content warning: mentions of domestic abuse. patrick is a warning himself. toxic relationship
HENRY BOWERS
henry craves validation like a starving dog. if you so much as compliment him, he’ll spend the rest of the day thinking about it.
needs to feel like a man around you. if you ever imply he’s less than masculine, he takes it personally. even something small, like opening a jar for yourself instead of asking him, will put him in a pissy mood.
if you get mad at him for something he did (e.g. for bullying little kids) and give him the cold shoulder? he doesn’t know how to handle it, so he either storms off or does something stupid & reckless just to get your attention back.
carves your initials into the kissing bridge the summer you started dating.
when he gets jealous (which is often), it’s not just petty annoyance—it’s irrational rage. at you, at the perceived “threat”. he won’t hesitate to start a fight over it.
deep down, he doesn’t believe he’s good enough for you. although he covers it up with arrogance and acts like you’re his property, there’s a constant fear in the back of his mind that someday you’ll realise you can do so much better.
when his old man beats the shit outta him, henry doesn’t go home. sometimes he crashes at victor’s, but more often than not, he ends up at your window, one hand gripping the frame, the other cradling his ribs. he never says what happened; just a curt “lemme in.”
you’ve gotten good at patching him up. cleaning the cuts, pressing ice to the bruises. he always hisses when you touch him, tells you to quit babying him.
some nights, henry climbs through your window reeking of cheap beer, barely making it inside without cracking his skull open. flops onto your bed fully clothed, mumbles nonsense into your pillow. you pull his boots off, and let him sleep it off. in the morning, he’s already gone.
wants to be the kind of guy you deserve, but he doesn’t know how.
genuinely believes you’re the only good thing in his life. (you are)
VICTOR CRISS
as the second in command of the bowers gang and your boyfriend, he’s fiercely loyal to both henry and you. this sometimes puts him in uncomfortable positions.
won’t actively go looking for trouble, but if someone messes with you, he’ll put them in their place.
his stoicism can be unsettling. he’ll stand by and watch seemingly unbothered when henry does insane shit, and he’ll never intervene unless he really has to.
respects that you don’t like the bullying. obviously, victor doesn’t stop when he’s with the rest of the gang, but when you’re around, he keeps it to a minimum.
has a dry, deadpan sense of humour, but when he’s with the guys, he can get a bit mean-spirited. might tease you more than usual, especially if henry or patrick egg him on, but he always apologises and tries to make it up to you afterward.
probably the only one in the group who would genuinely apologise if he upset you.
actively listens when you talk. not much of a talker himself, but he remembers practically every tidbit you’ve ever told him.
asked you (somewhat awkwardly & tentatively) to help him re-bleach his hair, rubbing the back of his neck like he was already regrets asking. but when your fingers started combing through his hair, spreading the bleach, he say still, eyes closed, maybe enjoying it a little too much.
he’ll shrug off his jacket and hand it over when you’re shivering. if you try to say no, he just gives you a look like don’t be dumb.
tries to teach you how to skateboard.
actually pretty good at school. he’s not a nerd but he’s smart and pays attention. if you ever get stuck on something, he’ll help.
patrick often points out how much time vic spends with you, calls him pussy whipped whenever he ditches the rest of the gang to walk you home or helps you with homework. victor gives little to no reaction, just rolls his eyes and ignores them, but the tips of his ears go pink.
PATRICK HOCKSTETTER
patrick doesn’t believe in love—hell, on some level, he doesn’t even believe you’re real. no one is, not really. the world is just a dull, empty playground for him to fuck around in. but whatever he feels when he looks at you, it’s close enough.
he’s interested in you, the way a biologist would be interested in a new insect specimen.
has zero sense of boundaries. he touches you whenever he wants—grabs your ass when you walk by, hooks a finger through your bra strap before letting it snap back, slides his hand up your thigh under the table, all while looking you dead in the eye.
loves playing with his zippo, always flicking it open and shut, rolling the flame between his fingers. sometimes, he’ll hold it just inches from your face, watching how your pupils dilate, how you go perfectly still. “relax,” he drawls, letting the fire dance inches from your cheek. “i’d never ruin that pretty face. unless i felt like it.”
will flirt with (harass) other girls in front of you just to see your reaction, and if you retaliate, he finds it hilarious.
there’s no jealousy with him. if another guy looks at you, pat doesn’t get mad, he just gets amused. sidles up behind you, slides a hand up your side, grins at the poor bastard watching. “she’s cute, huh?” he says, almost conversational. “wanna see what she looks like on her knees?”
loves it when you grab his hair during sex.
pain doesn’t register for him. he plays super rough—yanks your hair hard like he’s trying to rip off your scalp, grabs your wrists so tight that it bruises. he doesn’t understand why it hurts you, but he likes it. very much.
he’s a total freak. into bdsm, knifeplay, wax play, blood play and more.
his nicknames for you are slut and bitch.
patrick’s version of a date is breaking into abandoned breaking into abandoned buildings, to spray-paint obscene words on the sides of houses, to steal shit from supermarkets.
says the creepiest, most out-of-pocket shit when he’s feeling “introspective”.
disappears for hours without telling you where he’s going, then shows up like nothing happened.
the only reason he even sticks around is because you amuse him. if that ever changed, he’d drop you like nothing.
BELCH HUGGINS
reg is definitely the least cruel one in the group. by no means a saint but compared to the others, he’s a damn angel.
loooves his car. when you hang out while he’s fixing up his ride, he’ll put you to work—“hand me that wrench. no, not that one. jesus, do you even know what a wrench looks like?”
would drives you anywhere, no questions asked except for “where to?”
loyal to a fault. once he’s decided you’re his girl, you’re stuck with him. through thick and thin, through blood and bruises, he’s got your back, no matter what.
big on physical affection.
actually plans nice dates.
remembers and celebrates your anniversary and valentine’s day.
is the kind of guy who, after a couple months of being close, is already picturing forever with you.
takes you to meet his family early on—his mom, his siblings. just randomly brings you over like “c’mon, ma’s makin’ meatloaf.” it’s just that simple.
his mom simply adores you. dotes on you, tells you embarrassing stories about reginald as a kid.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚Alright babes..Since it's october and I watched IT again, I needed to write for him. Besides, the last Patrick headcanons I wrote kicked butts (first 1k lol) so thanks a lot. I thought I'd improve my last headcanons, so I will try to make them as canon as possible.
