#Vic Owen

[evenmyhivemindisempty]

encountered perhaps the funniest description of Boyd Holbrook today

And you know what? Entirely fair, if you seen some of his modeling photos!

[ilovewhiteroses]

Evolution of Boyd's bad boys:

2013: Out of the Furnace - Tattooed Guy

2014: Gone Girl - Jeff

2015: Run All Night - Danny Maguire

2016: Jane Got a Gun - Vic Owen

2017: Logan - Donald Pierce

2021: Beckett - Stephen Tynan

2022: The Sandman - The Corinthian

2023: Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny - Klaber

2023: Justified: City Primeval - Clement Mansell

(gifs by me)

[lavender-vixen]

can u do Patrick hocksetter with a little sister?

"Hold Still, Kid." (Patrick Hockstetter & Younger Sister!Reader)

Patrick was lying on his bed, flipping through a crumpled magazine, when you walked in and flopped down beside him with a sigh. He barely glanced up, exhaling lazily through his nose as he turned the page, jaw working a piece of gum in that slow, deliberate way that made girls at school stare.

"Mom won’t let me get my ears pierced."

That got a reaction—barely. A twitch of his eyebrow. He still didn’t look at you.

"Yeah?" he muttered, licking his thumb and turning another page, eyes dragging over some half-naked blonde sprawled across a motorcycle.

"She says I have to wait until next year. That’s so stupid."

Patrick snorted, shifting so one arm rested behind his head, the other dangling the magazine over his chest. "And you actually give a shit what Mom says?"

You frowned. "Well... yeah?"

That was when he finally looked at you. Narrowed eyes, lazy smirk, jawline sharp even in the dim glow of his bedside lamp. He sucked his gum back between his teeth and shook his head, tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek in amusement.

"Jesus, kid. Thought you were smarter than that."

You scowled, shoving his arm, which did absolutely nothing. "Oh, shut up."

But Patrick just kept grinning, because now he had an idea. He tossed the magazine onto the floor and sat up, stretching, his muscles shifting under his t-shirt. "You really wanna get ‘em done?"

You nodded without hesitation. "Obviously."

"Then I’ll do it."

You blinked. "What?"

"You heard me." Patrick leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers playing with the lighter in his pocket. "I’ll pierce your ears. Right now."

Your stomach flipped. "That sounds... unsafe."

He grinned, cocky and mean, like he knew he had you. "Fine, wait until next year."

"Okay, but..."

And before you could think to say no, he was already up and moving, crossing the hall into your parents' bedroom, digging through Mom’s sewing kit, grabbing a needle, flicking the lighter to life with a click-clack.

"C’mon," he said, jerking his chin toward your parents' bathroom. "Let’s do this before Mom gets home."

And like an idiot? You followed him.

Patrick worked fast, but not carelessly.

He sat you down on the bathroom counter, legs spread so he could stand between them, holding your chin with one hand while he pressed an ice cube against your ear with the other. The cold burned, numbing your skin, and you winced as he held it there longer than necessary, watching you with that unreadable half-smile, eyes flicking between your ear and your expression.

"You nervous?"

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "No."

Patrick laughed, shaking his head. "Liar."

Before you could snap back, he pulled the ice away and, without another word, shoved the needle through.

"Ow, ow, ow—Patrick, you asshole!"

Patrick just laughed. "Told you to hold still, dumbass." He twisted the needle through before you could jerk away, thumb swiping the tiny drop of blood off your earlobe with surprising gentleness.

"You could’ve warned me!"

"Didn't want you to tense up."

Your ear throbbed, warm and sore, but… it wasn’t that bad.

Patrick held up a small silver hoop earrings that belonged to your mom, slid it into place, and clicked it shut. "One down."

You barely had time to brace yourself before he did the other.

And when he finally stepped back, hands on his hips, admiring his work, you turned toward the mirror and—holy shit.

"It actually worked."

Patrick grinned, tilting his head as he flicked his lighter again, absentminded. "Fuckin' a." He nodded toward your reflection. "They look good. You should be thanking me."

You turned, crossing your arms. "Yeah, sure. Thanks, Patrick."

Patrick was already walking out of the bathroom. "Have fun shoplifting earrings from Sears."

Dinner that night was tense. Not that you noticed. You were too busy admiring your reflection in your spoon. You could feel Mom's eyes on you, the way she kept glancing over every time you tucked your hair behind your ear.

Patrick, sitting across from you, was completely unfazed, shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth with all the grace of a caveman.

And then—

"Wait a minute."

The entire table stilled.

You froze.

Mom’s eyes zeroed in on your ears. "What are those?"

You swallowed thickly. "Uh—"

Before you could come up with some bullshit excuse, Patrick—in all his smug glory—decided to speak. "I did it."

Silence. Your stomach dropped.

Mom’s face went red. "You what?!"

Patrick, cool as ever, kept eating. "Relax, they look great."

Mom lost it. "Do you have any idea how unsanitary that is? She could get an infection! She could lose an ear!"

Patrick just leaned back, completely unbothered, his shit-eating grin only growing wider. "Nah, she’s fine."

"That's not the point!" Mom snapped.

You saw the rage contorting on your mom's face, then your dad, who up until this point had been completely checked out, finally looked up from his glass. He blinked, looked at your mom, looked at you, then at Patrick. Then back to you.

"The hell you let him do that for?"

You sputtered. "What do you mean why did I let him? He just did it!"

Patrick shrugged. "Yeah, Dad. She begged me."

Mom threw her napkin onto the table. "She did not, Patrick!"

Dad sighed, scratching his temple, looking between you and Patrick with thinly veiled amusement. "Well," he muttered, chewing, "guess you got your ears pierced. Can't un-pierce 'em now."

Mom whipped her head toward him. "Excuse me? That's all?"

He shrugged. "I mean, what do you want me to do about it? Rip 'em out?"

Patrick snorted. "Damn, Dad. Kinda metal."

Mom slapped her palm against the table. "You think this is funny?"

Patrick flashed his sharpest grin. "A little."

You had to choke back a laugh. Mom was about to lose it, but before she could start another full-blown rant, your dad set his fork down and looked Patrick dead in the eye.

"You sterilize the needle?"

Patrick set down his drink, smirk lazy. "Lighter and ice."

Dad nodded. "Alright."

Mom's jaw dropped. "Seriously!"

"What?" Dad said with a shrug, picking his fork back up. "That's how we did it back in the day."

Mom looked like she was on the verge of a stroke. "That's how criminals do it!" She shot daggers at your brother. "You are grounded, Patrick Hockstetter. A whole month!"

Patrick snorted. "Yeah, okay," he said, looking bored, stretching back in his chair.

Mom’s glare hardened. "I mean it, mister. No car, no friends, no girls, no leaving this house except for school and work—"

Patrick sighed, not entirely upset, pushing his mostly empty plate away. "Jesus, Mom, you act like I took her to get a tattoo."

Your fork clattered onto your plate. Patrick’s grin turned sharp.

Mom’s eyes narrowed. "Don’t you dare."

Patrick winked at you. "Next weekend?"

"Patrick!"

He just laughed, rolling his eyes as he slouched back in his chair, flicking his lighter open and shut beneath the table.

Mom didn’t let it go.

