How Pennywise (2017,) Venom, Brahms Heelshire, and Canydman react to their s/o having a seizure
(For anon)
Pennywise
At first, he’d probably think you were doing it on purpose and would find it humorous. After seeing that it was serious, the shapeshifter would... well, he’d do everything wrong. Although he can see what you fear, he can’t see how to help it so he’d just go off of alien instinct and you’d probably need to see a doctor. He’d try, and he’d fail.
Venom
Venom absolutely would not understand what was going on with your human body. He’d know that you weren’t well and would try to help, but would probably make things worse. Whether he’s your symbiote or not, he’s taking over. You’d probably have to guide him on what to do once you came to because he would be stressed.
Brahms
Having spent nearly all of his life alone in walls, Brahms would have some knowledge about what to do. He’d do the bit of proper CPR that he knew. He’d be mostly calm, but inside he’d definitely be panicking. He’d even consider calling emergency services, but he’d wait to make sure it was necessary.
Candyman
He’d be worried, for sure, but he’d also remain calm. Although he wouldn’t know exactly what to do, he’d try his best to make sure that you didn’t injure yourself. His instincts would be pretty spot on, too. Once it passed, he’d gently move you to wherever nearby was the most comfortable and ask you what you needed from him.
A/n: on the off chance that y'all know about butcher shops and meat or whatever, im so sorry cause even though i did a bunch of research, I know it's still pretty inaccurate so please don't come for me 😂 EDIT: I am crying cause I have 950 followers 🥺🥺🥺 I love each and every one of you guys, thank you so much babes 💞
Warnings: Alv*n Marsh being Alv*n Marsh. He briefly leers at reader. There's no comment, but it still needs a warning i feel. Also, long ass chapter. I truly don't know how to write short chapters, yall. Brief mention of animal death (natural causes) and signs of a PTSD attack. Marker for PTSD attack will be labeled [●●●]. Safe reading loves
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
- 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟗 -
ℕ𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕝𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕥 of Costello Avenue Market, sandwiched between Terry's Barber Shop and one of the finer footwear retailers in town, was Derry's very own, Quality Meats. A quaint little shop - as quaint as butcher shops come, that is - right smack in the middle of the street, just across the road from the Capitol Theater. It was always a treat for Y/n L/n when the annual fourth of July parade was in full swing, she always had the best seat in the house from her bedroom window. It sat just above the shop, and truly had the best view overlooking the street. But the parade was weeks away, and it couldn't come soon enough.
For now, she was stuck in her daily routine at her father's butchery. Every morning it was her job to prep the shop before it opened, check the stock, and assure that everything was in order. Her father oversaw the shop but most of his time was devoted to preparing and tending to the meat in the back. This also left the task of receiving, inspecting, and storing meat upon delivery to her.
Her favorite part of the week. Because it meant seeing her favorite person, Mike Hanlon. He was the delivery boy who supplied some of their best selections, straight from the famous Hanlon Homestead. But this was not what thrilled her, what thrilled her was the company of the thoughtful boy. They had met the previous year when her father had hired him for deliveries, Mike had just taken up work at his grandparent's farm and the two quickly hit it off.
Mike was her saving grace. She never had the stomach for her father's work, and despite their weekly heated arguments on the matter, she'd get stuck with the tasks. At the very least, he didn't force her to work in the back in the meat locker. Not anymore. He had learned that lesson the hard way when he dragged her in despite her kicking and squirming - he figured she was just being dramatic, throwing a fit. But low and behold, it all ended with him clearing out the locker for sterilization when she got sick.
Now the only times she ever stepped foot inside was to get to the back door, which is something she didn't do - something she couldn't do - without plugging her nose and blocking out her peripheral vision as she slipped through the back door to greet her best friend.
An occasion, she feared, that she faced as she glanced impatiently at the clock on the wall for the fourth time on this hot June day. Mike was usually pulling up outside the store by now, hell, she clocked out at four to spend time with Mike and it was already three forty-five. Well, three forty-eight according to the shop's clock which one could always rely to be just three minutes fast no matter how much you reset it.
From her spot behind the counter, she had a limited view of the sidewalk outside. A variety of people passed, but none of them were Mike, the person she most wanted to see. And it certainly didn't help that a crowd of people were bunching up near the door, blocking her view of the window.
Three sharp notes from the counters bell broke her from her trance, throwing her harshly back to reality. A rather intimidating man stood on the other side of the counter, he was quite tall and everything about him put Y/n on edge.
"Sorry sir," Y/n mumbled, not feeling very sorry at all. "How can I help you, today?"
The man seemed to rethink his anger, though she would have preferred it over the new look on his leathery face. A wry smile stretched his lips and Y/n did not fail to notice his wandering gaze, only proving her first impressions to be correct. She felt her skin crawl and she did not fight the disgusted look cementing on her face.
"Just don't let it happen again, sweetheart. Now listen up, I'm in a hurry," Christ, she thought, even his voice is unnerving. "I need a pound and a half of the ground round beef."
"Right away, sir," she says, through gritted teeth. "One moment,"
Y/n hated when people ordered when her father was in the back, even though it happened often. Not just because she despised such tasks as grinding the meat and preparing it, but talking to the customers was never a favorite of hers. This was a fine example why.
Instead, she slipped into the back where they kept their stock that wasn't on display and began preparing the meat with a wrinkled nose.
"Fucking creep," she mumbled.
She wished she could say this was the first time something like this had happened, but unfortunately, Derry was filled with scummy people. Something did seem familiar about him though, she might have seen him here before. It'd make sense, Quality Meats was the only butchers around for miles.
Deciding she didn't want to dwell on it any longer, her mind began to wander. Anything that wasn't the man waiting out front really, thankfully that was easy enough. Hopefully, the rest of her workday would go by much quicker so she could meet with Mike. He said he had a surprise for her, and she had been wondering about it all day. The very thought fills her stomach with butterflies. Well, Mike did that all on his own, anyway. He always brought out that side of her. A bubbly, giddy side of her that always seemed to lose any sense of time around him.
Just ten more minutes, she thought. Just power through.
With the order all prepared, she returns to the front counter to find the man leaning against the counter in boredom. Great, now I have to redo the counters, too. When he spotted her, he straightened up and gave her a disapproving once over.
"What took you so long? I'm in a hurry. Fixing your hair couldn't wait, or something?"
Oh, a sexist fucking creep, she mentally corrected herself.
A snarl curled its way onto her face, but before she could make a bitter remark her dad's voice boomed across the shop.
"Well, if it ain't Alvin Marsh," The man in question moved his attention to Y/n's father, and remarkably enough, a somewhat friendly smile appeared on his face. "Good to see ya,"
"You too, always a pleasure,"
Y/n watched the exchange with shocked uncertainty. It frankly appalled her that this man was capable of being friendly, and even in such limited time in his presence. More importantly, she wondered, how could her father know this man? Why would her father know this man? Everything about this Alvin Marsh guy set her teeth on edge, and the only word coming to her mind for how to describe him was... slimy.
"So," the butcher asked, gesturing around the shop. "is there anything I might be able to help you with? Or has my daughter taken care of you, already?"
Y/n watched with great disdain as the man returned to her with another pointed look, glancing down at the packaged meat ready to go. He looks as if he's mulling it over, and finally, he clicks his tongue.
"Sure," he nods, looking back to her father, chuckling dryly with one elbow back on the counter. "when she found the time,"
"Ah, I see," He nods, sending a disapproving look to his daughter.
"Y/n," he sighs, nodding in the direction of the back of the shop, still a stern look upon his face. "Go wash up and clock in early, I'll take care of Mr. Marsh, and the rest."
Her mouth parted, ready to argue - not out of disappointment, for there was none, but to defend herself - when her father cut her off with a warning look.
"Now?"
She sighed heavily, her head rolling with her eyes as her arms snaked around to her back to untie her apron. At least she didn't have to pretend to care anymore now that she was technically off the clock. Her feet dragged across the ground subconsciously showing her frustration. As she made her way to the back when she heard that godawful grating voice again.