Dating patrick hockstetter headcanons
☁️ Fluff ☁️
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Random note: Henry's father in the movie is kinda hot. Thanks. Let's rock.
—
Considering his canon personality he wouldn't date ever, so how u got here..Idk but congrats.
Romance? No. He'd be very controlling and rather cold.
No hugs or kisses, only if u beg but they'd be rather cold like him.
Just like Beverly said, his hands would be often sweaty and meaty on your skin when he does touch you.
He wouldn't mind you being clingy but since he's a psychopath he wouldn't understand it, (the need for touch or sweet talkings).
He'd show you his fridge which is a way of keeping you close. With that he'd let you know that he trusts you and that he feels close to you.
He'd yap about that fucking fridge everyday and all the letters he sent you would have a little drawing of it.
Your dates would be hanging around some sewers or (of course) near his fridge. He'd even let you decide what animal would be his next trophy and which place in the fridge I'd get.
He'd keep you absolutely safe but only cuz he owns you. It's not from love but from obsession.
He'd also decide everything and would be madly obsessed with you. He wouldn't understand your desire to go to a club or out with friends. If he says no then it's a no.
If you dare to sneak out and he finds out then he'd just treat you cold but so cold that I'd make your skin crawl. He'd get deeply disturbing.
Since he feels like everyone around him isn't real, he'd ask you questions about your emotions: Fear, happiness, sadness, etc... Cuz he doesn't understand those emotions and wants to know what made you laugh in this moment.
Everything you do, as of showing love or emotions would interest him. Why did u do this or how did it feel? Kissing you would only be due to curiosity.
He'd also dominate you, even in bed. He'd only have sex to see how it is to dominate you and it wouldn't be very lovely.
Like I said physical touch from his side would be rather clumsy and from curiosity. I can imagine he never kissed anyone before.
If someone would bully or simply annoy you, he'd fix them with a cold, unsettling stare until they stop. That's his way of protecting what's his.
—
⋆. 𐙚 ˚Okay..I think I'm done hehe..If you made it this far then let me know if you want to see a canon break up with him, cuz I have some ideas and it's not how you'd imagine it. Deeply unsettling and perfect for halloween. 🎃
pairing: henry bowers x reader
summary: your childhood best friend, henry, turns into something much darker when you reach high school. you avoided him until you absolutely couldn't -- but he's different than he seems. at least, with you.
themes & warnings: henry is still an asshole but everyone has a soft spot (his is you), swearing, violence, soft!henry, he's rough around the edges, angst (sort of) with resoultion, fighting, romantic tension!!!, use of a slur, sexual harassment mild
every time you walked down the halls of derry high school, you prayed you'd melt right through the floor.
it wasn't because you were insecure. in truth, you were very secure in yourself. it wasn't because people were mean to you. in fact, most loved you. it was because of them. the same reason that anybody wanted to dissolve into the cracks within the four walls of the place they were supposed to grow up.
derry high school was a monument to beige linoleum and flourescent humming. the air itself tasted stale, a mixture of industrial cleaner, old textbooks, and the faint, metallic fear that seemed to seep from the lockers. for most, the fear was abstract. a fear of tests, rejection, not being enough. but usually, it zeroed in on the ones wearing scuffed boots, a jean jacket, and traveling in a pack.
your own place in the derry ecosystem was secure. you were well-liked in a quiet, unchallenging way that came from being friendly to everyone, but known well by few. you were the reliable lab partner, the one who remembered birthdays, the student who could bridge the gap between the drama kids and the yearbook staff. social fluency was your armor, a way to move through the world without making a target on your back. it was a skill born of necessity, honed over by years of watching and learning. of course, it helped that you were pretty. you wore light, floral colors. your hair was always done neatly, makeup smooth and blended. your mary-janes were always un-scuffed and buckled. your skirt swished around your long legs as you walked, sending the occasional polite smile towards someone or waving quickly to those who said hello to you.
henry bowers, though, was an absolute minefield.
he wasn't just a school bully. he was a force of nature, a low pressure system that darkened the hallways before he even rounded a corner. his entourage - belch huggins, victor criss, and patrick hockstetter - trailed behind him not just as friends, but as a wave of insecurity and fear send towards everyone in their way. their laughter was loud. a jarring, predatory sound that cut through the student murmur and commanded silence. desks were kicked, freshmen were shouldered into lockers, and any sign of perceived weakness was pounced upon with cruel, creative glee.
but you remembered someone different. a boy with grass stained knees and a gap toothed smile, who shared his cherry slushie behind the elementary school bleachers. a blonde haired boy who'd get a fierce, protective glint in his eye if anyone so much as looked at you sideways. as much as you remembered him, he didn't exist anymore. you knew what happened to him, though. he had been buried layer by layer under the weight of his father's beatings and his own hardening heart. you'd watched the transformation happen across the cafeteria, with a profound and private grief. the boy who'd been your first friend had become the thing high school students feared most.
now, you navigated the school with one goal - not to be seen by him. you developed a sixth sense for his presence. the particular cadence of his boots on the linoleum, the change in the air when he entered a room. you wanted no part of it. you wanted no part of who he'd become. a laugh in the wrong direction, a moment of vulnerability caught at the wrong time, and you could be seen. really seen.
and being seen by henry bowers was a complicated, dangerous thing. a cold, blue stare that seemed to strip a person down to the real parts of themselves. not just the positives, but the fear and inadequacy. the secrets they tried to hide. sometimes it lead to taunts, shoves, punches and kicks, but sometimes it lead to nothing at all. just that chilling, empty gaze that felt worse than physical harm. you didn't know which version he'd pick if he was to notice you again. you spent years perfecting the art of never finding out.
today, though, everything would change.
you'd been having bad luck all day. you slipped in the mud and fell into a puddle on your walk to school, so you had to go home and change, making you late. then, you spilled your water bottle in class and soaked your freshly written essay for english literature. in chemistry class, you received your test back, only to realize you got a 0 because you forgot to put your name on it. you had to go beg your teacher for a new grade. luckily, since you were a diligent student, she was willing to give you half.