After dinner, she was still fuming, pacing around the patio while your dad lit a cigarette by the door, clearly trying not to get involved.

"I swear to God, if she gets an infection, I am marching her right to the ER, and you are paying for it."

"I'm not gonna get an infection, Mom," you muttered, leaning against the window, fiddling with your new earrings.

Mom shot you a glare.

"And you!" She pointed at you like you’d personally betrayed her. "You let Patrick pierce your ears! Patrick! The boy who nearly set our house on fire last Christmas!"

"Okay, in my defense," Patrick shouted from where he was slouched on the couch, legs kicked up on a chair, flicking his lighter open and shut, "that was not technically my fault."

Mom whipped around, looking past you into the house. "Oh, so the lighter just jumped into the curtains by itself?"

Patrick shrugged. "Probably."

"You are unbelievable!" Mom stormed off, muttering under her breath about “irresponsible kids” and “what did I do to deserve this” before disappearing down the hallway.

Silence.

Dad exhaled smoke through his nose, rubbing his forehead. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.

You chewed on your lip, fingers still playing with your earrings, the dull ache fading into something kind of satisfying. You turned to Patrick. "Think she’ll actually let it go?"

Patrick snorted. "Hell no." He leaned back, popping his gum. "She’s gonna be on your ass for weeks, kid."

Later That Night – Patrick’s Room

You were still awake. Still admiring your new piercings in Patrick’s bathroom mirror, tilting your head side to side, brushing your fingers over them like they weren’t brand new wounds.

Patrick was sprawled across his bed, half asleep, arms tucked behind his head, a cigarette burning low between his fingers.

"You keep looking at ‘em like that, they’re gonna fall off," he muttered.

You rolled your eyes. "I still can’t believe you actually did it."

Patrick snorted. "Said I would."

You turned from the mirror.

"Did it hurt when you did yours?"

Patrick cracked one eye open. "Not really." He smirked. "But then again, I was wasted."

You hesitated. "Did Mom freak out when she saw it?"

Patrick barked a laugh, shaking his head. "Are you kidding? She lost her goddamn mind."

You climbed onto the end of his bed, sitting cross-legged. "What’d she say?"

Patrick smirked. "Pretty much what she said to you tonight—‘Patrick, do you want to get tetanus?’ Blah, blah, blah. You know how she is."

"And Dad?"

Patrick scoffed. "Thought it was cool."

"Of course he did."

You both grinned.

"So," Patrick drawled, lazily flicking ashes into an old beer can, "what’s next, kid? You gonna let me tattoo you?"

You snorted.

"In your dreams, Patrick."

"Oh, c’mon. You’d look cool with a little dagger on your ankle."

"Yeah, and Mom would actually kill you."

Patrick grinned like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. "Worth it."

You just rolled your eyes, leaning back against his pillows.

"Alright, out of my room now." He said, shoving you so you rolled off the bed, hitting the floor with a small yelp. "Leave."

The next morning, the throbbing in your ears had dulled into a low, warm ache, the kind of pain that wasn’t exactly pleasant but also wasn’t bad enough to regret. You were tired as hell—thanks to staying up half the night talking shit with Patrick—but there was still a small, smug thrill every time you turned your head and felt the slight weight of the earrings.

You had actually done it.

And, of course, word had already gotten out.

It started when you got on the school bus, sliding into your usual seat by the window, cracking your knuckles and preparing to zone out until the morning announcements.

But the second you sat down, a voice chirped from the seat across from you.

"Holy crap, did you get your ears pierced?"

You turned to see your friend Katie gaping at you, eyes wide like you had just sprouted horns.

You resisted the urge to smirk. Instead, you shrugged, tilting your head slightly so the little silver hoops caught the light.

"Yeah."

Katie practically launched herself across the aisle, gripping the back of the seat in front of her. "But your mom said you weren’t allowed!"

You finally smirked. "Yeah, well... I didn’t exactly ask."

Middle school level gasps from the small cluster of girls listening in.

"Oh my God," one of them whispered.

"Did you go to the mall? Oh my God, do you have, like, a fake ID or something?"

"No," you said, leaning back, cool as hell. "Patrick did it."

More gasps. More scandalized looks. One girl actually clapped a hand over her mouth like this was the biggest sin to ever happen in the freshman grade.

"Your brother did it?"

"With what?" Katie asked, horrified.

"A needle."

She paled. "You let Patrick stab a hole in your ear?"

You just grinned.

Katie shook her head, pulling back, whispering something to her friend about "that explains so much."

You didn’t bother defending yourself.

Let them whisper. Let them talk.

Because, honestly, the best part of doing shit you weren’t supposed to was making sure everyone knew about it.

Patrick did not take the bus. He had his own car but opted for rides courtesy of Belch's rustbucket Trans Am, packed with Henry and Vic. It smelled like gasoline, cigarette smoke, and whatever cologne Belch had doused himself in that morning.

Patrick, sprawled in the back seat, feet up on the middle console, snapping his gum like he had nowhere better to be, was already bored.

Until Vic, sitting in the backseat, snickered.

"So, heard you played beautician on your sister last night."

Patrick frowned. "How?"

"She called Tori yesterday," Vic went on. "You know my sister can talk. I'm sure she's told half the freshman class by now."

Belch, behind the wheel, chuckled. "Shit, man. You pierced her ears? What, with a fucking switchblade?"

Patrick stretched, cracking his knuckles. "Needle. Ice. Lighter. The works."

"Jesus Christ," Vic muttered, shaking his head.

Henry, up until this point, had been silent. Which meant he was thinking. Which meant this was about to get good. "So what, she asked you to do it or something?" Henry finally asked, flicking his cigarette out the window.

Patrick grinned.

"I mean... she didn’t not ask."

Belch snorted. "You probably held her down and did it anyway."

Patrick shrugged, not confirming, not denying.

Vic leaned forward, amused. "She cry?"

"Nah. But she did scream for a second." Patrick smirked. "Twice."

"Well, yeah," Belch said, taking a slow drag off his cigarette. "You shoved a fucking needle through her ear."

"Told her to hold still," Patrick said, popping his gum.

Vic shook his head, chuckling. "You're gonna give that girl a complex."

"Nah." Patrick stretched, rolling his shoulders against the worn leather seat. "She's tougher than she looks."

Henry, still staring out the window, exhaled through his nose. "She's gonna be a real pain in your ass when she gets older, ain't she?"

"She's already, man."

By lunchtime, it was official. Your ears weren’t just a secret anymore. They were a school-wide topic of discussion.

At your table, Katie and the other girls still weren’t over it.

"Okay, but, like," Katie leaned in, dramatic as hell, "did it hurt? Like, was it horrible? Like, do you regret it?"

You took a sip of your soda, smirking. "Nah."

Katie looked betrayed. "You’re insane."

You shrugged. "Maybe."

Across the cafeteria, Patrick sat with the gang, half-listening to whatever Henry was ranting about, absentmindedly spinning a pencil between his fingers.

Then, slowly, his gaze drifted over to your table. To you. To the way you were grinning, showing off your new piercings like some kind of battle scar.

And Patrick just chuckled. That was his work, and he was kind of proud.

The second you stepped through the front door, Mom was already waiting. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Dangerous.

"Let me see."

You blinked. "See what?"