"Unbelievable, isn't it? There's just no respect anymore."
Y/n rolls her eyes when she hears her father chuckle. She sighs as turns the corner and hangs her apron up.
"Yeah, I got one of my own at home. Gorgeous little one, feisty too. But one hell of a mouth. Real bitch sometimes,"
Wide-eyed, and seeing red, Y/n is unable to take any more and heads farther back, slamming the door behind her, not caring if she took the fall for it later. Hell, she just might take the meat locker over that. She's shaking with rage, and his words echo in her skull still as she washes her hands. Her hands begin to sting and she realizes she had lost herself in thought and was just about to wear her skin down under the water as she scrubbed. Y/n shook her head, killing the water and drying her hands when her mind finally manages to break away from the creep when she thinks of the time.
Fuck, it's already five!
Quickly, she heads for the door to the meat locker, her nose already plugged when she pushes it open. Luckily, these trips were always fairly quick given the back door to the ally was just a few steps away, but what she saw when she stepped inside completely threw her through a loop.
The back door was wide open.
Upon first glance, she figured her father had opened it, and even though that was the most logical explanation, it didn't make sense. He never left it open. Not when he wasn't there. He was a stickler about that. Her head whips around the locker, but she was the only one. Fighting the urge to take an anxious deep breath, she creeps forward and peers around the corner, not knowing what to expect.
Her E/C eyes widen happily and relieved when she realizes it was only Mike. But her happiness vanished just as soon as it had come when she saw the state he was in, nevermind the fact he was laying in the heap of recycling!
"Mike!"
He jumped as she stepped out into the light, the entrance to the meat locker was quite dark from where he sat. And before he knew it was her, all he had seen was something moving in the shadows towards him. Y/n felt her heart tighten at the sight, something clearly must have happened, and it must have been bad for him to be startled by her.
Not unlike herself, though, he seemed to calm significantly when he realized who he was in company with. And yet, he still wasn't speaking. His eyes just bore into the darkness of the entrance, still panting heavily. Thick beads of sweat slid down his face.
"Mike," she knelt beside him, subtly checking for any signs of injury. "what happened?"
"I..." he gulps, finally breaking his gaze away and looking at her. "don't know."
Her eyebrows raise a bit higher in question, and curiously she searches his eyes. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Despite the comfort of her gaze, he breaks himself away from it to look back into the dark abyss, fearing It would come back. Whatever It was. And as he does so, he swears he can still hear the rattling of the chains and the bleating of a goat, and the very very very back of his skull was the chilling sound of a clowns laugh.
"Mike?"
He realizes he hasn't answered her yet, and quickly he shakes his head 'no'.
"Here, let me help you," she rises to her feet, extending her hand.
He gladly takes it, and despite his lingering fear from his encounters, she still manages to send a spark through his skin just with her touch. Little did he know, she felt the same way. Y/n pulls him to his feet, and already, his attention is centering away from the locker and towards her. She's watching him carefully, and only now does he fully process the intensity of the worry held in her eyes.
"I-I think I'm okay," he stammers, chest still heaving with his labored breathing. "really."
Y/n nods after a moment, concluding he must be telling the truth. Over time she had picked up on Mike's body language, including all of his tells. For instance, she could usually tell when he was hiding something. He'd always tug or scratch at his ear. Or when he was lying, the ends of his lips would twitch up. Almost as if subconsciously offering a guilty smile before quickly suppressing it. But Y/n found no such thing, and she felt the muscles in her shoulders relax.
"Good," she sighs with a weak smile, her eyes falling to the ground. "Here,"
Her hand leaves his and immediately, they both miss each other's touch but say nothing of it. She steps around him and begins picking up the many packages of meat that had spilled out of the basket. He joins her, just as soon.
"Oh," he steals a glance at her, a small smile creeping up on him. "thanks."
It goes away just as fast, his heart still aches from how hard it had been beating. Y/n does not fail to notice his darting glances over her shoulder at the meat locker. They both rise to their feet, and Y/n casts a confused glance over her shoulder before turning back to him.
"Are you sure you're good, Mike? You don't seem yourself,"
He sighs, not entirely sure himself. His shoulders rise and fall in a shrug, and his lips part to speak but the words die in his throat when he hears the sudden and obnoxious revving of an engine nearby. He flinches, head jerking in the direction of the sound.
A ghostly expression washes over Y/n, and her anger visibly rises in seconds.
"Was it Bowers, again?" She scoffs, just enraged at the thought of him and she even begins to stammer as she grasps for an insult, anger clouding her brain."That-That bigoted fucking... dickhole!"
She stomps her foot and huffs, unable to properly deal with the overwhelming amount of anger and exhaustion building up in her. Mike looks at her with the tiniest hint of a bemused expression. His brow shot up and he almost felt a chuckle come out. Almost.
"Dickhole?"
"I know, I know," She chuckles dryly, the ends of her lips twitching up. "Shut up,"
The chuckle in his chest breaks loose and he feels as if another piece of stress has been chipped away. A long process in the making, but it was better now that she was here. Mike had yet to find out, the same went for Y/n. Mike placed the packages he had collected thus far back into his basket and Y/n popped her head back inside to grab a small bin by the door. She brought the small container over, placing the few packs of meat she carried inside and the two filled it in a matter of seconds. Any trace of a smile has fallen off her face as she looks back up at her best friend, shrugging.
"Well, he is," she defends. "All of them are. They're wrong in the head, Mike,"
"Can't argue with that," He shrugs, sending a grimace down the alleyway where the Bowers gang had just disappeared. "Need any help?"
"Nah, I got it. Thanks though," she grabs the bin, holding it against her frame and sends him a short smile. "Be right back,"
He answers with a curt nod, his sweaty palms unknowingly rubbing against his jeans out of nervous habit. She disappears back into the darkness, and Mike immediately feels the weight her absence leaves. The guard she had coaxed down had returned, plaguing his mind as several scenarios spiral out in his brain.
He couldn't tell her about the clown, he'd sound crazy! Hell, maybe he was. At least that's a what small voice told him in the back of his head, but deep down he knew what he saw was real. Real to him. Shaking that terrifying image from his brain would be harder than he thought.
Don't forget the turtle.
Mike shook his head, bewildered at the intrusive reminder his brain sent him. It was a strange sensation like the thought was not his own. It was a gentle voice speaking directly to his subconscious like a radio with interference. And yet, it didn't frighten Mike. Not at all like the dark, intrusive thoughts that had been occurring lately. This was soothing and gentle. Nonetheless, the message sent his hand flying for his pockets.
Relief swept over him when he felt the small lump in his right pocket where the gift resided. He smiled to himself at the thought of giving it to Y/ n. He had been working on it all year, a small wooden turtle he had carved himself in the many free moments he had stolen on his grandparent's farm. Mike couldn't quite pinpoint the exact moment he had decided to make a turtle, or that it would come to be such a big secret he would keep until he could give it to her. He had just sat down one day and started carving as if something had compelled him to do so.
And now here he was, ready to give her the small carved necklace. Mike was quite proud of it, not only was it his first carving but he had managed to secure it nicely in a thin - but sturdy - string of twine. Mike takes the time to spare a glance at the darkened doorway where his best friend disappeared, before his hand descends into his pocket, his heart hammering against his chest. His hand fishes amongst the pocket of denim and lint where his fingers find the cool touch of wood and twine. He pulls out the necklace and it dangles in the air as he carefully inspects it.
Was the twine fastened tight enough? Was the belly of the shell smooth enough where it would rest comfortably on her chest without splintering? Most importantly... Would she like it?
He sure hoped she would, given her connection to the reptile. She spoke often of it, the turtle that visited her dreams. Y/n never thought much of it, it had become merely a topic of conversation meant only for small lulls but she did find it funny the reoccurring figure. She described it as being the same turtle somehow, and it was never a threatening presence but a calm one. Like a guardian almost. It was a small and silly feeling that abandoned her by the time she was up and awake but little did she - or Mike - know just how deep the connection ran.