now, you were walking away from the brick school, lukewarm tears drying onto your face from your shitty day.
you listened to the wind in the trees, the crunching of the gravel under your thick shoes, sighing and hoping your evening would be better. your skirt, a bit smaller than usual because of your rush to get dressed, still swished around your thighs in the wind. but then, you heard another set of steps. boots. heavy footsteps falling onto the ground with the same reverberation that you heard on the linoleum floors at school. you felt something cold slither down your spine - fear.
tilting your head slightly, you caught the sight of him in your peripheral vision. you had only been walking for two minutes before you noticed patrick hockstetter behind you, his tall, lanky and predatory form slinking casually.
fuck. fuck fuck fuck.
being noticed by henry was pretty bad. but he was mean, not perverted. patrick was a whole different animal. the type to grope girls from behind their desks, force them to give him a kiss and slap them if they didn't. the type to follow you home and stand outside your window for an hour just to creep you out. he fed off from it. the thrill was something he enjoyed.
you swallowed hard, feeling your heart speed up impossibly. you felt the adrenaline release, the clammy hands, the erratic breathing. fear. in full swing. you kept your pace steady, a deer trying not to bolt in a predator's sightline. the crunch of gravel behind you wasn't just there; it was synching up, a sinister metronome to your own hurried steps. you could feel his stare like a physical weight between your shoulder blades, cold and invasive.
a shortcut. you needed a shortcut. the usual route home was a straight shot down neibolt street, but that was too exposed. your mind raced, flipping through a mental map of derry's back alleys and cut-throughs. there was a gap in the old johnson fence, a quick dash through the overgrown lot that spilled out onto your street. it was risky - dark, isolated - but maybe better than being stalked in the open.
you made a sharp, deliberate turn left into the mouth of a narrow alley between the drugstore and the boarded-up cinema. the sunlight vanished, replaced by the damp chill of perpetual shadow. the crunch of gravel ceased for a beat, and then, horrifyingly, it resumed. he’d followed.
your breath hitched, coming in shallow pants that fogged slightly in the cool air. you walked faster, your mary janes slipping on the wet, uneven pavement. the alley seemed to stretch on forever, the light at the other end a taunting, distant pinprick.
"hey." his voice wasn't loud. just a dry, papery sound that slithered down the alley walls. "pretty girl. don't you know its rude to walk away?"
you didn't turn. you couldn't. your muscles were locked. the swishing of your skirt felt absurdly loud.
his footsteps quickened. he was closing the gap between you, ready to pounce. "i'm talking to you. turn around. let me see that pretty face all cried up. heard ya sniffling."
of course that was why. he loved when girls cried. it was something you'd heard all around from the other girls who'd been unfortunate victims of patrick hockstetter. crying didn't ward him off - it enthralled him. he was sick.
terror, sharp and acidic, flooded your mouth. you broke into a run, the strap of your bag slapping against your side. the alley exit wobbled in your vision.
a hand, bony and strong, clamped onto your upper arm, yanking you to a halt. your bag fell to the ground with a thud, dead weight that patrick obviously deemed unnecessary. he spun you around, his grip like iron. up close, he was all pale skin and hungry eyes, a slick, unpleasant smile on his gleaming teeth.
"now, that's better," he cooed, his breath smelling of spearmint gum. his free hand came up, a finger tracing a line down your damp cheek. "what's the matter, honey? bad day? i can make it better."
"let me go," you managed, your voice sharp and authoritative despite your fear. you'd always been good at masking how afraid you were.
"or what?" he laughed, the sound bouncing off the bricks. "you'll tell? i don't care. i been told on lots of times."
you tried to glare, but you couldn't. the fear was eating you alive. he was stronger, faster. you had no way out.
"i won't tell. i won't say a word. but please, can you just let go?" you pleaded. maybe being nice would help. maybe doing the opposite of what all the other girls had done would have reverse effects.
your voice, shifting from a sharp command to a soft plea, seemed to catch him off guard. he was used to screams, cursing, crying. not soft, desperate negotiations.
"please?" he echoed, his voice a dry whisper. his head tilted, like a bird examining a strange insect. "you're asking nice, huh?"
you held your breath, hope against hope. his grip on your arm loosened slightly, an infinitesimal degree. but the confusion curdled into something more sinister - interest. a new kind of thrill. this was different. clearly something he'd never seen. someone being decent to him when he was being disgusting.
"that's real sweet. cute, even," he murmured, leaning in closer. "but see, when you ask nice.. it just makes me wanna see what happens when you don't."
his free hand moved from your cheek, sliding down to grip the back of your thigh under your skirt, pulling you sharply against him. you gasped, the air knocked out of you, the world narrowing to the feel of his bony frame and the cold dread solidifying in your stomach. your carefully constructed composure shattered.
"stop it!" you cried out, high and panicked. it ripped from your chest reflexively.
patrick's laugh was giddy. "there it is, sweetheart. i like that better," he hummed, reaching up to the waistband of your skirt. "but what happens when i--"
the sentence died off in a choked gurgle.
not by your hand. not by a shout.
henry moved like a shadow given violent purpose. he didn't come from where you could've seen him, but must have come from the other side.
he didn't tackle patrick. he simply appeared behind him, one arm snaking around patrick's throat in a vicious chokehold, the other clamping over the top of his head. it was fast, brutal, and utterly silent save for the scrape of boots and patrick's muffled gasp as he was wrenched backwards and off his feet.
you stumbled forward, free, catching yourself against the cold wall. you watched, heart in your throat, as henry dragged patrick, kicking and clawing at the iron bar of his forearm, back into the gloomy shadow. henry's face was pale, emotionless, eyes reflecting ice. he didn't look at you. his focus was on the squirming form in his grasp.
he slammed patrick face-first into the side of a dumpster with a sickening, wet crunch. patrick went limp for a moment, slumping, a low moan escaping his bloodied face. henry held him up, then leaned close. his voice, when it came, was flat and deadly, carrying perfectly in the silent alleyway.