"Don’t play dumb."

You sighed, pulling your hair back, showing her the piercings.

Mom examined them like she was about to drag you to the hospital. "Any pain?"

"A little."

"Swelling?"

"Not really."

"Redness?"

"Mom, I’m fine."

She huffed, rubbing her temples. "This is not fine. You let Patrick pierce your ears, for Christ’s sake. You don’t even know where that needle’s been—"

"I sterilized it," Patrick called from the front door, coming in behind you, slinging his backpack on the floor.

Mom whipped around. "You shut up."

Patrick grinned.

You sighed. "Mom. It’s done. It’s over. And I like them."

Mom looked at you for a long moment. Then, with another sigh, she rubbed her forehead.

"Fine." She pointed a finger at you. "But if you get an infection, I am marching you straight to the doctor, and Patrick—"

"Yeah, yeah, I’m grounded for life, whatever," Patrick muttered, stretching lazily.

Mom glared. "You’re damn right you are."

But still, when she finally stormed off, you caught the slightest hint of a smirk on her face. You had a feeling she kinda liked them too.

[svtskneecaps]

honestly foolish's character walking the slightly meta line of "oo this'll be fun content" makes him feel like that marvel immortal character who is only immortal as long as he doesn't get bored (and was played by jeff goldblum in the movies). like idk why but the more i see of foolish's rp the more solidified the comparison gets in my mind.

like it's kinda cool for a headcanon ngl and also it means i'm not really surprised pikachu-ing when, say, he flips a coin to decide whether to rat out his son-in-law, or climbs into an incubator of corruption crystals, or doesn't ENTIRELY kick owen out of the kingdom. it's not that he doesn't CARE, but..... well, wouldn't it be interesting? don't you want to know what would happen?

[huivsharik]

I'm a creep

[loser1t1s]

"The Boy Who Could Fly" actually goes so fucking hard I'm screaming rn

[frostbeees]

( x )

[swan2swan]

If I could tweak one line in Jurassic World, I'd have Owen say "Well, that depends on what your idea of 'progress' is" instead of "Well, maybe progress should lose for once."

Because a lot of Hoskins's speech isn't about "progress"--it's just the same status quo. Mills elaborates on it in the next movie: animals are used for war throughout history. Turning the dinosaurs into weapons is not progress, it's just more war. It's no different from Hannibal's elephants, and Mary hadn't even been visited by an angel yet when all that happened!

Though, it's also fine that Owen doesn't deliver the Philosophical and Correct response. That's not his department. He's an animal handler, not a glorified number-cruncher.

[bluejaysandblackbats]

We Are So Back!

Water Lilies in Spring: Roy offers to help Garth fix up his new home. Including the seemingly impossible task of planting the garden in his backyard. (No Powers AU, Mutual Pining, GarthRoy)

No Stone Left Unturned: Vic runs into an old friend hoping for a first shot at romance. The only problem is, she's on a soul-searching trip in the wilderness. (VicKory; Angst)

Ancient History: AU where Tim finds out Bart and Owen are brothers right after Jack Drake was killed. (Angst; Hurt/Comfort)

Freaky Fridayed: Tim and Conner wake up in each other's bodies after a huge argument. (BartTimKon)

Muscle Memory: Bart and Grant win a contest to go visit the set of a new sci-fi movie, and they're surprised to see each other there. (Canon Divergent AU; Found Family; Best Friends/Brothers)

[alittlevillainy]

finally caving and dropping my host!vic character playlist over here on tumblr. my music taste is kinda weird asf but i take my analysis of this character very seriously and i have explanations for every single one of these songs. (please feel free to ask about any song i spent so much time deciding and debating and analyzing)

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7ohkVxDOA0yp7vhkMw1U6a?si=sOhR1p6HS421RR15Co1H9g&pi=u-vGVb70QCRuSY

[royaloceanxx]

translating the name. an introduction.

hello world!

suck the life right out of my voice and breathe it back into yourself.

soliloquy, from first to last.

hello! i go by the moniker "royal ocean" and i started this blog because i had the urge to find a public space to write and post about the things i enjoy, that being the post hardcore scene of the 2000s. here’s a little bit about me.

the name “royal ocean” comes from dance gavin dance’s first ep “whatever i say is royal ocean”. i’m a 20 year old college student studying physics and math! my favorite bands are panic! at the disco, chiodos, pierce the veil, bleed (not phc but i love em lolz), the smashing pumpkins (also not phc haha), from first to last and dance gavin dance! i have sickening addiction to physical media so stay tuned for a post detailing my collection. i love red dead redemption, tobey maguire spidey (norman is my favorite </3) and kids movies (im looking at you, sing). this blog will mostly be about my favorite bands with the occasional personal post or discussing my other interests.

i kinda sorta stole got this idea when looking at the archive of craig owens old journal. i basically wanted to do what he did minus the part of being a celebrity lolz although i have been messing around with making music ;)

i don't know all that i have planned for this blog but it will one hundred percent solely be for my own enjoyment. if others happen to stumble across my little corner, welcome!!

that's all for this intro post and i can't wait to develop this even more.

xxx

royal ocean

[evenmyhivemindisempty]

[lavender-vixen]

patrick x extrovert reader, who’s funny,loud and doesn’t gaf what ppl think of them

platonic friends who maybe sometimes kiss, but gf and bf nahhh

gen/fem reader

anyways yeh! 💗🤗

Moonlight

You were on your knees in the grass, cursing like a trucker under your breath, trying to find your damn scrunchie. It had been holding your hair together all day like a miracle and now your hair was sticking to your neck like you'd been hit with a garden hose.

The sun was long gone, but the last batch of burgers hissed on the grill like angry cats. Your best friend Stephanie Villarreal lounged against the picnic table, lazily carding her fingers through Henry Bowers’ greasy hair like he was some kind of summer camp Adonis.

“This party’s the best one yet, Y/N,” she sighed, totally blissed out.

You blew a strand of hair out of your eyes and snorted. “Duh. It’s my party.”

Henry groaned dramatically, fanning himself like some drunk Southern belle. “It’s also the hottest. I’m dying.”

You sat back on your heels and raised a brow. “What? You weren’t hot last year when Belch came tearing outta the woods in that Bigfoot mask and made you piss yourself?”

Stephanie cracked up. “Oh my god, I forgot about that!”

“I didn’t piss myself,” Henry muttered, rolling onto his side.

“You definitely pissed yourself,” you and Steph said in unison, then lost it laughing.

“I thought it was your dad!” Steph wheezed. “Like, I legitimately thought we were about to get murdered with a spatula.”

“Mr. Huggins and his infamous sense of idiocy,” Henry muttered, but he was smiling, rubbing Steph’s leg as she leaned down to kiss him. She used to be so uptight about PDA. Not anymore. Now they made out in public like horny raccoons.

You pretended to keep searching for your scrunchie, but really, you just didn’t want to watch them tongue each other. Not that you minded. You were happy for her. But seeing people all wrapped up in each other just made you feel... itchy. Not lonely, exactly. Just... aware. Of your own skin. Of the fact that your last hookup had been months ago and barely worth remembering.

A car door slammed.

You stood up so fast you nearly toppled over, brushing dirt off your knees and squinting past the flickering light of your mom’s old paper lanterns.