These were all thoughts that flooded Mike's mind but he quickly has to put them and himself at ease. The hiss of the airlock to the meat locker and the backroom reached his ears and quickly he stuffed the necklace back into his pockets. When Y/n returns, looking far less than relaxed do all of his previous worries evaporate into the humid summer air. His hardened stare never leaves her troubled frown as she locks up the side door, all the while he grabs his bike.
The pair falls into a comfortable silence as they head for the back of the alley where Y/n's bike was hidden. All that hung in the air was her defeated sigh that had accumulated after a long and stressful day, and the buzzing of cars as they passed by on the main road behind them. His worries now gone in the wake of her newfound stress he pulls up a curious brow as he walks his bike alongside her.
"Rough day?"
Y/n laughs dryly, nodding to her best friend as they round the corner and picks up her bike. "You could say that."
· · ─── ·𖥸· ─── · ·
The town of Derry was quaint and rather cozy upon first glance. Quite a charming spot on the map with its snug downtown streets filled with local businesses such as Quality Meats. And one couldn't help but admire the long and beautiful running waters of the Kenduskeag stream that bled out from the Penobscot River, under the town and out into the Barrens stretching past the old train yard. The Barrens were the stretch of woods just outside of town.
And it was precisely these woods that the pair had found solace in the cruel and evil world they called their home. Months after their meeting, they had both explored the Barrens and to their luck, they had stumbled upon the Fort. The Fort was what Y/n and Mike called the large pit they had discovered past the train yard and just over the stream. You had to swing across an old rope swing they had found, but that made journey all the more fun. They almost hadn't seen the Fort behind the fallen trees walled around and piled over the top.
The way the trees had fallen it had created a rather spacious room just below the earth. When inside, one could see through the branches slats and out into the rest of the Barrens without being easily spotted. It made the perfect hideout from those who wished to see them harmed, and it also made a wonderful makeshift amphitheater. It was often they would look up from their conversations and see the wildlife walking around just feet away, still unaware of their presence.
This is where they found themselves now, deep amongst the thickets, far away from their everyday troubles. It wasn't until they had abandoned their bikes at the stream to cross and venture deeper inside did they finally feel the effects of the change in scenery. At long last, the weight that settled on their hearts and troubled minds began to evaporate slowly as they inhaled the fresh and pleasantly overwhelming aroma of pine and fresh dirt. It blended perfectly with the dewy oak that hung in the air after the past week's summer storm, as did the gentle breeze that managed to reach them after a long journey through the trees.
The sight of the Fort puts the last of their darkest thoughts to bed - for now. The crunching of twigs is the only sound that reaches their ears as they approach their haven. It is then that it occurs to Y/n, the birds have stopped singing. Come to think of it, she hadn't heard any birds in weeks. It was quite unusual considering these woods of all places were where their song carried the loudest. It was as if they were all... hiding.
She realized even the atmosphere felt different, and not just in the Barrens. It had been a thought blooming in the back of her mind for the past few months; that the town had been cast into a dark shadow. While Y/n had lived in Derry all her life, it had always felt mysterious to her. But this was different, it was darker. Like a cloudless storm had rolled into Derry, with no intention of leaving.
Mike brought her from her trance, pulling her gaze back down to earth from where it was previously fixed on the treetops.
"I feel it, too."
"What do you think it is?" Y/n asks finally.
Mike's lips crease into a flat shrug, eyes flitting to the ground as his shoulders briefly rise.
"I don't know," he sighs, his gaze trailing up to where hers laid in the treetops as if expecting to see this so-called storm with his very eyes. "But it's nothing good,"
Her hardened frown turns back to the forest floor, blinking several times as she reached for a thought that was fast asleep in the farthest corner of her brain. It almost didn't even feel like a thought so much as a part of her brain itself. But it quickly dissipates as calm washes over her, taking with it any budding anxieties. She could almost laugh, none of this made sense. Y/n had been waiting all day to be here with Mike, and now she was.
Y/n wasn't going to let anything ruin that. Or so she hoped.
A coy smile plays at her lips as she picks up her pace towards the Fort, and swiftly she navigates through their hidden entrance. Her hopeful attitude is just infectious enough that it takes to Mike, and warmth blooms in his stomach as he quickly follows her. His feet bring him to the entrance of the Fort, and through the slats, he can see Y/n settling in.
The sight of her relaxing brought a small smile to Mike's face, and quickly he joined her inside. The welcoming effect of the Fort just as soon touched him as it had her, and never had he been more relieved to see the sight around him.
Soft light from the gas lantern bathed the small dome inside the earth, illuminating the many mossy branches perched above their heads. Several discarded wooden boards lay tucked into the dirt beneath their feet, creating makeshift wooden floors that had long been covered in several spare blankets they had brought. While the dome was just that, it was not a perfect circle. It was a bit uneven but this gave the pair the advantage of a single corner. This is where they kept the single beanbag they had managed to get their hands on.
It was just as they had left it, a warm and cozy corner of the world that belonged just to them. It smelled just as the forest around them, only more intensified in their close courters.
[●●●●]
Y/n stumbled away from the bean bag suddenly with a horrified shriek, her band coming to rest shakily over her mouth as she backed into the dirt wall behind her. Mike jumped to her side, eyes wide and fearful as his mind conjured every horrible possibility. The fear from the alley returned.
"What? What's wrong?"
A heavy sob was building in the far back of her throat, her wide e/c irises were beginning to dilate and her limbs trembled. Mike recognized within moments what had caused her such distress, having recognized an attack of hers like this only twice before. But the pain of seeing her so distraught was burned in his brain so he might never forget. His hand that had come to rest on her shoulder now brought her into his embrace. As she stumbled numbly into his arms he saw her eyelids screw shut, and several heavy tears were squeezed free.
"Hey," he whispered soothingly, his hand rubbing circles in her back. "Hey, it'll be okay. You're not there anymore, you're not there. You're not there..."
Slowly but surely her breathing becomes less ragged, and he can feel her head nodding into the crook of his neck as she takes in his words. Y/n's sniffles are loud in his ear but he couldn't care less. Mike just wanted her to be okay. He only now realizes he was still muttering sweet nothings into her ear as he feels his mouth grow dry.
"We're okay, Y/n. You're safe."
She takes a long and trembling breath that he can feel in the crook of his neck. Her breath brings out goosebumps on his skin but he quickly banishes the thought away in her troubled state. When she speaks, her voice is barely audible, even from beside his ear.
"Thanks, Mike,"
All he can find himself doing is pressing a flat smile to his lips, his eyes glazing over sadly at the limp pigeon in the corner behind the beanbag. The sight brings a strong and forceful wave of sadness that washes over him, but he knows it is not quite the same kind of sadness as she is experiencing. Finally, after almost twenty minutes have passed, she breaks away, sniffling.
Mike feels the weight on his heart triple in size when she pulls away to reveal her puffy eyelids. The whites of her eyes are laced with red veins, and her trembling lips let loose a few shaky breaths. Immediately, she does all she can to wipe away the tears, but the evidence of her sadness remains. She shakes her head, disappointed in letting herself show this side and chuckles bitterly as she clutches her aching chest.
[●●●●]
"I'm sorry,"
"No," he says, shaking his head. "Don't do that, okay? You should never apologize for this. For feeling anything. You have your own baggage, just like everyone else."
She chews the inside of her lip in a nervous habit, heat creeping up in her neck.
"Sor-"
He eyes her warningly, and she bites back a sheepish smile and clears her throat. "Okay."
He studies her for a moment, not aware he is even doing so as her swollen eyes trail sadly across the room where the pigeon lays. He can hear a mournful whine building in her throat before he cleared his own with a somber expression.
"It's okay, I'll take care of 'em."