"you don't look at her. you don't think about her. your fucking shoes don't point in her direction. you got that?"
he gave patrick a hard shake. a strangled sound of agreement or pain was patrick's only reply.
"if i see you within a block of her," henry continued, his voice becoming intimate with its menace, "i won't use my hands next time. i'll use a tire iron. and i'll make sure you're awake for it."
he released his hold, and patrick collapsed into a heap of shuddering limbs on the filthy ground, blood streaming freely from his ruined nose with his predatory confidence utterly annihilated.
"get the fuck up and go home, hockstetter. before i change my mind and kill you."
he stepped over patrick's prone form as if he were nothing more than a sack of garbage. he didn't look back. his entire being was a live wire, every muscle taut, the violence still radiating off from him in waves. you could feel his heat from feet away.
he stopped a pace in front of you. his eyes, which had been so cold and empty while dealing with patrick, were now a turbulent, stormy blue. they darted over your face, your disheveled hair, the red mark on your arm and the tear in your tights. the raw, agonizing conflict was back - fury, shame, and a protectiveness you didn't know still existed.
his hand lifted slightly again, hovering. it was large, capable of brutality you'd just witnessed, but now it trembled slightly in the space between you. he looked at it as if it was a foreign object, then clenched it into a fist and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans.
"you're shaking," he said, his voice low and rough.
you were. you couldn't stop. the adrenaline was draining away, leaving you cold and hollow and stunned. you managed a small, jerky nod.
he looked away, his jaw working. the silence stretched, filled only with the faint scrambling of patrick getting up once he slightly recovered. henry's shoulders stiffened, and he took a half-step to the side, deliberately placing his body between you and the sight of patrick struggling to his knees. protection. subtle, but also obvious in a way.
his gaze landed on your bag, still lying where it had fallen. he moved then, bending to pick it up. he did it with that same jarring care, brushing off the gravel and dirt. when he stood, he didn't offer it. he simply held it, his grip tight on the strap.
"c'mon," he muttered, not quite looking at you. he tilted his head toward the far end of the alley, the one that lead away from the main road, away from prying eyes and away from the direction patrick limped off in. "this way."
it wasn't a suggestion. it was a directive born of a lifetime of understanding derry's shadows. he took a step, then paused, glancing back to make sure you were following. you fell into step beside him, not quite at his side, but half a step behind. he adjusted his pace to yours, just as he'd always done when you were kids.
your chest tightened.
the alley opened into a narrow, weed-choked service road behind the old cinema. the silence between you was a thick, tangible thing.
after a few minutes, he spoke, his voice gruff. "he won't come near you again."
"i know," you answered quietly. the certainty in his promise was absolute.
another blocked passed in quiet. the evening was settling in, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges. the same shades were settling onto the back of your bruised thigh.
"henry," you said, his name feeling strange and familiar on your tongue after so many years of silence.
he flinched, almost imperceptibly. "yeah?"
"thank you."
he swallowed hard, the motion visible in the corded line of his throat. he stared straight ahead, his profile sharp against the dying light. the wind blew the trees and weeds, creating a scratching sound in the empty back road.
"don't," he said, the word bitten off. "don't thank me for that. it scared you."
the raw honesty of his words, the simple, unflinching admission - it scared you - struck you with more force than anything that had happened that day. he wasn't apologizing for the violence, not exactly. but he was acknowledging its effect. it was a level of awareness you hadn't believed him capable of anymore.
"everything about today scared me," you admitted, your voice quiet but steady. "i fell in the mud this morning. i failed a test. patrick. the.. the alley. my leg hurts. you," you listed them like items, giving each its due weight. "but the first five things were just things that happened. the last one.. you came for me."
he stopped walking. he turned fully to face you. the dim light caught the planes of his face, highlighting the tension in his brow, the soft, vulnerable curve of his mouth he always tried to harden with a sneer like a snarling dog.
"i would've done it anyway. for fuckin' greta or.." he said, the words sounding bland. "any chick."
you shook your head slowly, your eyes not leaving his. "no, you wouldn't have."
the denial hung in the air. henry's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking furiously. he wanted to argue, to spit out a lie that would rebuild the wall he'd torn down when he beat hockstetter's face against a dumpster. the truth was a physical weight, too heavy to lift. he couldn't. he wouldn't have done it for anyone else. he wouldn't have promised murder with a tire iron. he wouldn't have felt the world narrow to a single, white-hot point of rage at the sight of someone else's hands on the girl who was the only person that had been remotely good to him in his life, besides his mother, who left.
he looked away, the admission of his own truth being too much to bear while looking at you. the fight drained out of him, leaving behind a raw, exposed weariness that made him seem younger and older all at once.
"no," he echoed, his voice hollow. "i guess i wouldn't have."
the admission cost him. you could see it in the way he swallowed, in the slight tremor of his tight muscles. he'd just handed you a weapon, the knowledge of his own weakness, and waited for you to use it, like everyone else had.
but you didn't. you just stood there, the silence between you shifting once more. you weren't afraid anymore. you weren't sure you ever had been afraid of henry. maybe of who you thought henry was. but never him. there was an acknowledgement of a bridge that had been burned, and the fragile, impossible idea of building a new one from the ashes.
"you stopped answering my calls. in eighth grade." you whispered.
the words landed not as an accusation, but as a quiet, devastating fact. they cut through the fragile truce more cleanly than any shout could have.
henry’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with a shock that quickly morphed into pain. He hadn’t expected that. not here, not now. he’d braced for fear, for disgust, even for gratitude. not for this old, specific wound, gently prodded.
he opened his mouth, but no sound came out. he looked stricken, cornered by a ghost from a time when the world’s cruelty still had the power to surprise him.