At the end of the dirt drive, a pair of headlights cut out and a tall silhouette stepped out of a van, stretching like a cat. You’d know that lazy slouch anywhere.

“Patrick!” you hollered, throwing your arms in the air. “Holy shit, you actually showed up!”

You sprinted barefoot across the lawn, your feet slapping the dirt, boobs bouncing in your tank top, and launched yourself at Patrick Hockstetter like he was both God and a six-pack of wine coolers.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered as you crashed into him, arms slung around his neck, the momentum sending him stumbling a step back.

“I missed you, dumbass,” you said loudly, planting a kiss on his cheek that barely missed his mouth. You smelled like sweat, sunscreen, and that cheap vanilla body spray you swore that made boys lose their minds. “You smell like a gas station.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, wrapping his arms around you with fake tenderness, “you smell like beer and Aqua Net, so who’s the real winner here?”

Then he did something he always did when he thought no one was looking—he bent his head down, all faux-casual, and kissed you. Right on the mouth.

And—yeah. You kissed him back. Like, really kissed him. Just for a second. Just long enough to remind yourself why you didn’t go steady with anyone. Why would you? You already had Patrick’s mouth on demand like it was a jukebox and you were the only one with a quarter.

You pulled away first, but only by a breath. “We’re in public, Hockstetter.”

“And yet,” he said, his voice low and cocky, “you kissed me first, in case you forgot.”

“Only ‘cause you looked like shit and I felt bad for you.”

“Sure.”

Before you could sass him back, a familiar voice hollered from the backyard.

“Hockstetter!” Vic Criss.

You took a quick, guilty step back, wiping your mouth like you’d just tasted battery acid. Patrick’s hands dropped from your waist like nothing happened. Like they hadn’t been right there a second ago, his thumbs brushing skin under your shirt.

Vic jogged up the drive with Moose Sadler and Lindsey Sharp behind him. Moose was hauling a guitar and Lindsey looked like she’d just stepped off a Whitesnake album cover—tight jeans, teased hair, tits up to her chin.

“Barbecue started at four,” Vic said, mock-scolding. “Ever heard of showing up on time?”

“I show up fashionably,” Patrick drawled, already sliding into his cocky rhythm.

“You missed all the food,” Moose added, patting his lean stomach like a toddler. He gave Patrick a lopsided handshake and nodded at you. “Y/N.”

“Moose.”

Lindsey linked her arm with Patrick’s like she was claiming him in front of everyone. “You’re lucky I missed you,” she said, pouting. “Rehearsals have been such a shitshow without you.”

Patrick was still looking at you. He hadn’t looked away once since the kiss.

You’d already turned around, strutting back across the yard with your middle finger casually tossed over your shoulder.

You found your scrunchie—finally. Snagged under a folding chair, dirty as hell. You dusted it off on your tank top, muttered “close enough,” and looped it back into your hair. Not like anyone cared what you looked like tonight. Except maybe Patrick. And maybe you wanted him to.

But you were done thinking about that. Done. So done. Completely— …God, he looked good.

He was posted up at the picnic table now, legs spread like he owned the entire goddamn mountain, dark hair messy from the road, sunglasses tucked in his collar. Lindsey Sharp was perched beside him, leaning in close, talking about rehearsal and music festivals, twirling her hair like a twelve-year-old. You watched her touch his shoulder and wanted to rip your own hair out, but instead, you just popped open a warm beer and dropped down under the old apple tree like a feral little sprite.

You weren’t sulking. You were lurking. Big difference.

From your spot in the shadows, you watched him laugh at something Moose said. He did that thing he always did—ran a hand through his hair, leaned back like he was bored, but still listening. His eyes were scanning the crowd. Looking. For something.

For you.

You hated that you liked that. Hated it like you hated summer sweat behind your knees. Like mosquito bites under your bra strap.

You rolled the beer can across your forehead and muttered, “Cool down, slut,” to yourself.

You didn’t want Patrick Hockstetter to be your boyfriend. He’d be the world’s worst boyfriend. He wouldn’t call back, he’d definitely flirt with your friends, and he’d probably finger you in a movie theater then tell Vic about it before the credits rolled.

But God, the way he kissed.

Your fingers brushed your lips.

You weren’t in love. Please. You just hadn’t been kissed like that in a while. And not by someone who knew how to do it mean. Patrick kissed like he had something to prove. Like his mouth was a loaded weapon and he wanted to see what you’d do if he pulled the trigger.

And yeah, you sometimes kissed. You sometimes did more. But there were no strings. No pet names. No “what are we” bullshit. Just sweat, teeth, and bad decisions made under the buzz of lantern lights and too much Coke mixed with whatever Vic poured into the jungle juice.

You took a long sip and smirked.

Whatever Lindsey thought she had going on, Patrick was yours when it counted.

But then you saw it—Patrick glancing toward the porch. Not at you. Past you. At the screen door.

At Steph.

You tensed. Steph and Henry were back to their weird couple routine—her draped on his lap, his hand halfway up her back pocket. But Patrick’s gaze was sharp, unreadable.

You knew that look.

You’d seen it the night of prom when he’d walked you to the bleachers and asked if you wanted a cigarette and then kissed you before you could say yes or no. When your eyes were still swollen from crying over Peter Gordon, and Patrick didn’t care. He kissed you anyway, like kissing you was the solution to everybody else’s mistakes.

You hadn’t let him do it again for weeks.

Until one night, in the back of his van, he just said, “You’re gonna let me, right?” and you did. And you kept doing it. Because it was easy. Because it was fun. Because it didn’t mean anything.

Except maybe it kind of did.

But tonight? You weren’t gonna think about that. You weren’t gonna sit under this stupid apple tree like some tragic prom queen waiting for her dirtbag almost-boyfriend to make eye contact.

You slammed the rest of your beer and stood up. Your legs felt electric, wobbly and charged.

If Patrick wanted to play games? You were the ref.

“Y/N!”

You jumped. Belch Huggins had crept up under the tree like a giant lumbering bear, a red cup in one hand, a hot dog in the other.

“You scared the shit outta me,” you said, smacking him in the chest.

“I bring gifts,” he said solemnly, holding out the hot dog like an offering. “Also, you look like you’re gonna light someone on fire.”

You snatched the hot dog and took a savage bite. “I might.”

He sat down cross-legged and squinted toward Patrick. “Lindsey’s trying real hard to get banged behind the shed.”

“Let her. I hope she pulls a hamstring.”

Belch snorted. “Jesus, you're mean when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” you said through your mouthful. “I’m territorial. Difference.”

But before Belch could psychoanalyze that, Henry Bowers leapt up on the picnic table like an overcooked firework.

“EVERYBODY SHUT THE HELL UP!” he shouted. “I have a beautiful, life-changing idea!”

“Oh Christ,” you muttered.

Vic cut the music. Conversations died down. Steph looked like she wanted to crawl into the grill and cook herself.

Henry pointed toward the trees behind the cabin like he was Moses on a Red Bull bender. “Full moon. Ninety degrees. Everyone’s half-naked anyway. I say we go swimming.���

A pause. Then a roar of approval.

Except from Steph.

“What?” she blinked, stepping toward him. “Henry, it’s illegal to swim after dark. It’s a state park!”