A weak, thankful smile flickers across her face and she watches thoughtfully as he rises and crosses the fort to the pigeon. He grabs one of the spare towels they kept around - sometimes the old rags they spread across the wooden grates would need a quick replacement, as they discovered the hard way - and knelt before the limp bird. Y/n finally rises to her feet decidedly and slips past Mike and outside the Fort without a word, a rusty trowel now in hand.
· · ─── ·𖥸· ─── · ·
The pair now stood before a small lump in the dirt, their heads pulled down with gravity as they stare at their feet. After Y/n had dug a small grave, Mike had buried the old pigeon, and the two had managed a small eulogy. Hosting a small funeral for a pigeon is certainly not what the two had envisioned their day would look like, but oddly enough, it was cathartic for both of them.
Mike was hardly old enough to remember his parent's funeral. The same could be said for Y/n, and like Mike, she hadn't exactly been emotionally or mentally present for her mother's funeral, for when the time came she had still been in quite the state of trauma. Y/n didn't like to talk about it, and in their year of friendship Mike had only recently found out, but she had been the one to find her mother's body as a very young child. So it was no surprise the familiar sight of the limp body brought her such distress.
As her glassy eyes stare numbly at the mound in the dirt she feels a soft yet somehow calloused hand slip into her own, giving her palm a light squeeze. Her head feels heavier than normal in her crestfallen state, she notices, as she picks her stare up off the ground to look at Mike. He wears a small and gentle smile for her and gestures past her head towards the Fort that lies beyond only a few feet.
"C'mon. We should settle in before it gets too much later."
Her thumb flitters across his skin in response, and she nods. The two of them make their way back to their hideaway, the sounds of the earth beneath their feet filling the pensive silence once more. When they enter, her eyes flicker to the seat she was previously ready to occupy. A small shudder passes through her and she instead chooses the pile of blankets across the cramped room.
Mike settles in beside her, his hands flying back to his pockets again to ensure the turtle remained on his person. Sure enough, the small wooden necklace could be felt floating amongst his things inside his pocket. He breathed a silent sigh of relief, one she would have caught had she not distracted herself with the task of fishing out their stored away activities. A deck of cards was pulled from the small and rusty tin lunchbox they kept there for storage, soon to follow was an equally rusty - and rather dusty - silver spoon. Y/n shrugs with the spoon in hand.
"We could play Spoons or something?" Y/n suggested half-heartedly, her eyebrows falling into a curious frown. "Or was there something else you wanted to play?"
He gulps nervously though he doesn't quite understand why he was even nervous in the first place, it was Y/n! Then again, all the more reason for his heart to be aflutter... It was Y/n.
His sweaty palms return to his jeans and he wipes them anxiously hoping to keep his hands dry, and he sends her a weak and nervous smile.
"I um," he cleared his throat, and she emptied her hands, curiously turning all her attention to him. "I uh, wanted to show you something I made?"
"Oh," she says, a bit taken aback. "Yeah, okay. What is it?"
Any and all responses he had gone over previously in his mind vanished into thin air, leaving him speechless. All he could do at that moment was fish into his pockets, his fingers lacing around the string as he pulled out the necklace. It dangles in the air, the soft golden light from the lamp beside them illuminated the many grooves engraved into the wood that created the illusion. It sways back and forth before their eyes, but his gaze is set not on the turtle but her.
Her eyes had widened in reverence, and he could feel his heart swell with pride. She shakes her head in disbelief, the ends of her lips tugging up in a smile.
"This is incredible, Mike!"
He can feel a heat in his cheeks and the tips of his ears that could rival the summer sun. His grin widens bashfully.
"Thanks," he says, gesturing towards her with the necklace, inwardly cursing at himself for this moment not going as smoothly as he had hoped. "It's, uh. It's yours. I made it for you. This was the surprise I was telling you about."
Her attention is on him now, and he can feel his heart skip a beat. He notices that the swelling in her eyes has gone down a little, but the smallest of beads pool in her eyes. She was welling up a bit.
"Mike," she breathes. "Thank you. I... Don't know what to say, I feel like "thank you" isn't enough."
He shrugs as she takes the necklace into her hands to examine it more closely, her thumb tracing the shell of the wooden reptile as she gapes fondly at it. Unbeknownst to Mike, her stomach won't stop its series of flips. Finally, she looks back up at him, and he's happy to see the first genuine spark of glee in her eyes he had been longing to see all day. The pride in his chest grows even bigger knowing he had been the one to make her feel better, even if it was only a little.
"I love it." She says finally.
Y/n takes the necklace by the twine, parting it in two as she brings it to her neck. Her eyes are travel across the fort as her tongue pokes out from between her lips thoughtfully as she attempts to secure the necklace in place. She struggles for several moments, muttering a few frustrations to herself as she fumbles to tie the knot properly without it slipping from her fingers first. Seeing this, his own stomach doing a flip, Mike scoots himself closer and gestures to her neck.
"Here, let me," he offers.
A heat rages up from her neck and to her cheeks and ears, not unlike Mike had moments ago but she complies and turns herself so he can reach the back of her neck. He takes the twine from her hands, their fingertips grazing briefly creating a matching storm of butterflies in their stomach. And as Mike sets to work on the knot, neither of them can see the brilliant grins stretching across their faces that they wished to hide from the other.
"There you go," he mutters shakily, praying she can't hear his voice wavering.
She does, but it only sends her heart racing faster. She mumbles a 'thanks' as she turns back around, and sends him another thankful smile as she simpers down at the turtle that now hung from her neck. Already her fingers had snuck up to her neck to fiddle with the turtle, and a warmth washes over her.
Y/n does not know whether it was her nearly intoxicating feelings for Mike, his kindness, the reassuring presence of the turtle, or perhaps all of the above, but she now felt a great deal better. It was as if a great weight had been taken off of her shoulders, the banishing of great unease as she wore the necklace now. Perhaps it was all in her mind, but Y/n rather enjoyed the strength the gesture had brought her.
And maybe, just maybe, Y/n could take on whatever the future might throw at her.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
Black Lives Matter m resources, what you can do to help. Link in the comments below, can be accessed on any computer.
Support black owned businesses! There's this great app shared by @lovechlmt on Twitter, which I found on a post from Tumblr but either way I downloaded the app and it is a great way to find black owned businesses in your area! Please download and use if you can! It is called Black Nation
As I've heard, there is a wonderful website that provides therapy specifically for black and other poc, so you can speak to someone who shares your experiences and can truly get you the help you so deserve. Particularly black women. Its a simple url:
therapyforblackgirls.com
Here's the description provided from @ madamblack on tumblr for the info:
"This reminds me, if y'all haven’t heard of therapyforblackgirls.com please visit if you need a therapist. You can search by mental health need, location/distance, insurance, etc. I believe there are some that provide a sliding scale payment method for those without insurance.
If you’re not quite ready to make the jump, there is a podcast you can listen to as well as articles and links to help answer some of your questions about mental health and/or therapy.
The purpose, as I understand it, is to provide a place where black women can go to find culturally sensitive therapy. Some specialize in family/couples as well.
Take a look."
[Link]
I'd also like to provide additional resources that were added on to this source, this being a collection of free therapy resources found by @ ntbx on tumblr:
[Link]
As well as Black Minds Matter UK resource from @ girthcobain on the very same post.
It's good to note, for those that may be a little confused...the Reader has been and is reflecting back on memories from when they were younger. When they refer to being with Mike now, that's the present time. Almost 27 years after their first fight with It. if any of y'all have more questions, just throw them at me, and I'll try to respond quickly! :D
Previous Chapters:
Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three
Word Count: 1,101
Summer went by very slowly that year. I had been grounded for what felt like the whole break, but in reality, had only spanned a total of two- and at the very most three- weeks. These weeks consisted of being constrained to my room, except for chores and mealtime.
Even Richie couldn't save me from the boredom that is house cleaning. He had stayed over once, but I had made the mistake of letting him sleep in my bed as I lay merely inches from him. Of course, my parents knew he was to stay the night, but it gave my mother quite the startle to see us. She didn't tell my father, thankfully, but had quickly ushered Richie out of the house(before breakfast, even). He wasn't allowed back for the remainder of my grounding.