"dad stopped letting me use the phone. after i.." left a message on that woman's answering machine posing as her dead kid.
the memory, sharp and ugly, clawed its way out of the dark. it wasn't the full truth, but it was the part that mattered, the part that explained the answering machine. the rest - the late-night calls, the whispered cruelty to a grieving mother, the one twisted skill patrick hockstetter had that henry, in his deepest misery, found fascinating for a week - that was a shame so black he'd bury it with him.
he couldn't look at you. his gaze was fixed on a broken bottle glinting in the weeds. "he took the phone out of the wall. smashed the machine. said it was a.. a faggot's toy." he swallowed. "i never heard any messages."
the confession was a softer, lesser evil. it painted his father as the monster (true) and him as a victim (only partly true). it was the version that might let you keep looking at him without seeing the rot he sometimes feared was in his core.
he risked a glance at your face. you were just listening, absorbing, your expression unreadable. the silence stretched, and henry felt the old, familiar panic rise: the need to fill it, to shock, to push you away before your silence became condemnation.
"so," he said, the word coming out too sharp. "you got your answer. i didn't get your calls 'cause my old man's psycho and i was.." he trailed off, unable to name what he was becoming. "you were better off. trust me."
it was the same thing he'd been doing for years. the protective cruelty. but it sounded feeble now, even to him.
you took a step closer.
"but that's not fair. you didn't give me a choice." you hummed, frowning.
he shook his head, a bitter laugh bubbling from his lips.
"you woulda chosen wrong. you always did."
the words hung in the air, colder than the evening chill. but you heard the tremor beneath them, the echo of the boy who used to whisper secrets under the bleachers, who believed he wasn't worth choosing.
"you don't know that," you said, your voice soft but unwavering. "you never gave me a chance."
he stared at you, the bravado crumbling from his face, leaving only a raw and bewildered ache. "why would you choose this?" the question was sharp. "look at me. look at what i am. i'm everything you hated. you'd be stupid as fuck to choose anything i got."
"i am looking, henry," you took another step, closing the distance until you could see the flecks of lighter blue in his irises, the faint scar through his eyebrow from a fight. "i've always been looking. and i'm not stupid."
"i know you aren't. so go home. be smart." he hissed.
"stop it, henry."
"you stop. you're being a dumbass."
"you're the one being a dumbass!" the words burst from you, not a shout, but a firm, frustrated exhalation. they hung in the air, shocking you both. it was the kind of thing you'd yelled at him when you were kids, scuffling over the last cookie or a cheated board game.
henry blinked, the harsh mark of his anger fracturing into surprise. no one talked to him like that. not anymore. they cowered, lied, pretended he didn't exist. they didn't call him a dumbass straight to his face if they liked their teeth. he was a threat. a monster, the source of anxiety.
"you think pushing me away is smart?" you continued. "you think spending your whole life making sure no one gets close is some kind of genius plan? its not. it's the dumbest thing i've ever seen. and i watched richie tozier try to lick a frozen lamppost."
a sound escaped him - a choked, rusty thing that was almost a laugh. it was cut off instantly, but the damage was done.
he rubbed his hand over his mouth, trying to wipe away the traitorous reaction. when he lowered it, his expression was exhausted, all the fight gone out of him. "what the hell do you want from me, y/n?" the question was a plea, stripped of all pretense. "i don't.. i don't know how to not be an ass. i'm good at it, it's all i got."
"it's not." you said stubbornly.
henry's lips curled into a bitter smile as he shook his head again, irritation flooding back into his body. his frustration was tangible, making him an unseen form of anger, but not violence. a dam that was about to break through. he groaned.
"you sound fuckin' stupid. again."
you quirked your eyebrow, inhaling sharply to retort.
"yeah, well, you--"
you couldn't get another word out. his body was flush against yours in a second, the smell of engine oil from the shop he worked at occasionally, his aftershave, and the same spearmint gum you smelled on patrick (they must've shared earlier at lunch) flooded your senses.
the kiss wasn't gentle. it wasn't questioning. it was a collision. a desperate, furious argument made with lips and teeth and the hard press of his body against yours. it was everything he didn't know how to say and the only way he felt he could shut your mouth.
for a single second, you froze. the shock of it short-circuited every thought.
then, instinct took over. not fear, for once. not the urge to push him away or avoid him. something older, deeper. the crush from sixth grade. the nights you rode your bikes through the empty streets and you admired his blonde hair in the wind. the times you'd iced the bruises he got from his dad as he cried silently. the shared snacks. the innocent hugs. your hands, which had been hanging limply at your sides, came up. one fisted in the worn denim of his jacket, gripping tight as if he might vanish again. the other flattened against the solid, frantic beat of his heart through his thin t-shirt against his warm skin.
you kissed him back.
his hand, which had come up to cradle the back of your head, gentled, his fingers tangling in your hair. the press of his mouth softened, became searching, almost reverent.
it was the most terrifying and honest moment of his life.
he was the one who broke it, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. his breath was ragged, a shuddering gust, mingling with yours. his eyes were squeezed shut, as if he couldn't bear to see your reaction.
"had to make you stop talking. you ain't a good listener."
you laughed breathlessly.
"i might try to listen even less now."
a shaky exhale warmed your skin as the last of the rigid tension in his shoulders dissolved.
"wouldn't blame you," he murmured, his voice low. his eyes were still closed. he looked younger like this, stripped of all the defenses you hadn't let him use. "i talk a lot of shit."
"you do," you agreed, your thumb tracing the threads of his shirt. "i'm sure i could give you a run for your money, though. i learned some stuff."
a low, genuine chuckle rumbled in his chest, the vibration humming against your palm. it was a sound you hadn't heard in years - unforced, uncynical.
"yeah?" he said, finally opening his pretty blue eyes. they crinkled at the corners with an almost-smile. "what'd you learn? how to call a guy a dumbass in five languages?"
"six," you corrected. "and how to tell when someone's being a fake asshole to keep me away from them."
he hummed.
"smart girl. always were."
the compliment, so simple and sincere, was probably the nicest thing henry had said about someone for years. it warmed you from the inside, melting the last chill from the alley.
"you aren't so bad yourself," you said softly. "when you want to be."
"didn't wanna be. easier to play dumb."
you didn't argue. you didn't try to tell him he was wrong. you just reached up and touched his face again, your fingers tracing the lie of his jaw, feeling the tension there. you knew what he meant. the avoiding you, pretending to be the monster his father expected, because being vulnerable had been too dangerous. abandoning the boy who loved cherry slushies and loved his best friend.