Henry jumped off the table and grabbed her hand. “Oh, come on. Live a little.”

“There’s no lifeguard. It’s dangerous,” she said, glancing at you like you were gonna back her up.

You just raised your brows and licked mustard off your thumb. “What? Sounds fun.”

Steph stared. “You’re kidding.”

“Babe,” you said sweetly, “you’re the one who brought the red bikini and told me not to let you chicken out. Don’t get all valedictorian on us now.”

Henry gave you an approving nod. “Y/N gets it. Steph, you can stay here with the potato salad, or you can come make bad decisions like the rest of us.”

Steph frowned. You turned, tossed your hot dog in the grass, and started walking toward the path that led down to Fox Lake.

You didn’t wait for anyone.

Behind you, there was laughter. Footsteps. Yelling. Someone shouted, “Skinny dip!” and someone else screamed. You heard Belch yell, “If I see one snake I’m punching it,” which made zero sense.

The walk to Fox Lake was chaos.

Flip-flops slapping, beer cans cracking, Steph’s absence hanging heavy like someone forgot to pack the main dish. You kept drifting further back in the group, letting couples pair off like it was romantic full moon night instead of illegally trespassing at a state park.

You were frustrated. And horny. And hot. And not in the good way.

Patrick had been walking up ahead with Vic, going off about some band Tamara Foster’s cousin was in—some guy from Toronto, which apparently made him cool by default. Patrick had barely looked at you. Not once. Not after that kiss. Not after you stripped to your bra like a pinup in front of half the party. It was like he just…flipped some switch in his head.

God, you hated boys.

Henry took off ahead, yelling something about testing the water. Translation: he needed to go cry-sprint in the woods because Steph stayed behind. Honestly, you could sympathize.

One by one, the rest peeled off like it was a scavenger hunt for places to hook up. Marissa and Randy heard an owl and disappeared. Kristy and Matt vanished by the canoe racks. Gard and Alexa were already halfway to the raft. Which left you, Vic, and Patrick. Excellent. A dream throuple, you thought sarcastically.

Vic slapped on his headphones, mumbled something about going to the rental shack, and wandered off. Patrick jogged after him, yelling “Yo, wait up!” like you hadn’t just spent the entire walk mentally planning your slow-burn eye contact reunion.

You stood there next to a trash can, flip-flops shuffling uselessly, watching them walk away.

You almost turned around. Back to the cabin. Back to Steph’s judging eyes and the ice chest full of disappointment. But the lake was quiet, and you were tired of pretending like you didn’t care. So you took a deep breath, muttered “fuck it” under your breath, and stomped down the trail toward the dock.

The water glittered black and silver. The air smelled like pine needles and cheap body spray. You peeled off your clothes, tossed them in a damp pile on the dock, and stood there in your low-cut one-piece swimsuit like an angsty Miss America runner-up.

You dipped one toe in. It was cold. Perfect. Bracing. Like a slap in the face you didn’t know you needed.

You stood at the edge of the dock, fiddling with your hair, trying to get it up in a messy bun with your scrunchie, like that was going to help any part of your mood.

“Don’t,” someone said behind you.

You jumped a little. Spun around. Patrick was there.

Barefoot. Shirtless. In a pair of old cutoff jeans, ones that were probably once pants he ruined trying to acid-wash like Kurt Cobain. His shirt was balled up in one hand, the other one reaching for your scrunchie.

“What are you doing?” you asked, heart skipping.

He stepped forward and gently tugged the scrunchie from your fingers, tossed it on the dock. “Just leave it down. You look better when you’re not trying so hard.”

You blinked at him. “Wow, okay, backhanded much?”

He smirked. “I meant it in a good way.”

“Oh.” Your voice sounded stupid and small and not at all like the girl you were ten minutes ago.

Patrick’s gaze dropped down to your lips, then your throat. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth to say yes, but instead you stepped straight back off the dock. One second you were standing there. Next second: splash.

You hit the water like a drunk otter, ass first. Your swimsuit wedged up instantly. You came up coughing, gasping, kicking. “Jesus Christ.”

Then a bigger splash. Patrick.

His arm snaked around your waist before you could even yell. “Are you okay?! Can you—?”

“I can swim, you dick!” you yelled, choking a little, already laughing.

Patrick looked worried—like real, human emotion worried—which somehow made you more annoyed. “You didn’t have to go full Baywatch.”

“You fell,” he said, breathless, hair soaked and sticking to his face. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Let me drown like a hot mermaid,” you said dramatically, flipping your wet hair. “It would’ve been poetic.”

He barked out a laugh and let go, floating beside you. “You’re such a freak.”

“You’re the one who made me fall.”

“You tripped on your own clumsy feet.”

“You distracted me with your…face.”

Patrick tilted his head, that lazy half-smile tugging at his mouth. “My face?”

“Yeah,” you said, swimming closer. “It’s annoying.”

He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. “You’re annoying.”

You shoved him underwater.

He came up sputtering and laughing. The moonlight reflected off his wet skin.

“Jumping in all at once is better,” Patrick said, floating in front of you, legs kicking lazy circles. “Rips the Band-Aid off. You don’t think. You just... do it.”

You smirked, wiping water from your face. “You would say that. You’ve probably never hesitated in your life.”

He shrugged, winked. “No one calls you a chicken if you jump first.”

You raised your brows. “Oh, please. You love when people call you names. It gives you a reason to be a menace.”

You were treading water in front of the ladder now, half-on, half-off. The wood scraped your lower back, but you didn’t move. Not with Patrick right there—arms braced on either side of your head, hands gripping the ladder like he had you caged in.

You were talking shit, but your voice was a little breathier now. A little too fast.

“It’s not about being cold,” you said. “It’s the other stuff. Hitting your head. Not being able to see the bottom. That irrational, childhood 'oh-god-what’s-under-me' dread. It sticks.”

He tilted his head. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “You think too much.”

“You don’t think enough.”

You meant it as a joke. But it didn’t land like one.

He wasn’t smiling anymore. Just watching you, water beading down his face, chest rising slow with every breath.

“You shouldn’t be so scared all the time,” he said quietly.

You snorted. “Wow. Thanks for the groundbreaking therapy, Dr. Hockstetter.”

“No, seriously.” His tone was gentle, almost too gentle, and it made your stomach twist. “You don’t have to be scared around me.”

The moonlight turned the lake silver around you. Your heartbeat thudded in your throat.

You looked down, arms crossing over your chest like that could protect you from what he might say next. Or from what you might.

“I’m not scared of the water,” you muttered.

“What are you scared of?”

You glanced up. He was too close. Always too close.

“I’m scared of…” you started, but stopped. Your throat was dry.

The moon made the lake look like silver oil, slick and rippling. You floated in it like a dirty secret.

Your arms crossed over your chest—not out of modesty, but defense. Patrick was watching you like he could see through it. Through you.

“I’m not scared of the water,” you muttered.

He drifted closer. “What are you scared of?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t know. But because he already did.

His hand came up slowly and pressed a finger against your mouth, just soft enough to make your pulse bang against your ribs. He didn’t speak. Just looked. Then his hand moved, slow and familiar—through your wet hair, down your shoulder, tracing the strap of your suit like it was something fragile.

He touched your throat. Then your jaw. Then your mouth again. You didn’t stop him.