Besides everything with Richie, not much happened that summer. We hung out with everyone at the barrens, and got too excited about comics- and sometimes, on days when it was too hot to go out, Richie and I would talk on the landline for an hour(or more).
It was the beginning of school that got exciting. Well, things weren't dull during fall, but it wasn't a good kind of excitement. My father had lost his job. He had been working as a salesman- a big corporate job that had him commuting two towns away every day for years and years prior, a position that gave very little time for vacations and time off, and just enough money to pay the bills and get food on the table.
It was a combination of things that got him fired. His commute(Derry was somewhat isolated, and two towns away was very far), for one. And that a new batch of much younger -and quicker- men had been employed that pushed out the need for those that had been there decades.
My mother, on the other hand, was a secretary, her job being much closer to Derry, and never had to commute very far, and was always on time for work. She still looked mighty well for her age, and in comparison to my father, was also younger. Her boss had surpassed middle-aged quite some time ago and didn't feel a need for one of them pretty young secretaries(as many other greedy companies appeared to employ at the time), as long as the ones he had did the job, and did it well(as she always had).
Her job didn't pay nearly as well as my father's, though. Which left our family in a predicament. My father found it increasingly difficult to find a replacement for his previous career, after working at the company for nearly thirty years(he had started sometime after college). After a good long month without any luck, he figured in the meantime we could move to a smaller place(albeit this meant living on the outskirts of town, near the farming district. If not to relieve my mother of the strain having the only job gave her, then to buy us time till my father could figure out a stable place for himself.
By the time October rolled in, we had moved into a quaint, yellowed house, with two small bedrooms, a little kitchen that opened into the dining room, a bathroom, and a living room. It wasn't bad, but given how tiny the house was compared to our old one, well, I didn't appreciate much of the enclosed feeling that it gave me- instead, I had an excuse to get out more. To explore, I suppose(though at nearly fourteen years of age, I had explored almost every inch of Derry- except the sewers, they always felt too haunted when you walked by them).
Our house fell between where the overlooked pavement of the road met with gravelly-dirt that led- in a mile or less- to the Hanlon's sheep farm. I had never interacted with any of the Hanlon's but had quite often seen young Mike(later I would come to find he was actually older than me) riding his bike into town carrying parcels of sheep's meat. However, he wasn't enrolled in Derry's middle school, so besides his weekly ride, I never saw him. I wondered what else he did besides work.
Despite my father still appearing very bitter from the start of school dilemma, he thought it would be great to introduce ourselves to the neighborhood. In more proper terms, though, my mother did, and my father begrudgingly agreed. My memory of moving was much brighter than when or where(or perhaps why) I had met Mike Hanlon.
I do remember he had this certain glow to him. Unlike Richie or Eddie, he was so calm and so polite. Not that Bill and Stanley weren't, they were quite well-spoken, save for Bill's stutter. There was something to him that I, in my 13-year-old mind, couldn't help but feel attracted to. Not physically, not then, at least. But I knew we were destined to be friends.
Later in the years, Mikey would always tell me that it was all apart of defeating it, in a way, that brought us together. I might tell him it's bullshit, and he'll laugh it off, and give me one of his signature smiles.
We just always got along, no matter what. We gave a reason for one another to smile every day. At the beginning of that school year, it's what we needed from each other. Things with Richie were ever complicated, and coming home to Mike- who had just finished his ride into town- waiting for me on the porch steps...it felt good to be relaxed around someone.
Mike had the daily task of trying his very hardest to escape from Bowers and his goons, and the rest of the racist bigots in our town(the Bowers gang was the worst of it though). For him to know, I'd be there every day to say hello, to talk, to accept him as he is- well, he enjoyed it. Mike reminds me every other day or so. It can be hard now, without the rest of the Losers, but we carry on.
Those first few months were crucial to us. I told him shortly after we moved, that I was something not so well. And Mike only looked at me and took my hands in his, "I'll be with you no matter what."
He was one of the only promises that were kept throughout the years. While the Losers Club(which hadn't formed by now), eventually disbanded years later, but we stuck. Mike, lovingly- jokingly- says I'm his glue. I could never disagree with that.
Warning(s): i don't know how to write a kleptomaniac im so sorry dude
Prompt: "How about patrick x reader but reader is a kleptomaniac?"
“What do you mean, ‘I guess I took it’? You either took it or you didn't. There's no guessing, babe,” Patrick scoffed, still amused by all of it. He thought it was hilarious. Y/N wasn't sure what to say, and instead put the necklace back in their pocket.
“I mean I saw it, I liked it, I held it in my hand, and now I have it here. I didn't mean to take it, I just do that sometimes, sometimes I just… take things,” they shrugged and seemed to close themself in, turning their shoulder to Patrick. He only laughed, and something about it was condescending.
Patrick, in turn, held their waist to pull them back towards him, “I’m not upset ‘cause you took it. Babe, you know how many times I steal from that store? It’s a corner store. That thing’s probably worth a dime.”
“Then what’s so fucking funny, Pat?” They snapped. He didn't react. He didn't think he needed to. This whole thing, it was just funny to him, and he didn't understand why Y/N was so upset. He wasn't upset at all, especially not with them. That would've been entirely and surprisingly hypocritical.
“You,” Patrick laughed, “You’re funny. You've got your pants in a knot, all worried ‘cause you accidentally stole a shitty little necklace from a shitty little store in the middle of shitty little Derry. You're acting like you're the problem here.”
“What do you mean?” Y/N’s fingers toyed with the chain in their pocket, winding it and folding it, running their fingertips along the cheap metal. Patrick wasn't wrong… he just wasn't right. It wasn't that great of a necklace. It was really just a simple silver chain, with a little flower charm on it. The clasp would break in a month, and the charm was small and loose enough to fall off before then, and he was right about it being cheap. It was useless. The more Y/N thought about it, the less appealing it was to them. It was the type of necklace that your cheap, obnoxious, wannabe socialite aunt gave as a twelfth birthday present.
“I mean,” Patrick slid his hand to the back of Y/N’s neck, using that as leverage to kiss their forehead, “You’re not shitty. Baby, you're dating probably the third worst guy in this town, tied with Vic, only behind that potbelly cop and Henry by a few. I steal from that place all the time, it doesn't matter, they can't stop you if you just keep walking.”
Patrick, clearly, was on some sort of ridiculous sounding tangent, and it wasn't worth it, but he was certainly fired up. He held Y/N close to him, one hand playing with their hair and the other fumbling with the hem of their shirt, occasionally hooking their belt loop as he spoke. Sometimes Patrick was a sweetheart, when he wasn't focused on himself. Once or twice a month, he was sweet, and even then it was only ever to Y/N or to his mother.
“What are they gonna do, huh? There's like seven people that shop there, and ratting you out will make it six. No one cares, babe, nothing cares. Nobody matters, and nobody cares, and nothing matters, so why don't we put that necklace on you and go bother Belch for mailbox baseball,” he finished proudly, punctuating his statement by pulling Y/N in for a kiss.
“Pat,” they sighed, looking away but smiling at the affection regardless. No, it was an awful idea to play mailbox baseball, and all they ever did was sit on the other side and ask the group not to hit certain boxes. It wasn't worth it, but Patrick trying to cheer Y/N up was a valiant effort.
“I think we need a pack of ciggys, and I think my sticky-fingers sweetheart can get it for us,” he was grinning like mad, and Y/N knew that look in his eye. There was no stopping him.
“No,” they pressed as they shook their head, “It’s not a good thing. I’m not meaning to steal.” They spoke as clearly as they could, trying to force the fact through Patrick’s thick skull, but he wasn't having it.
“What else have you stolen? I should take you through and just let you do whatever you want, and we’ll see what we can get,” he was joking around, but when Y/N tried to push away from him, he tightened his grip on them. He gingerly held their cheek, licking the other one.