"must have been exhausting," you murmured.
he exhaled, leaning into your touch, the safeness of it flooding him with a feeling that was so rare. his eyes drifted shut again, this time softly. "yeah," he whispered, the word ragged. "it fuckin' was."
for a long moment, you just stood there in the quiet service road, embracing him. two kids who'd gotten lost, finding their way back to the same map.
when he opened his eyes again, they were clear. resolved. "i'm done playin'," he stated, his voice low but firm.
"good," you said. "i really missed you."
he smirked sheepishly, rolling his eyes. it was as if the statement embarrassed him slightly.
"sappy. can't lie, though," he said, his voice raspy. "i missed you too. thought of ya every day."
thought of ya every day. it explained the cold stares in the hallways - not hatred, but a tortured form of protection. he'd been seeing you, missing you, every single time. not plotting to bully you.
a lump rose in your throat. you didn't trust yourself to speak, so you just nodded.
he cleared his throat, the vulnerability making him shuffle his boots awkwardly. "alright, alright, doll. enough of this.. feeling shit." he tried to sound gruff, but it came out fond. "let's get you home. your old man's gonna think i kidnapped you."
he walked you home, his hand a warm, calloused anchor in yours. this time, the silence was companionable. the kind of quiet that exists between people who don't need words to understand each other.
at your doorstep, he didn't let go. he turned to face you, but as he did, his eyes caught your leg. the shimmery purple bruise in the rip of your tights from patrick's hand. he hadn't realized it was there.
his throat burned with disgust and fury.
his entire body went rigid. the softness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, lethal fire. the same one you'd seen in the alley when he made patrick eat dumpster. the grip on your hand tightened for a second, a reflexive spasm of rage, before he forcibly relaxed it.
he didn't speak. just stared at the violent, ugly splash of color against your skin. his jaw worked, teeth grinding so hard you almost heard it.
"henry," you said softly. "it's okay. it doesn't even hurt anymore."
"it's not okay," he laughed, his literal psychopathic tendencies flashing in blue irises. "that's.. he was one of mine. i let that.. that thing walk around with me. and he put his hands on you and left a fucking mark."
you frowned, reaching for him. he didn't pull away, but he stiffened. you put a hand on either side of his face, tracing your thumbs gently along his cheeks.
"you're here with me now. and i'm okay. you told me he'd never touch me again and i believe you." you said, reassuring him. "the bruise will heal. it'll go away and there will never be another one."
your words were a balm, but they couldn't reach the depth of the poison in him. you knew patrick would see henry again before the end of the night. but still, he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing. he was listening, but also calculating.
"yeah," he murmured, the word a low concession. "it'll heal." his eyes opened, and the calculation you saw there was ice-cold, precise. "but he's gonna take a little longer to."
he took your hands from his face, not pushing them away, but holding them tightly, as if he needed the anchor. "you believe me. good. now i gotta make sure he believes me. all the way down to his bones, the dense fuck."
there was no rage in his voice now. no psychopathic flash. this was worse. this was the calm, terrifying certainty of a predator who has identified a threat to its den and is methodically planning its elimination.
"henry," you said, your voice firmer, trying to break through the grim focus. "you can't... whatever you're thinking. you'll get in trouble. real trouble."
a faint, humorless smirk touched his lips. "trouble's my middle name, sweet cheeks. but this ain't about trouble. this is about sending a message so fuckin' clear, even a sick freak like hockstetter can't misunderstand it." he let go of your hands and cupped your face, his touch suddenly, shockingly gentle. "you're my line. he crossed it. there are consequences. that's just how the world works."
he said it like he was explaining gravity. an immutable law. a new law that since you'd come back into his life, he'd implement ruthlessly.
when your father's silhouette filled the window, henry glanced towards it, his blue eyes now relaxed. he didn't step away from you, he simply reached for your hand and squeezed, offering a rough looking smile.
"your dad's watching," he said, his voice low and utterly calm. the fury was gone, replaced by a focused, operational readiness. "gettin' dark. time to go inside."
"henry," you said, still concerned about patrick's fate. "please--"
"i'm not gonna kill him," he interrupted, a strange amusement on his scarred face. the promise was blunt, but it was truthful. "i'm not gonna get put away after i just got my girl back. we're just gonna.. talk. 's all. talk."
the word talk, coming from henry bowers, was even more sinister than a death threat. it was a euphemism that promised a world of pain. but the other part - my girl - echoed in the space between you, a claim so profound and possessive it stole your breath.
the porch light flickered on, a sudden, harsh interrogation.
"y/n?" your dad's voice called, muffled but polite. "you out there?"
henry's eyes didn't leave yours. his amused smile didn't falter. he leaned in, lips brushing your ear warmly. "do your homework. put ice on that leg. i'll see ya tomorrow."
he pulled back, giving your hand one final, grounding squeeze. then, with a startling shift in demeanor, he turned toward your father, who was now a stern silhouette in the golden doorway. henry's posture changed - not slouching, but straightened with respectfull stiffness. he took a step back from you, putting a non-threatening distance between himself and the doorway of your home.
"mr. l/n," he nodded towards your father. "just walkin' her home. town's fulla creeps after dark." his voice was humble, different than you'd heard it at school.
your father's expression was unreadable, a mix of paternal concern and the deep lines of skepticism. he looked from henry to your face, searching for honesty.
"i see," he said, his voice careful and neutral. his eyes dropped to the rip in your tights, the hint of purple beneath the mesh. "everything alright, sweetheart?"
"yes, dad," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "henry walked me home. i.. i took a shortcut and tripped. he helped me."
the lie was flimsy, but you were going to stick with it until the situation was less tense. your dad's eyes lingered on henry for a moment. henry didn't fidget. he met the look with a calm, open expression that was utterly disarming. a true testament to all of the facets of his deep personality. the performance of a lifetime.
finally, your dad gave a slow nod. "alright. thank you, henry. we appreciate you seeing her home."
the 'we' was pointed, a re-establishment of the family unit, a subtle reclamation. henry just nodded again, that same respectful dip of his chin.