The ladder dug into your back, grounding you as his body leaned into yours. Hard and warm and real. The space between your faces vanished.

Right before his lips met yours, he whispered, “You don’t have to be scared.”

You blinked once. "Of you?"

He grinned. “Of how bad you want me.”

Then you kissed him. Fast. Hot. Mean. Like you were mad about it. And it didn’t stop.

Not until your legs were tangled, the ladder squeaking under your weight, and you had to whisper, breathless, “Okay, okay—clothes stay on. We’re not giving Lindsey a fucking show.”

He laughed, low and thick in his chest. “You’re no fun.”

“You’re all the fun I need,” you shot back.

And then you climbed the ladder and didn’t wait for him.

The last few notes of “Dream a Little Dream of Me” floated across the lawn. Lindsey leaned back against a pine tree like she was trying to become one with it, eyes closed, voice syrupy sweet. Moose plucked along on his guitar like he was born with strings for bones.

The crowd gave a soft ripple of applause. Belch clapped the hardest, but didn’t smile.

“Lindsey, you gotta do Show Boat or something,” he said. “That was insane.”

Lindsey offered a polite smile, already glancing toward the driveway like she expected someone. “Moose is the star. I just sing so he doesn’t have to talk.”

“Yeah, well—” Vic started, but then froze. “Oh. Speak of the devil.”

All eyes turned.

You and Patrick were walking up the drive.

Wet hair. Bare shoulders. Linked arms. Matching smirks. Like two people who had just done something they weren’t supposed to—and liked it.

“Hey Hockstetter!” Henry called out, tone way too loud. “We thought you drowned!”

Patrick didn’t even glance at him. He just squeezed your hand and kept walking.

Gard moved to stop Henry. “Let it go, man.”

But Henry turned to Belch anyway, voice low and bitter. “Y/N always tells you everything. What’s going on?”

Belch hesitated. His eyes flicked to you. Then to Patrick. His jaw twitched.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Ask them.”

“Been going on long?” Henry asked, trying to sound bored and failing.

Vic answered before anyone else could. “Since about an hour ago. Maybe less.”

Then, quieter, “About time.”

"You guys are worse than girls," Jen Niles said, smacking Belch’s arm. “God, you act like she eloped. They're just holding hands.”

Belch didn’t say anything.

Jen blinked at him. “Wait. Are you okay?”

He still didn’t answer.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She gave his arm another squeeze. He flinched like she’d startled him. “It’s not the first time friends have… you know.” Her voice softened. “Fallen for each other.”

Belch looked at her finally. His face was still slack, eyes distant, like he was watching something that hadn’t finished playing out yet.

She pulled him away from the others, into the shadows near the driveway. “Reginald,” she said again, quieter. “Talk to me. Are you upset about Y/N and Patrick?”

That snapped him out of it. “What? No.” He snorted, bent down and started fidgeting with his shoelace like it owed him money.

“Because I—”

He stood up fast and kissed her. It wasn’t fast and hungry, or slow and sweet—it was still. Just still. Like holding something in place that wanted to move. When he pulled away, he tapped her glasses gently back up the bridge of her nose. His voice was hoarse. “Don’t be ridiculous. Since you, I haven’t thought about Y/N like that. Not even once.”

Jen searched his face. “Then what is it?”

He shook his head and gave a weak tug at his baseball cap. “There’s something off,” he said, eyes scanning the driveway where you and Patrick had disappeared from view. “But it’s not about you. Or us.”

Jen crossed her arms, voice lowering. “Is it something to do with him?”

Belch didn’t answer. He finally looked at her. Not panicked. But serious. Like his stomach knew something his brain hadn’t caught up with yet.

Belch watched Jen disappear into the house, then scanned the yard like he was trying to find somewhere to breathe. He made a move toward the hammock, but spotted Steph headed that way too. She was drifting toward Henry, who stood by the volleyball net like a lonely statue, spinning a deflated ball on one finger.

Steph touched his arm—barely—and handed him a beer. Henry took it, looked at her like he might say something, then set the can on the ground and turned away.

Steph kept walking. Right toward the hammock.

Belch rerouted.

“Belch?”

He flinched.

You were standing barefoot on the grass, cheeks pink, tank top clinging to your chest like it was doing damage control. Your hair was damp, tangled, and your mouth looked like it had been kissed within an inch of its life. You looked... alive again. Really alive.

Belch blinked at you, then gave a weak smile. “Y/N, you look—” He stopped himself. Cleared his throat. “You look good.”

You bit your lip, eyes darting down. “Yeah, uh…”

Your toe dug a shallow trench in the dirt. You looked so fidgety it was almost funny, like your own skin didn’t fit right anymore.

“I’ve got a couple minutes now,” you said. “If you wanna talk or whatever. Before, I couldn’t—I just…”

“Don’t explain,” Belch cut in. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. Not really.

He scratched the back of his neck. “I thought you and Patrick were just... you know. Friends.”

You grinned, crooked and dangerous. “Me too. Until like... ten minutes ago.”

He choked on a breath, but you grabbed his hand before he could spiral.

“Come on,” you said, tugging him toward the rusted swing set your brother never used anymore. “We can talk. Or not. But I need to move or I’m gonna combust.”

You plopped down on the swing and started swaying slowly, your toes carving half-moons into the dirt. Belch sat on the one beside you, elbows on his knees, watching you out of the corner of his eye.

You weren’t looking at him, though.

You were watching Patrick, who was across the yard helping Vic load Moose’s sound equipment into the back of the truck. His shirt was still off. His back glistened under the porch lights.

“I think I broke my own rule,” you murmured.

Belch sighed. “Which one?”

You looked at him, deadpan. “The ‘no kissing friends with jawlines sharp enough to cut you in half’ rule.”

He gave a tight, short laugh. “Yeah, that one’s tricky.”

Your eyes were locked on Patrick—muscles flexing as he lifted Vic’s busted amp into the back of Moose’s pickup.

You kicked off the ground, letting the swing sway. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not when your brain still tasted lake water and Patrick’s hands were still all over your skin.

Belch cleared his throat. “Uh, Y/N…”

You tilted your head toward him, absentmindedly tracing the chain of the swing around your fingers.

“I think you were right earlier. Whatever I wanted to talk about? It’s not urgent. It can wait till next week. When you’re back in Derry, just call me, okay?”

You frowned slightly but didn’t press. “Yeah, sure. Next week.”

He stood up, brushing rust from his pants and adjusting his cap like a nervous tic. He walked across the seesaw, wobbling like a clown in slow motion, then hopped off and offered a weak grin.

“I told Jen I’d help inside. She’ll kill me if I bail.”

“Go,” you said, spinning slowly on the swing. “Tell her I said you were being a noble idiot.”

He gave a little half-wave and turned. You didn’t see the way his jaw clenched as he walked fast toward the house, or the way he kept his head down until the screen door slapped shut behind him.

He didn’t go to Jen. He didn’t help with drinks or ice or the spilled bag of popcorn on the floor.

He went to the far corner of the porch, collapsed into a busted wicker chair, and stared through the screen at you like someone watching a slow-motion accident.

Patrick was already walking toward you. You didn’t see him at first. Not until his shadow passed over your legs and he stepped behind the swing.