It was unavoidably obvious that he was in one of his goddamn moods, and Y/N cringed at the feeling of his warm, wet tongue on their jaw. Patrick wasn't unnerved, and instead pressed his lips against theirs for a quick, sloppy kiss.
“Babe,” he whispered, “You’re fine. You're not doing anything wrong, it’s human nature, no one gives a single fuck. Don't worry your pretty little head, Y/N,” Patrick gave them another kiss, and Y/N was starting to cave. They weren't to blame. Sometimes Patrick was sweet, knowing, and persistent enough that whatever he wanted didn't seem as bad.
“Alright,” Y/N shook their head, carefully kissing Patrick’s cheek, “We’ll go out, but I’m not playing baseball, and I’m not stealing cigarettes. I’m not aiming to steal anything, got it?”
“Fine by me, hot stuff,” Patrick laughed, picking them up by the hips to kiss them again.
omg you should do a fic where the reader is dating some goody two shoes guy but is going behind his back and banging patrick and he catches them one day and idk maybe patrick clocks him or something idk
My sweet bean, I bring you the goods- and boy did it take a while to bring the goods, so I’m sorry about that!
Prompt Summarized: Reader cheats on her Good Guy BF with Patrick, and he catches them.
Word Count: +3,400
Warnings: Light sexual stuff, violence of the punchy and knifey kind. Studious!Reader.
(Anyone who wanted to be tagged for WYS automatically gets tagged for my other Patrick works as a bonus, my duderinos. Message me -through pm- if you want to also be tagged! Love y’all.)
Ryan Burns was perfect. He was the co-captain of the debate team, the fastest runner in track and field, he was tall and handsome with nearly angelic features. He was broad shouldered, carried a winning smile, with a mess of curly chocolate hair and flawless olive skin.
Your dad loved him, your mother adored him and invited him to dinner weekly. He walked you to class, held your hand, and pressed poliet kisses to your forehead. Ryan bought you cute little gifts, asked you to homecoming and stayed up to study with you for classes he didnt even have.
For christ sake, he was thinking of following you to USM for college just to be with you.
So why on earth where you tangled up in Patrick Hockstetter’s arms, hiding out in an equipment room?
Why were you pressed up against a wall with Derry’s worst filth, the boy who drew whispers where he stalked and tormented the innocent? Patrick was a nobody, a good-for-nothing drunk on perversions and reeking of cigarette smoke. He warranted fear, he practically breathed predatory flare as he hovered above the masses, and in all honesty- once he terrified you.
So why? Why there you there?
Because he was everything Ryan wasn’t, and he wanted you in a way Ryan couldn't dreamed of having you- and you wanted him back just as badly.
Patrick caught your attention maybe sophomore year. That was when he first found you, sitting in the library and working on a book report. He sat with you, threw a threatening arm across your shoulders and struck up casual (albeit antagonistic) conversation with you. Your responses were quick and to the point, too focused on your work to pay him too much attention.
He gave up before long, but returned the next day. And the next, and the next, continuing the habit until you didnt have another project to work on, so he started cornering you in hallways by your locker, or sitting with you at lunch. At first it was intrusive and stressful, having him follow you everywhere, but after a few weeks of pestering you his taunts become more playful and half-serious if anything, all the animosity dwindling away.
It wasn’t long before he became a comfortable weight on your shoulders, always there, ever watching.
You talked about school, music, books you enjoyed and how excited you were for college. He learned about your nuclear family composed of a housewife, a stock broker father, and your siblings, a golden older brother who could do no wrong and attention seeking younger brother with pestered the hell out of you. You walked with him to class, letting him copy your notes, and sometimes even let him drive you around Derry after classes were out.
Though Patrick had a more nihilistic process of thinking, you welcomed the change of pace compared to your other friends, who at this point, were worried about you. He talked about his friends, the latest movies to come out, girls he had slept with, and the crazy nights he had spent high and drunk running around Derry. He wasn’t too open about his family, but you had caught a few remarks about his mother who he at least seemed to favor over his father. Patrick dragged you to parties he was invited too, introduced you to his friends and urged them to welcome you with open arms. You had lost count of how many times Belch and you had piled Henry, Vic and your newest lanky companion into Amy after a particularly wild bonfire by the canalside.
So slowly, by the end of sophomore year, you two had become good friends. He was a dangerous individual, but somehow you two had been drawn together despite being polar opposites. You spent the following summer running with the Bowers Gang, while also juggling SAT study classes, church and AP assigned reading. Henry was a little rough around the edges, but warmed up to you fast, while Belch seemed relieved to finally have someone else to hang out with who wasn’t intent on getting fucked up at every party they attended. Vic was a little distant at first, but he quickly found a friend in you as you spent the summer discussing music, AP studies and colleges you hoped to get into. Patrick of course was in his own world, but dragged you by the wrist into it. The boys took you to movies, wild barn parties and drove you all around town, Vic and Patrick squishing you in the back of the blue Trans-Am while they shared a joint.
When junior year finally began you stayed at your old table with the friends you had accumulated through the years, and chatted nonsense with them. Once in a while you found yourself outside in the quad, eating lunch between Belch and Patrick while the boys laughed and joked about the latest thing they saw on TV or the fight they got into the day before. It became normal for you to hear about the nitty gritty reality outside Derry’s picturesque small town image, and you caught yourself wistfully wishing to hear more when you returned back to your table of tamer and more sensible friends. All they wanted to do was discuss the latest tests and boys they thought were cute, and for some reason you had never exactly seen what they saw. After all, any boys who approached you were almost instantly deterred by Patrick’s presence.
“He’s kinda like your guard dog.” your friend Casey had said one day at the table, and you rolled your eyes, Patrick absent from lunch on account of skipping the rest of the day past third period. He had left you a note in your locker, assuring you he’d be picking you up after classes were out to be dragged to another one of the parties and and the rest of the Bowers Gang had been invited to, no doubt to be his designated driver instead of Belch for the eighteenth time. “Patrick, I mean.”
“Patrick’s fucking creepy.” Britney agreed over her textbook, studying at the lunch table. “No offence.”
“Offence taken. He’s kind of my friend.” You shot her a dirty look, but moved your food around your plate, a little out of place without the scratch of Patrick’s callused fingertips brushing against your arms as he joked with you, always one to ignore the rest of the table and choosing to entertain you only.
“Guard dog.” Casey quipped, and you switched that glare to her, but knew she was right. Her eyes were elsewhere however, and there was a knowing smirk on her glossy lips. “With him here, no guys ever visit, and for once in your life, you need to take that chance, [First Name] and go talk to… Oh, I dont know, Ryan Burns?”
“Ryan?” You frowned, but felt a light tap on your shoulder.
You turned, and found those soft brown eyes and tanned skin, and that's where it all began- with Patrick’s absence and a chance for Ryan to cut in.
It had been so casual between you and Patrick, but then you started dating Ryan in junior year. That was when everything took a quick and drastic turn to ‘Oh Fuckville’. Moody and near cruel, Patrick’s visits became less and less frequent at the lunch tables, much to your friends excitement, but your disappointment.
Ryan never mentioned your old friend’s absence, or even his existence. He carried on, a muscular arm replacing Patrick’s over your shoulders as he dazzled all your friends and family with his brilliant smile and sweet ways. He pampered you, he loved you, and yet all you could do during your junior year was wistfully watch from afar as Patrick Hockstetter started dating Gretta Bowie.
You lost contact with Patrick, he barely registered you in the halls and he turned his back on you time and again when you made an effort to approach him. He was silent as the grave, and after a while, it became normal for you to to forget about him days at a time. Ryan replaced Patrick, slipping in your life like a well loved glove- all smiles and sweet nothings.
The Bowers Gang took a cold shoulder to you as well, though Belch and Vic seemed the most reluctant and you had caught them eyeing you once or twice, and received a tiny little wave in recognition.