"no problem, sir. g'night."
he gave you one last look, a quick, private flash of those stormy blues that held a universe of promises and apologies. then, he turned and walked down the path. he didn't swagger. he just walked, a tall, solitary figure disappearing into the twilight, leaving behind the scent of engine oil, aftershave, and a silence that felt both relieved and charged.
your dad waited until henry was completely out of sight before placing a heavy arm on your shoulder and leading you to the kitchen. he gestured for you to sit at the table while he grabbed you an ice pack.
when he returned, you knew he'd seen the lack of the truth.
"you want to tell me what really happened?" his voice was soft.
you frowned, biting your lip.
"dad.."
"now, y/n. please and thank you."
the "please and thank you" was your father's secret weapon. it was the phrase he used when the situation had moved past parental concern and into the territory of seriousness. it meant the truth, the whole truth, was non-negotiable.
you took a deep breath, the scent of henry still faint on your clothes. you looked at your dad's worried, loving face and knew you couldn't continue to lie.
"patrick hockstetter.. that weird kid all the girls talk about from school?"
you watched the recognition - the horror. he'd heard the whispers at town council meetings, the worried murmurs from other parents. patrick hockstetter wasn't just a bully; he was a quiet, unsettling rumor given flesh.
"he followed me. trapped me in the alley behind the old cinema."
your dad's hand, which had been resting on the table, clenched into a fist. the knuckles went white. "did he hurt you?"
"he tried. he grabbed me. he.." you gestured at your leg, the memory of patrick's hand on the back of your thigh making your skin crawl. "he was saying disgusting things. and i couldn't get away."
the air in the kitchen grew thick with a parental rage so potent it was almost a smell. your father took two paces toward the back door, as if he might go out and hunt patrick down himself that very second. then he stopped, matering the impulse with a visible, shuddering effort. he turned back to you, his face a mask of anguish.
"and then?" he asked, voice still gentle.
"and then henry came." you saw your dad's jaw tighten at the name. "he came out of nowhere. he.. he pulled patrick off me. messed him up a little.. told him if ever looked at me again, he'd do worse." you didn't soften the words. your father needed to hear the brutal, unfiltered truth. "patrick ran."
your father was silent for a long moment, absorbing.
"he walked you home." he acknowledged.
"yes. he picked my things up. he was.. quiet. not like at school. he was just henry. like he used to be when he came to run around in the sprinklers with me that summer." you looked down at your hands, twisted in your lap. "he said sorry. for everything. for patrick."
your dad sank back into his chair, thinking.
"henry bowers," he said finally, the name heavy in the quiet kitchen. "his father's a mean son of a bitch. the apple doesn't fall far, they say."
you opened your mouth to protest, but he held up a hand.
"but," he continued, his eyes wise and tired, "an apple can roll. sometimes it rolls a long way from the tree when it's given the right push." he sighed, rubbing his forehead. "just.. be careful, okay? that boy's got a world of hurt in him."
you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. "i know, dad."
he kissed the top of your head. "get some rest."
but you didn't. you sat by your bedroom window, the ice pack melting against your skin, and watched the street. the night was still. when you went to sleep that night, you dreamt of him. just like you had many nights before.
when your alarm went off at 7:00, you got dressed quickly, forgoing the usual, careful outfit for comfortable jeans and a sweater. you threw your hair up into a ponytail, not bothering with curlers. at 7:43, you stepped onto your porch.
you took the long way.
and there he was, leaning against the old stone wall at the park entrance, exactly as promised the night before. tall, blonde, scarred up. a cigarette hung from his lips, smoking into the wind, and his eyes caught yours quickly. they scanned your outfit, noticing the differences.
"no skirt today?" he hummed. his voice was a low rasp, sandpaper-soft in the quiet morning. the cigarette bobbed as he spoke. his gaze wasn't a leer; it was an observation, a cataloguing of a change that mattered to him.
"not today," you said, stopping in front of him. the air between you was different in the daylight. less charged with desperation, more solid with this new, fragile reality. you were henry bowers' best girl.
he took a final drag, then flicked the cigarette into the gutter, crushing it under his boot with a twist of his heel. "cute." he smirked, tugging at your sweater. "shame, though. wanted pat to see the reason he got his second ass beating."
you rolled your eyes. he'd already delivered the first in the alley. the second.. it was the 'conversation' from last night. the one that left his knuckles raw. he hadn't just protected you; he'd sent a follow-up message. you were hoping he wouldn't follow through, but you were foolish for thinking it.
"you paid him a visit," you said, a statement. your mild irritation disappeared when henry's cold fingers reached for yours without you asking for it. a first move. not typical for him.
he shrugged, chuckling a little.
"he sees you, he sees me. he sees my hand comin' for his teeth. was gonna let it go, but the bruise pissed me off."
you scoffed.
"i told you that--"
"i know what you told me, doll. you told me it didn't hurt and it'd heal and all that shit," he interrupted, his voice slightly losing its playfulness. "but i saw it. on your skin. from one of my boys." he tilted his head slightly towards you, as if making sure you wouldn't slip away. "i can't let that go. the talkin', making nice, the long way home.. that's all for you. but that?" he gestured to your leg. "that needs a different language. and hockstetter only speaks one."
you glanced down at his hands. his knuckles were split, dried blood littering them from where he hadn't bothered to clean. you traced your fingers over the split gently, soothing.
"you forgive me?" his voice softened, but the teasing edge returned. "or do i gotta get on my knees?"
the image was so absurd that as hard as you resisted, a giggle escaped you. his eyes crinkled at the corners with genuine amusement.
"there it is," he murmured. "knew you weren't all pissed off."
you shook your head, still smiling, your fingers still tracing the ridges of his damaged hands. "i'm not. just don't want you to go getting yourself hurt for me."
his free hand came up, cupping your chin with surprising confidence. he forced your gaze to his face. "trust me. he looks way worse."
"didn't doubt it." you sighed.
he chuckled again, more air than noise, but real. he liked your lack of doubt. he liked that you didn't flinch from the evidence of what he'd done. his thumb stroked your cheekbone, a rough, tender caress.
"you're somethin' else, you know that?" he said, his voice a low rumble. "most girls'd be screamin' at me to stop, callin' me an animal."