“You looked like you were about to throw yourself into orbit,” he said, hands gripping the chains.

“Maybe I was.”

“You want me to push?”

“Only if you don’t mind me screaming bloody murder.”

He leaned down, real close to your ear. “You screaming doesn’t scare me.”

You turned to say something cocky back, but he was already pushing—gently at first, then higher, and higher, until your shrieks bounced off the trees and had you wheezing with laughter, feet kicking like a maniac.

Belch watched from the shadows. Your hair was flying. You looked wild and happy and dangerous.

You looked happy. And that scared him more than anything.

Because Patrick Hockstetter was dangerous. Not in the funny, Vic Criss sense. Not in the pull-my-fire-alarm Henry Bowers way. Patrick didn’t care about people. He didn’t feel things. And whatever was happening between you two? It wasn’t harmless.

Belch knew that look Patrick had. He’d seen it before—when Patrick tormented a kid in middle school until he transferred. When he laughed during a fight. When he smiled too long after a girl cried.

You weren’t just some girl he kissed in the lake. You were a game.

And Belch had made it worse. Because this morning, at the Center Street Drug Store, Pete Gordon had shown up—nervous, pale, hands in his pockets like he was fourteen again.

“Is she seeing anyone?” Pete had asked. “Is it serious?”

And Belch—stupid, protective Belch—had said, “Not yet. But let me talk to her first.”

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t say Patrick’s. He just hoped maybe, maybe, you’d want something safer. Someone who meant it. Because he knew you and Patrick would never get together, not really

But now he was watching you twirl in the swing, your head tilted back in full-blown girlish delight—and Patrick was behind you, smirking like he owned the night.

Belch swallowed hard.

“Goddamn it, Y/N,” he whispered. “Please don’t fall for him.”

Because Patrick Hockstetter wasn’t the kind of boy you fell for. He was the kind of boy you disappeared into.

Patrick let the swing slow on its own. His hand still gripped the chain beside your shoulder, warm and steady.

You didn’t look back at him, not yet. You were too afraid he’d be looking at you like he meant something. Or worse—like he didn’t.

The party was still alive behind you—music, laughter, the occasional beer can cracking open like a gunshot in the dark—but you weren’t really there anymore. You were in that space between skin and want, between the night you thought you’d have and the one you’d ended up with.

You leaned your head back against the chain, your voice low. “We’re never gonna be boyfriend and girlfriend.”

Patrick didn’t answer. You didn’t need him to. You didn’t believe in fairy tales. You believed in moments. In heat. In two a.m. mistakes that tasted like power. You and Patrick weren’t a story. You were a pause. An in-between.

Sure, you’d kissed him. Sloppy, hands-all-over-each-other kisses. You’d straddled him once in the back of Moose’s truck, dared him to make you moan with your clothes still on—and he almost had. Almost.

But that's it, save for tonight. So far. And now that he’d touched your waist in the water, now that you’d let him mouth your name like it was a dare... you knew it was coming.

You weren’t scared of that. You were scared of what came after. Because Patrick wasn’t meant to hold anything gentle. And you weren’t meant to fall softly.

You pressed your bare foot against the dirt and let the swing drift to a stop. He still hadn’t let go. And neither would you.

[svtskneecaps]

i'm trying to think if we managed to get any "high school musical" type forbidden lovers from the realm. like we have the faction system where are my "he's a JOCK, you can't date him" lovers.

mocha and pangi don't count cause there was never any significant pushback from green or red.

aimsey and ros don't count bc again no significant pushback (owen doesn't count he was shitstirring on purpose)

fit and pac ALMOST count considering green and yellow are always at each others' throats, except neither of them log in long enough for there to even BE ANY pushback, so i can't count them.

like. what are the other options. cmon. where's my stick to the status quo dance number in the faction base. we have a faction system and a server that talks abt lovers ad nauseum. cmon. money where your mouth is.

[huivsharik]

•° 𝑃𝑒𝑑𝑜𝑣𝑘𝑎°•

Part 2. (the final)

The shade falling from the trees hardly saved from the heat. You stop when you spot a grocery store nearby.

-It's too hot, should we go buy some water?

-Wait at the store.

Before Hockstetter could finish listening, he was already heading towards the store, and you were still standing in the shade, under a tree. Taking a notebook out of her bag, she made a kind of fan out of it to cool down somehow. Pulling her hair back into a low ponytail, she noticed that he hadn't been there for a long time and reluctantly moved forward, but Patrick had already left the store with two bottles of water.

-Let me guess, you didn't buy them, did you?

-You're so smart. - Pat smiles, holding out a small, icy bottle of water.

— Okay.

The guy just shrugged his shoulders and you continued on your way in silence, which caused some discomfort. You decided to speak first because you still didn't understand Patrick's desire to walk.

-Why would you come home with me?

-I just wanted to go for a walk. I thought so, because we've crossed paths so many times, but we've never had a good conversation

-If you hadn't pinched me in front of everyone and didn't always call me by your idiotic nickname, maybe communication would have developed.

-It's already formed, isn't it? - Patrick takes a few small steps forward and turns his back to the road, keeping his eyes on you.

-I don't have a choice, you're not going to leave me alone.

Hockstetter grinned at your hand with the burn.

-We have double burns, it turns out

Patrick found it funny, and you even thought there was a glimmer of delight in his eyes. He thought there was nothing wrong with that, so he didn't even think to apologize, considering you were to blame, because your instinct for self-preservation didn't save you in time.

-How did you come up with that? I'm amazed, Hockstetter. You make me think that all the rumors around Derry about you are true.

-Then you're stupid to come with me at all. - Patrick tilts his head to the side, returning to his previous position, and walks slowly so that you can keep up with him.

-Make up your mind already.

-You have cigarettes. Won't you share it?

In the distance, you could see the red, familiar roof of the bridge, and you just exhale painfully, turning your head sharply in Patrick's direction.

-Where the fuck are you going, do you even know that it's far from our street, or did you do it on purpose? - ignoring the request of a former classmate, you walked faster, inspired at least by the fact that it was relatively dark inside, and therefore cool.

-I wanted to talk, but we still have time to get there. - Hockstetter stopped, stretched and continued to walk after you, towards the bridge.

Once inside, you sat down on the asphalt, leaning against the cold wall, and exhaled softly, putting a bottle of barely cool water to your neck. She lowered her head, looking at her hand. If you go home, you will have to travel exactly the same distance as you walked, if not more. You didn't have the energy to fight with Patrick, so for a while you just ignored his presence. He stood casually nearby, kicking pebbles, occasionally glancing at you, as if he was waiting for something. When the body cooled down, and the wind that passed through the bridge from behind passing cars gently blew over the heated body, you still raised your head to look at Patrick.

-Take it. - Taking a pack out of your pocket, you hand Patrick a cigarette. He sauntered over to you, took it, put it between his lips, took out your lighter, and lit a cigarette.

-Are you going to return it? - Hockstetter turns around in disbelief , looking into your eyes, as if you just said something stupid.

It was the first time in your memory that you could look at Patrick like that, even if it was only for a few seconds, but they were too long, which was enough for you. What was more striking was how calm he was, even thoughtful, which was unusual for him. Or, it was all about the Bowers Gang, which to some extent negatively influenced him.