Then it was senior year. You, the future valedictorian with a track star boyfriend and intent to get into college on a grant and perfect scholarship. Patrick, the resident bad boy with a handful of new piercings adorning his ears and a collection of tattoos on his pale skin, his cheerleader girlfriend worn on his arm but his eyes glazed with indifference.
December came, and so did the winter dance. Patrick wore a suit, you wore a dress, both of you took your dates and danced. Ryan was exhausting but adorable, Gretta must have been equally exhausting, but demanding and arrogant.
You crossed paths at the punch bar, never speaking, only looking. His eyes followed you when you brushed past, and for the first time in nearly a year you caught that familiar scent of cloves, cigarettes and patchouli.
January followed shortly, as well as deadlines for college applications. You found yourself in a familiar setting, Derry High’s library, when Patrick dropped down in a seat beside you.
“Heya, Princess.” He said, and you barely recognized the voice. It had deepened, what was once more nasally and condescending was richer and smooth now, and it made you grip your pen a little tighter.
“Hockstetter.” You said with little warmth, but hearing his voice, having his eyes on you, it made relief flow through you.
He watched you in silence while your pen traced your delicate handwriting, a hand resting on the wood table. The fingers had a few burns, a couple blisters as evidence of his after school activities, but they were still nimble and thin- new rings you had never seen before lining them.
You were alone in the library, free period for seniors usually spent in the quad by the cafeteria, or on the fields where your classmates could blow off some steam. Patrick would have normally been found in the parking lot, schmoozing Bowie in the back of his car or sneaking a drink from Vic’s flask while he and the other boys in the Bowers Gang stood around Belch’s blue Trans-Am.
But he was there, beside you, instead. A fact you couldn't ignore.
You sighed finally, dropping your pen and turning to face him, frown tight. “What do you want, Patrick?”
His lips tilted in an arrogant smirk, and he leaned back in his chair, lifting the front two feet in the air.
“Why? Bothered by me, Princess?”
You smacked a hand on his knee, bringing his fun to an abrupt halt and slamming the chair back down. You weren’t going to play his games, and you were in no mood to amuse him. He had dropped off the face of the planet, and ignored you for months. He had no right to walk back into your life as if he did nothing wrong.
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Patrick.” You met his gaze, and caught how his jaw tightened and his eyes flashed. Your power move had grabbed his attention, and possibly not in a good way.
“Why so serious, [First Name]?” He had the audacity to keep the smirk, and you tore your hand from him.
“Fuck off.” You snapped, and to his surprise, you began to pack your supplies up. You threw your essays in a folder and shoved them in your backpack, standing. Patrick hurried to do the same, and snagged your wrist.
“Dont walk away from me, [Last Name].” He hissed, and when you attempted to wretch your wrist away, he applied a bruising grip.
“Let me go, or I swear to go I’ll scream.” You threatened, curling your trapped hand into a fist. You barely felt them, but the tears began to form. Your shoulders tensed, and Patrick caught every little attempt you made to hold back from showing the emotions that stirred inside.
“You swear? Do you really?” He brought a hand to your shoulder, and you shivered as it slid up your neck, caressing the line of your jaw before he captured your chin in a tight hold and tugged you forward.
He was inches from you, breathing warm breath that smelt of cigarettes and mint gum, with an almost adoring look in his eyes. They searched yours, and you made a move to speak, but he shushed you.
“Because I’ve wanted you to scream for me for years now, Princess.”
Patrick brought you into a rough kiss, tugging you from sight and leading you behind bookshelves, dropping his hold from your wrist to hook his arm around your waist and keep you close. The kiss burned through you, and there was no hesitation when you kissed back. Ryan forgotten, your friends tossed behind. All you cared about was keeping Patrick’s attention on you, his hands on your body and mouth on your lips.
He parted your lips, drawing a barely there moan from you. You tilted your head, gaining a new angle to kiss him, bringing hands to wind into his long strands and pull him closer. The kiss was wet, sloppy, desperate- but it was everything in that moment. He bit at your bottom lip, and you dragged nails across his scalp, grinding against his hips and forcing him to give a rough groan when you felt a hardness between his legs grow.
You broke from him then, dizzy from lack of air and a rush of excitement tainting your ability to think straight. Patrick pressed practiced kisses down your neck, scraping teeth against the skin but knowing better than to leave marks.
“Patrick…” You murmured his name, earning a rake of his fingers across the side of your waist, which only served you to press harder against him. “Patrick, stop. Someone will see.”
He snaked his arm tighter against you, and quietly rapsed against your skin. “Equipment room, tomorrow. During free period.”
Patrick nipped your neck affectionately, parting from you and slinking away as if he hadn’t just shared a breath taking kiss with you and left you yearning for more.
That first day in the equipment room was absolute bliss. You remembered bare arching backs, sweaty limbs and desperate kisses that made your lungs burn as he held you against the cool painted cement walls and drew moan after moan out of you. They continued at a weekly occurrence, your extracurricular activities unknown to Gretta Bowie or Ryan.
This time was no different, and you hooked fingers into his belt loops during a heavy and needy kiss, wordlessly begging for the article of clothing to come off. Tangled in your arms, he bit at your lip, letting out a breathy little chuckle before reaching down and tugging at the hem of your sweater.
“Take this off first, Princess. Then we have a deal. Let me see what you’ve got on today.” He slipped a hand under the soft stitching, humming as he did so.
“Why do I always have to strip first?” You asked with a quiet laugh, obeying him and crossing your arms over your torso and dragging the sweater off in a fluid motion. His tongue wetted his lips, eyes lazily raking down what you offered as he let out a slow breath.
“Wish you would let me mark you. All this skin,” Patrick drifted fingertips across your stomach, appreciating the blissfully clear skin under his touch. He wouldn't say it out loud, but you knew he worried that every time the two of you found each other in the equipment room that you would finally arrive one day showcasing red and purple love bites from someone else. “All bare for me, its a fucking tease, Princess.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but stopped short when the equipment room’s door handle jiggled and twisted, unlocking. It was thrown open ion one fluid motion, and through the single bulb that lit the room, you saw the face of your boyfriend standing in the doorway. Angelic features froze, and Ryan’s expression leaned from anguished to mortified. You saw the heartbreak in his eyes, and you dug sharp nails into Patrick’s upper arms, your shock evident.
“Awkward.” Patrick said with little emotion, but you were quick to catch the careful calculation working behind his eyes.
Nobody moved. Everyone was statue still.
And then all hell broke loose.
Ryan hurled himself at Patrick, a first raised and his speed almost inhuman. Patrick pushed off from you, easily avoiding the hit that was thrown at him, just barely hitting a shelf of equipment and forcing him to sidestep the shelving and round the track star.
“You fucking asshole.” Ryan seethed, his breathing just angry pants and shoulders quivering. “You had Bowie. You could have any fucking girl here, why the fuck did you after my girl?”
Ryan grabbed air, missing Patrick again, who snorted an incredulous laugh. You snatched your sweater off the floor, pulling it over your head and keeping close to the brick wall, unsure of what to do in the tiny room with two wound up boys both itching to fight.
“She was mine well before she was yours, Burns.” Patrick taunted with a sneer, and he dug into the back of his pocket, procuring a folded blade, which he unfurled with ease. There was a glitter of malevolence behind those grey-green eyes of his, and something told you that if the fight was to continue, that Ryan would end up with a permanent jokers smile.
Ryan launched forward, and Patrick ripped his shoulder to the side, throwing him up against the wall opposite to you, the blade at his pulse. Ryan struggled for a moment, the knife breaking skin as beads of red appeared, and Patrick pressed his other arm across the tan skinned boys chest, holding him there. Ryan rolled his tongue, inhaling sharply and then spitting in the dark haired boys face.
“Fuck you, Hockstetter.”
Patrick rubbed the spit from his cheek, snarling and pressing Ryan hard against the wall. “You’re gonna regret that, Burns.”
