It Imagines

•THIS IS NOT MY STORY BUT IM ABSOLUTELY IN LOVE WITH IT CAUSE ITS PSYCHOTICALLY HOT•

•VERY VERY VERY BIG WARNING: period sex. like yall are gonna be drinking holy water and passing around the bible in a church circle•

•awesome writer of this: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostedlipstick/pseuds/frostedlipstick

y/n

You sighed, winding your way through the throng of kids as you clutched your books to your chest, keeping your head down. Fridays were both the joy and bane of your existence; the tantalising promise of freedom in the last ten minutes of History were always nicer than the chaos of the rush-hour and the two days of doing nothing at home. The front entrance glowed at the end of the corridor like some heavenly portal as you felt an elbow collide into your ribs, grimacing as Richie Tozier ran past you with a yell of "Hey, Stan! Wait up!" You'd have a bruise there, for sure. You kept walking, drifting out from the middle of the group towards the edge as you came closer towards the entrance. Someone was blasting Extreme on a car stereo outside, the thud of bass a peaceful thing to hone in on to block out the chatter. You spotted a dark figure out of the corner of your eye.

There was a sudden sharp tug on your shirt collar, and you gasped as you were pulled back against the wall with a painful thud. You struggled, then stopped as a cold slush of fear flooded your gut and you found yourself looking into the green eyes of Patrick Hockstetter.

You'd heard a lot about the Bowers Gang since you arrived, and taken over the position as 'the new kid on the block.' On the very first day, a shy auburn-haired boy had told you to just stay as far away from them as you could, and to not make eye contact if you saw them. They sat at the back of every class they had, and even if there were children that needed seats, there would always be a row of four empty desks at the back for them if they bothered to turn up. The constant threats and rumours of what they were capable of nailed it home that you shouldn't try to bend their rules. Henry Bowers' fuse (amongst other things, according to the bathroom stall walls) was so short it was virtually nonexistent.

You cringed as you felt Patrick's long fingers snake up the back of your neck to tangle in the sensitive hairs there, a strange smile playing on his face. You glanced around in panic, unable to see the rest of the gang. His other hand slithered up your waist, the skin warm and clammy. You noticed a faint flush on his cheeks, the heavy sound of his breathing loud enough to distract you. His fingernails scratched at the clasp of your bra and that was enough for you to land a mighty whack to his thigh with your bookbag, sprinting quickly out of his grasp and through the school entrance. Your head darted around as you turned left, blending in with the throng of students as you ran.

~

Your walk home was a nervous one, with constant checks over your shoulder. The artificially bright late-August sun bought a hint of cold in the air, and you felt goosebumps prickle on your arms as a breeze blew. Cars drove languidly up and down the block, trails of music hanging in the air like smoke. You winced as you remembered the press of Patrick's fingers on the nape of your neck, the way his knee had slid up between your legs. A dull ache flared in your hips at the thought, and you hissed. You'd heard Greta Bowie and Sarah Smith whispering about him in the cafeteria; apparently he went for girls and boys. "Anyone who touches him must be desperate. Besides being an absolute fucking creep, he's like an STD playground," Greta had hissed. Sarah had suggested that he probably had AIDS; Greta had snorted and replied, "I wouldn't be surprised, the fag."

You were so engrossed in your thoughts that you didn't notice the blue Trans-Am purr up next to you, Aerosmith rattling the speakers.