-I'll take it back, I lost mine.

You already opened your mouth to express your displeasure, but in the end you just exhaled heavily, resigned to the fact that you would buy a new one.

-To hell with her.

Hockstetter nods, agreeing with your words, and silently smokes a cigarette. You would have lit a cigarette for company, too, but you didn't have the slightest desire yet, being in your thoughts. Patrick wasn't verbose either, and he looked like he wanted to say something but didn't dare.

-I haven't told anyone, but I have a strange feeling.. - as if reading your mind, Hockstetter pulls you out of your thoughts, and now you're focused on him and his words, because it's not every day you talk to a school psycho (even though you've denied it in every way) in such a surprisingly, almost calm environment.

You nodded slowly, making it clear that you were listening, and your hand reached for the pack of cigarettes to take one out. Patrick turns the chair around, lighting a cigarette for you, holding his gaze on your face for a few seconds, but after that his gaze turned back to nothing in front of him.

-I want to tell you because I feel like something is going to happen. And why do you?.. -The guy looked at the smoldering cigarette, asking himself a question.

I guess you seem a little more real to me compared to everyone else. But you're still far from that. Hockstetter turns his head in your direction, now openly examining you.

There was nothing superfluous in his gaze, not even interest. It was rather an indifferent look, not seeing anything important and interesting in front of him.

-I haven't told anyone, and I don't think I ever would.

You stare at him uncomprehendingly, ready to get up and go on your way, even though you knew it was pointless to some extent.

Hockstetter's thoughts were blown away, and you chuckled under your breath, realizing that you had misled him, or even pushed him away, but a hunch popped into your head.

-..Are you trying to tell me that it's all true? -You almost hiccuped at your words. The agonizing silence made my whole body goosebumps, shook violently, as if there was a terrible frost outside, while you silently looked into each other's eyes. The question didn't need an answer, it was a kind of confession for Hockstetter, which usually happens when the killer feels that there is no forgiveness for his actions, and even more so there is no way to start all over again, because he himself gave up on himself. You felt it, but you always denied the essence of Patrick because you weren't close to him. Yes, you saw inappropriate behavior, but you thought it was a period that everyone was going through, but it turned out to be much worse than anyone could have imagined.

Hockstetter notices the change in your face, and now he's wary, too. You get up from the asphalt without even shaking yourself off, moving away from the guy, as if this could calm you down and make you safe, but a sticky feeling of fear took over with you. Patrick didn't look like such a harmless idiot anymore, you saw a serious personality, the personality of an established murderer.

-What of everything?

-Almost everyone, many people don't know something. - Patrick gets up from the asphalt after you and takes a few steps towards you, and you stand rooted to the ground.

You backed away from Hockstetter, looking into his eyes. I hoped to see regret in them, but there was none. His gray-green eyes were almost calm, and he immediately grabbed your shoulder so that you couldn't pull away.

-Let me go. - You cut it off firmly, without raising your head.

Patrick frowns, hugging you to him, it was like a hug, but at any moment you expected that a folding knife would be in your back, or your throat would be decorated with a cut.

-I've always really liked you, you stood out from the others, and even killing animals didn't give me as much pleasure and interest as the thought of me picking your flesh with a knife. You know, you're not a stupid girl, you can't eradicate that from me, I live by it.

-Step back, Patrick. Please.. - your voice starts to tremble treacherously, tears come to your eyes, but you controlled yourself as best you could.

There was usually always a spark in Hockstetter's gray-green eyes that expressed the usual excitement, a desire to mess with you, but now, when he squeezed you in his grip, all the signals at once began to ring in your head, piercing the alarm. To run. Run, run, run and don't turn around.

-It's a pity that things are turning out this way, but everything is too complicated. And you can't be real. You can't..

The guy pulls away, not letting go of you, pressing his fingers firmly on your shoulders. Here it is, the very moment. Adrenaline surged in your blood, you miraculously twisted out and took off. The blood was boiling in your ears, you were running as fast as you could. Patrick's height played a big role, and it wouldn't have been difficult for him to catch up with you, almost at the same moment you heard his angry screams as he ran after you. You're racing, trying not to turn in any direction. You know the city well, and almost all the nooks and crannies, but rushing like a wounded antelope, while a veil of tears covered your eyes, blocking your entire view, you barely make out the road, eventually falling on the asphalt, breaking your knees in blood.

-Damn it. - The pain signal has not yet reached the brain, due to the adrenaline rush, but attempts to get up are not crowned with success. Patrick's screams can no longer be heard, but that doesn't mean it's over. A plot is already forming in my head, as Patrick comes up from behind, grabs you by the hair, and cuts your throat, and only on the third attempt do you manage to get up, dragging along the road. Your nervous system malfunctions and you start crying, smearing mascara on your face. You can see the street and the house in the distance, but you're not sure if Hockstetter won't jump out from around the corner, holding a folding knife in his hands.

You managed to reach home, but even within its walls you didn't feel safe, not now that this has happened to you, and Patrick knows your house. There was no one there, which made you uneasy, because if you have to spend the night alone, it's not the best idea. The sun was setting, going below the horizon, you close and check all the locks several times, and only after that you go up to the bathroom to treat and bandage the wounds. All the procedures took you about an hour. After getting out of the shower, you're still sobbing anxiously, glancing at your home phone. First you need to call your parents, and then call the police. The horn sounded twice, and there was no response, but a familiar car was parked in the courtyard. For a moment, you thought it was Bowers' blue car, but you breathed a sigh of relief when you saw your mom getting out of the car.

It took a long time for you to tell your father and mother the whole situation in detail, breaking into tears, in order to finally decide that you will go to the police station in the morning.

After going to your room, you couldn't sleep for a long time because of the aching pain in your knees. There were periods when you were shaking, as if from the cold, or you were hot, forcing you to throw off the blanket. The hands of the clock were already showing the second hour of the night, and with great effort, you began to fall asleep. Due to a sharp blow on the window, your heart starts pounding fast, and for a few seconds you stare thoughtlessly at one point before getting up and going to the window, which was not the best decision.

Your lighter was lying on the windowsill, and under it was a piece of paper on which it was written: "I'm sorry that I didn't finish what I started."

Your body feels like it's being electrocuted again, and you don't sleep until you have to go to the station. You put your lighter in your dresser, but you decided to take the note with you.

Your eyes were red from lack of sleep and shed tears, which made you look depressed and tired. While your parents stopped at the gas station, you got out of the car, deciding to sit on a bench in the shade.

Nearby, you notice a woman gluing a poster onto a pole. When she walks away, you see a familiar face, and you begin to understand everything.

"Missing boy, Patrick Hockstetter, 15 years old"

He didn't come home yesterday. Another missing person who almost killed you, who returned your lighter in the middle of the night.

If Patrick is no longer alive, even if that's not the case, Hockstetter will always remain a sick bastard in your head, from whom you miraculously managed to escape. The secret of which you managed to find out, even if not completely. He opened your eyes at the very last moment, and now it will never be an ordinary bully with a bunch of bullies.

And his loss has brought you, and perhaps many others, relief.

[v4vile]

—⠀⠀‘yo,⠀would it be okay if i borrowed this?⠀just for a few days.’

ONE-LINER 4 @kissmedcadly <3