You watched, heart nearly stopping as Patrick ripped the hand with the knife back, using the blunt of his knuckles to wail a precise punch against Ryan’s jaw. He cried out, and the air whistled as Patrick applied blow after blow, the hits landing against Ryan’s chin, cheekbones, nose and mouth. The knife threatened to cut skin as Patrick succumbed to his anger, and you tore yourself from your stupor to shout.
“Patrick!” You screamed, and you saw how the aforementioned boys shoulders tensed, actions frozen in time. “Dont.”
Ryan tried to push off from Patrick’s grip, but he was held there with ease, and the lankier boy glanced over his shoulder. His knife glinted in the light, the edge just barely tinged red as it hovered ever so close to Ryan’s face.
“So what then Princess?” He asked, and you noticed the way his jaw tightened. “Your move.”
“Why?” Ryan suddenly said, in an almost pleading sort of way. The betrayal was clear, and the guilt pulled at your heartstrings as you advanced quickly, refusing to meet his eyes.
“I loved you.” Your boyfriend said as you rested a hand on the arm that Patrick held a knife in. “I was gonna go to state with you, babe.”
“Patrick.” Softly, you urged him to drop his hold. He hesitated, and you saw the deliberation in his eyes.
Finally, with Ryan allowing a few tears fall, Patrick skillfully whipped his knife into dormancy, stuffing it into his back pocket and stepping back to let his grip slacken. Ryan fell to the concrete floor, and he raised a hand to gingerly touch his bruised and split lip, his eyes stuck on you.
“Why?” He repeated.
You refused to answer, taking a grip to Patrick’s arm and tugging at it. “Come on.”
He turned to follow you, taking quick steps to the door before he whipped his head back, and you saw the smugness in the highlights of his face, lips quirking into an arrogant smirk. “If you see Bowie ‘round, be a pal and tell her we’re over, Burns.”
Patrick let you lead him out out of the equipment room, a euphoric glow to his expression as he followed you down the halls. There was silence between you, and before you made it to the end of the hall and out the doors that led to the fields, he threw an arm over your shoulders and dragged you close- the familiarity of his touch the only thing that grounded you in that moment.
Summary- Bill comforts you, his daughter, when you have a nightmare.
Warnings; N/A
A/n; I FINISHED THIS IMAGINE AT 300 WORDS AND WAS LIKE WTF SO I TRIED TO MAKE IT LONGER, IT MIGHT SUCK. IM SORRY.
Requested; Yes!
req; Okay i do not mind waiting im a patient person 😊 when you have the chance could you do a Bill denbrough x Daughter reader . The reader is bills 6 year old little girl(bev is not her mother) and she has these nightmares about a clown so she tells her daddy and he freaks out during one nightmare she wakes ands runs to his room and he comforts her sorry if it sounds dumb😊 oh yeah its years later.
THIS IS A BILL DENBROUGH X DAUGHTER!READER, NOT A ROMANTIC IMAGINE.
-
The room you found yourself in was dark; so dark it was impossible to see anything, especially with your ridiculously small height. You spun in a quick circle, glancing around. Absolutely nothing. You were completely alone, without a single sign of life, or a sign of anything, for that matter. “Hello?” You called, your voice echoing of what you assumed were the walls of the room- you couldn’t even bring your sight to focus enough to even get an idea of where they may be, but you figured there must be some.
“Hello there, Y/N.” A voice sounded from behind your line of vision. Your tiny frame turned around, spinning on the ball of your foot to locate the source of the voice. Out of the darkness, you could hardly make out anything a moment ago; but somehow, you could easily see a bright red balloon. Your eyes followed the tip of the string, and there was something holding onto it, with a tight grip. You squinted in attempt to see the figure holding it, but you couldn’t make it out. Running towards it, you came face to face with a leg. It was a person, for sure.
The figure bent down, leaning so it was face to face with you. “Want a balloon?” He asked, and you smiled brightly. It was only a clown, and your friend who’d been to the circus told you all about the nice and funny clowns. Nodding, your smile grew almost as big as the one painted on the clown’s face. Reaching up to grab the balloon, you pushed yourself up onto your tippy-toes and made grabby motions with your small hands. As the clown lowered his arm, a scream ripped through the air as his head turned and bit your arm.
Bill groaned, peeling open his eyes at the sudden noise. He struggled to register what was happening, not yet fully aware and awake. Turning to turn off his alarm, he furrowed his brows in confusion when he saw the time was 4am. “What the hell?” He whispered, squinting. He rolled over in his bed to ask his wife what was happening, and upon seeing the empty spot in his bed, he frowned. He slowly blinked in realization and rubbed his eyes, trying to wake himself up a bit more. His wife was out on a friends’ trip, and she wouldn’t be home until next week. He was confused; if his wife hadn’t woken him up, what had?
Another scream pierced the air, and Bill’s eyes blew wide. He recognized the scream, how could he not? Without hesitation, he scrambled out of bed, throwing his bedroom door open, not bothering to be quiet. Running down the hallway, he quickly fumbled with the doorknob of the room separating him and the source of the piercing sound. “Come on.” He muttered, annoyed. He finally managed the door open, only to walk into a sight that made his heart crack in half.
There you were, his precious, 6-year-old daughter, screaming and kicking in your bed sheets. “STOP!” Your high-pitch voice bounced off the small room’s walls, and Bill’s heart broke even more. He quickly ran over, scanning your tiny frame with concern. Upon realizing you were asleep and having a bad dream, he gently shook you awake. “Princess?” He whispered, pleading quietly for you to wake up. He couldn’t bear seeing his little girl suffering, you meant everything to him.
After another moment of screaming and kicking, you finally were pulled out of your torturing dream and forced yourself to peel your heavy eyelids open. The room was dark, but there was an obvious figure in front of you, making you scream again. “Shh, honey, it’s just me. It’s daddy.” He whispered, and you quieted, looking up at him through your blurred eyes. When your sight finally adjusted, you launched yourself into your father’s arms and squeezed as tight as your little frame would allow. The tears that had stopped momentarily began tumbling down your cheeks once again, and you began to sob.
“Daddy, it was so scary!” You cried. Bill held you close, rubbing your back soothingly as you buried your head in the crook of his neck. “It’s okay, princess. I’m here.” He whispered, over and over. You’d already soaked through the shoulder of his pajama shirt; not that he minded in the slightest, but it hurt knowing he could do nothing but wait for his little girl to calm down- instead of being able to magically erase all her problems, all her could do was offer her support and as much comfort as possible.. and he planned on doing so for as long as you needed him to.
As your crying slowed to nothing but sniffling, Bill’s tense body slowly began to relax along with your death grip on him, and he continued to rub your back and whisper calming things into your ear. He gently pulled back, pull you onto his lap and smiling softly as he tucked a piece of your hair being your ear. “What happened, princess?” “T-There was a cl-l-lown, and..” As you began to explain your horrific memory, you used your hands and arms to make big gestures, which despite the situation, Bill thought was adorable.
You were near tears at the end of your story, and Bill smiled reassuringly. “Well, Daddy is here now, princess, and I promise you, no scary clowns will get you while I’m here.” He whispered, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. You smiled too, hugging him tightly. “Thank you, daddy. I love you.” You said, Bill’s heart swelling at your words. He’d never get over you saying it to him. “I love you too, princess. Try and get some sleep.” He went to tuck you back in, but you quickly shook your head and crawled out of bed.
“Can I stay with you tonight, daddy? I’m scared..” You whispered, and your father smiled. “Of course, sweetie.” He swiftly picked you up bridal style, making you giggle. He ran you both over to his room, tossing you (at a safe distance) onto his bed playfully. He didn’t even bother to change his shirt, he simply slid into the bed and you immediately curled into his chest. As you quickly drifted into a deep sleep, you mumbled the barely audible words “Goodnight, daddy.” Bill smiled fondly looking down at your precious figure, wrapping an arm around you protectively as he whispered back a quiet “Night, Princess”, closing his eyes and letting sleep engulf him, his final thought being nothing but grateful for your existence.
