catching you, his eyes lit up with a gleam that horrified you to the core. He was enjoying himself as he increased his speed while you sprinted to the running truck.

“TAKE OFF THE BREAK, TAKE OFF THE BREAK!” You screamed, hearing the chaotic laughter behind you.

The gang was in the back, all shouting after you to hurry, Bill and Richie leaning heavily on each other in the trunk of the car, looking like hell had come after them and spat them back out. Beverly was at the wheel, screaming in time with the others as you threw yourself into the open trunk bed, Mike shoveling you far inside as Beverly shot off like a bullet. You all lurched forward from the force, the bikes that had been stuffed in the back rattling beside each other, and you gave a cry when you felt Patrick’s hand just barely graze your boot, your head turning as you watched him slow to a trot, giving up in his chase.

“We’ll get you later, Tozier!” He called after you, bending to catch his breath, eyes boring into you as Beverly whipped the truck down the street and carried off far from the bridge.

The truck was driven far away, weaving behind Derry through back roads that even you were unaware of. Mike carefully climbed through the open back window, directing Beverly with a calm voice, the only one of you who had the sense to keep his emotions in check.

The wind whipped at your hair, the cool air welcomed to calm the heat in your veins, to tame the fire in your belly. You were going to fucking murder Bowers, if it was the last thing you did. Carefully, you shuffled past the bikes to Richie and Bill, taking care to raise Richie’s head to inspect the damage.

“What happened?” You asked, your question falling on Stan or Ben to answer.

You glanced over your shoulder, Stan looking distraught as he watched Bill roll his head, his left eye swelling shut and jaw reddening with bruises. Bill attempted to speak, his speech slurred.

“B-b-buh-bowers,” He finally got out, heaving a sigh. “Ben. Tell h-her.”

Ben shifted, his face dirty and flushed, but seeming mostly unharmed. “Bowers caught us at Kissing Bridge. He was pissed you had tried to order him around, so he started picking on Richie… And, well, you know Eddie,” the boy nodded at Eddie, whose head rested on Stan’s lap, his breathing relaxed. There was a knot forming on his forehead, but at the very least he seemed safe enough. “He got angry that Henry was messing with Richie and he mouthed off to him, which made Henry angry, which made Richie cuss him out and, well.”

Ben sighed. “They chased us to the canal, Patrick and Henry shoved Eddie down and he was out like a light. Richie tackled Henry, Bill went for Belch when he tried to kick Richie off Henry and Patrick got on Mike. Bev and I ran to Mike after Stan ran to Bill and Vic knocked me down. You showed up after i got up and Henry started wailing on Richie.”
“Fuckin… Idiot.” Richie spat, breathing heavily as Beverly finally slowed the car, pulling the parking brake as she came up beside a pasture and climbing out, panic fresh on her features.

“You’re the idiot!” She yelled, a wetness in her eyes as she crawled into the truck bed, reaching for Eddie and cradling his face in her hands. “Eddie, Eds?”

The boy gave a sharp inhale, hazel eyes fluttering open as he flinched awake. “What-” He sat up, swaying only slightly as Mike took the wheel. “What the fuck happened, OH MY GOD, RICHIE!”

“Where do we go?” He asked, looking over his shoulder, worried gaze resting on Richie and Bill.

“R-r-ree-rich- FUCK,” Bill cursed, angirly stirring in his spot. “Richie’s!”

His eyes hardened, furious with either himself or his predicament, you weren’t sure. Mike looked to you for an okay and you wearily crawled from the back to the inside of the cab, letting out a soft moan of pain as you overworked your wounded arm.

Eddie took your spot beside Richie, eyes pricking with tears as he practically hyperventilated. He was speaking a mile a minute and you didn’t take the time to decipher it as Mike began to drive forward, heading down the road to make it back to town.

“Eds.” Richie croaked between heavy breaths, Eddie continuing on some kind of rant about broken noses. “Eds.”

Beverly gingerly looked over Bill’s face, Stan hovering at her side and looking forlorn as they bounced in the back from the dents and potholes of the roads. Gravel kicked underneath the truck, crunching loudly as Mike led everyone past farmlands.

“Eds.” Richie said firmly, reaching out and catching a panicky hand of Eddie’s, folding his fingers together with the smaller boys and arching in to a sore stretch. “Stop, i’m begging you.”

Finally, Eddie silenced himself. A loud sniffle could be heard as he shuffled closer to Richie, forcing your cousin to lean himself on him. “You’re a fucking idiot. Idiot.”

“Nice.” Richie mused with a broken laugh, coughing and groaning. “This is all your fault, [First Name]. Just sayin’. If I die, make sure they bury me in a coffin without nails so I can pass over to the promise land and let god know how much of an ass you are.”

“Considering you want ‘Highway To hell’ played after your hespied, you turd, I don’t think you’re making it to the otherside.” You snapped, sliding off your jacket and eyeing the nasty cut, courtesy of Henry Bowers. “I was just trying to help.”

Richie scoffed, but you decided against fighting further, it did you no favors. Maybe Richie was right. You had been too aggressive, way too damn fast. The Bowers Gang meant business, it appeared. Something told you that if Patrick had caught you at the bridge that you’d have been dead meat, no holds barred. Just threatening those boys had landed you in a heap of shit, and, like Richie had pointed out, you had barely been in town for two days.

Mike watched you from the corner of his eye, and you sighed heavily, closing the window to the back and scrunching up your face in distaste.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” You asked him, already gathering that he was the wisest of the group, the most grown up and least opinionated.

Mike shrugged his shoulders. “You Toziers are good at two things; talking smack and causing problems… But at least you were trying to do right by us.” He smiled a little, rubbing at this split lip. “Even if it did get us a little roughed up. It shows you care.”

“Richies beat bad, Bill’s going to be swollen up and colored purple.” You said regretfully. “Eddie was out for longer than five minutes, and you’ve got a busted lip. I did a swell job trying to do right by you guys, huh?”

“You’re hurt too.” Mike pointed out softly, turning down a rural road. “Bowers cut you up pretty bad.”

“I’m fine. I’m more worried about you guys.” You said honestly, peeking back at the others in the back, all of whom who were huddled together in a tight circle. The breeze ruffled curls and upset need styles, but at least all of them had tired smiles. They looked valiant, proud to have escaped with a few scrapes and their lives.

“Toziers.” Mike murmured, shaking his head and giving a defeated sigh. “You need to watch it around Bowers, I’m just warning you.”

“I can handle myself.” You defended lightly.

“I saw. But if Patrick had jumped in, I’m sure you wouldn’t currently be in this car.” He said, attempting to resonate with you. “You took that tire iron to Henry Bowers pretty hard core, sure, but he isn’t the only member of the gang, [First Name].”

You clicked your tongue. “I’d take him on again if I could, Mike.”

“I know.” He agreed, eyes dancing with amusement.

You were quiet for a while, letting the scenery pass by before suddenly you sat up, blinking in surprise.

“WAIT? CAN YOU EVEN LEGALLY DRIVE?”

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Underneath the blood that caked Richie’s face was a simple broken nose and torn lip, nothing too major despite what it had seemed earlier. You and Richie was miraculously able to convince your aunt that he had simply fallen off his bike and roughed himself up slamming into a pole. Your cousin had an endless supply of glasses, so it was an easy fix as far as the two of you were concerned, and Bill’s eye lessened in its swelling after he applied an ice pack and Eddie tended to his cuts. Mike said his lip was nothing to worry about and Ben put countless band aids on Beverly’s knees, the tenderness evident behind his sweet smile and Beverly’s warm gaze. Eddie’s bump had receded considerably and was barely there now, but he had kept ice on it for a while just to be safe.

It took the combined power of Stan, Bill, Mike and Beverly to hold you still so Eddie could patch up your arm. You thrashed around, having preferred to just rinse it off and tape the wound up in a classic Tozier fashion, but Kaspbrak nagged the shit out of you before he ordered the attack on you to be made.

Richie was too doped up on the pain medication that Eddie stole from his cabinets to bring to your house for his emergency aid, so the bespectacled nerd could only let out a few slurred “Suck the wound ”’s before he seemingly passed out on the couch in the Tozier home’s basement.

“Hold her still, come on.” Eddie snapped, a cotton ball of peroxide in between his careful fingers as he applied the antiseptic to your gash.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow-” You whined, wiggling around despite the combined weight that kept you seated in the office chair stolen from your uncles computer room.

“Is she going to need stitches?” Stan questioned, much to your added distress.

“No, she isn’t. It’s just a flesh wound.” Eddie assured everyone, Ben letting out a thankful sigh in place of yourself.

Richie gave a sleepy chuckle, rolling on the couch. “Flesh wound…” He was promptly ignored.

“Calm down, you’re alright.” Beverly shushed, smiling down at you. You flinched as Eddie patted your cut dry, pressing gauze against it before begining to wrap your arm tightly with bandages.

“Thanks mom.” You snarked, wincing at the pressure applied, but calming down nonetheless.

Eddie stepped back, sighing. “Done.”

All four teens released you, and you shot up, heading to the couch to sit with your cousin, licking your wounds per say.

The others mingled for a while before leaving, everyone thankfully not as roughed up as before and wearing smiles. You waved them all out the basement entrance before going back to Richie, slinging the battered (and drugged out) boy’s arm over your shoulder.

“Come on champ.” You encouraged, heading upstairs. Shutting the door to the basement behind you and maneuvering to the second story, pausing at the base of the staircase to bid your aunt and uncle good night.

“We’re heading to bed. Love you guys.”

They didn’t bother to turn from the television, leftovers from the night before in their laps and eyes glued to the news.

“Assholes. They don’t even care…” Richie muttered lowly, but you shushed him softly, leading the boy one step at a time to the second story hall, where you dragged him to his bedroom.

Richie swayed as you reached to turn on his light, taking the boy to his bed and gently settling him a top the covers.

“[First Name]?” He slurred your name adorably, barely keeping onto his consciousness. You hummed in response, undoing his laces and setting his shoes on the floor beside his twin bed. He squirmed in the Star Wars covers, slipping his glasses off and dropping them on the nightstand.

“I’m glad you’re back.” Richie whispered hoarsely, scratching at the tape stuck to his nose from Eddie’s handiwork. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too Bucky Beaver.” You felt your heart melt and expression soften. He watched you with his big brown eyes, looking dead tired and bruised. He was still in his clothes from earlier and you sighed, knowing what you had to do. Walking to his dresser you grabbed a pair of pajama pants and a shirt from the drawers before returning to his side, shifting the dirtied jeans off his legs.

He let you do the deed, complaining only when you jerked the jeans too roughly off his ankles and drawing his pajama pants over bare legs. The change into his shirt was easier, and once that was over with and you had combed any mud that was left in his hair out, you straightened and threw his comforter over top his aching form.

“Love you, bud.” You said, stepping away from his bedside.

“Love you too.” He murmured, eyes fluttering in attempt to stay awake. “Thanks for beating up Bowers with a crowbar for me.”

“Tire iron.” You corrected with a chuckle, heading to the door. “You’re welcome, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Do we get up at six again?”

“No, we get up at six forty-five. You get to sleep in.” You walked to the door, turning off the light. Lost in his delirium, and maybe from the light headedness of his pain killers, Richie gave a quiet cheer.

“Yay.”