"you are an animal," you said, but there was no bite in it. it was just a fact, one you were learning to accept. an animal, but not a cold-hearted one. one with some redemption still left in him. "the best kind, though."
he smirked again. "oh yeah? what kind?"
"the type with really nice arms in a muscle tank."
a loud, genuine laugh came now, shocking you both. it was a rich, full sound you hadn't heard since childhood, completely unrestrained. he threw his head back for a second, shoulders shaking, before he reined it in, but the wide, delighted grin remained.
"jesus christ," he wheezed. "that's what you got from all this? my arms in a tank top?"
you shrugged, feeling your own face heat with a blush. "i'm a simple girl, bowers, with simple needs. protection, loyalty, nice biceps. you're three for three."
he shook his head, still grinning, a lightness in his expression you'd thought was gone forever. "unbelievable," he let go of your chin to tug playfully at your ponytail. "alright, simple girl. let's get your simple ass to school before i gotta have another 'conversation' with a truant officer."
he kept hold of your hand as you walked, but the mood had shifted. there was a giddy easiness between you. he'd shown you the darkness, and you'd not only accepted it, but made him laugh about it. it felt like a miracle.
as you approached the school, the usual tension began to creep back, but was different. you were different.
"alright, listen," he said, his voice dropping as you hit the edge of the school property. "the shit you're gonna hear today... it's gonna be nasty. about me. about you. about what they think we did or didn't do." he squeezed your hand. "you look 'em dead in the eye and you don't say a goddamn word. let 'em wonder. let 'em be scared of what they don't know."
"you've given this speech before," you observed.
"never to anyone who mattered," he admitted. then, he straightened up, the mask of unapproachable toughness settling over his features like a helmet. "my shop's on the other side. i got shop class last period," he hummed. "i'll be at the fence at the bell. don't make me come find you."
with that, he let go of your hand. but instead of walking away, he did something that sent a fresh wave of whispers through the students loitering in front of the school doors.
he leaned down and kissed you.
it wasn't the same as the alley. it was firm, deliberate, and over in three seconds. a public brand and declaration. when he pulled back, his eyes were blazing with a fierce pride. proud of himself for being authentic. for letting you back in. proud of himself for finally having something good.
"see you at later, gorgeous."
then, he was striding away, not looking back. he left you there with the taste of spearmint and tobacco and the imprint of his lips on yours. you were the center of every astonished stare in the yard.
you took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the weight of his kiss like a suit of armor. you remembered his advice. you didn't smile. you didn't frown. you just lifted your chin and walked through the whispering crowd, your head high, your expression unreadable.
let them wonder. let them be scared.
you caught the gaze of patrick hockstetter, who'd quickly been left behind by henry, belch and vic. he looked worse than before. the sight of him was a cold splash of reality. patrick stood alone, leaning against the brick wall near the bike racks, a pariah twice over. one eye was swollen shut, a grotesque rainbow of purple and yellow. a butterfly bandage held together a split on his eyebrow. he held himself stiffly, as if breathing hurt.
but it was his expression that chilled you. the predatory hunger was gone, replaced by a hollow, sullen terror. and when his good eye met yours, that terror spiked into pure, unadulterated panic. he flinched, looking away immediately, shrinking into himself as if trying to disappear into the bricks.
the message was received. you were no longer prey.
inside, the whispers were a living thing, clinging to the lockers and trailing behind you.
"…saw him kiss her right out there…"
"…bowers? seriously? is she insane?"
"…heard what he did to patrick…"
"…she's dead meat, she just doesn't know it yet…"
you walked to your locker, ignoring it all. when you spun the combination, you found a small, folded piece of notebook paper wedged in the vent. you pulled it out.
in that same blocky, careful script:
don't eat the cafeteria slop. meet me at the east fire exit. 12:15. -h
a smile touched your lips. he'd planned ahead. he was bringing you lunch.
you tucked the note into your pocket, the paper as precious as a love letter. the morning passed in a blur. teachers glanced at you with new curiosity. girls you barely knew shot you looks ranging from pity to outright envy. boys gave you a wide berth, their eyes skittering away nervously.
when the bell for lunch rang, you didn't go to the cafeteria. you walked to the rarely-used east fire exit, your heart doing a funny little flip.
Hh was already there, leaning against the wall, a brown paper bag in one hand. he'd changed out of his shop coveralls into a clean, grey t-shirt that did, in fact, show off his arms quite nicely. he saw you and pushed off the wall, that private, soft smile that was only for you touching his lips.
"took you long enough," he said, handing you the bag.
you peeked inside. two decent-looking ham sandwiches, a bag of chips, two cans of coke, and two perfect, red cherries placed carefully on top.
"you made these?" you asked, touched.
"stole 'em from the teacher's lounge," he corrected, completely unashamed. "better ingredients. c'mon."
he led you out the door and around the corner to a small, hidden alcove formed by the auditorium wall and a stand of overgrown bushes. it was private, shaded, and quiet.
he sat down on the sun-warmed concrete, patting the spot next to him. you sat, your shoulders touching. he opened his coke with a sharp pssht and took a long drink.
for a few minutes, you ate in comfortable silence, the ordinary school sounds fading away. it felt bizarrely normal, like a thousand other lunches you'd shared as kids, just with more scars and a heavier understanding hanging between you.
"see hockstetter?" he asked casually, taking a bite of his sandwich.
"yeah."
he nodded, chewing. "good. he see you?"
"he saw me."
another nod. a satisfied glint in his eye. "good."
you picked up one of the cherries by its stem, twirling it. "you didn't have to do all this, you know."
he looked at you, his expression serious. "yeah, i did. this," he gestured between the two of you with his coke can, "this is the good part. the part i gotta get right. the other stuff…" he shrugged, his meaning clear. the violence, the intimidation, that was the old language, the background noise. this - the quiet sharing of stolen sandwiches - this was the new thing he was trying to build. and he was treating it with a focused, solemn intensity.
you leaned your head against his shoulder. he stiffened for a second, then relaxed, his arm coming up to wrap around you, pulling you closer.
"best lunch i've ever had," you murmured.
he rested his cheek against the top of your head. "don't get used to it. teacher's lounge might beef up security."
you both laughed, a soft, shared sound in your hidden little world. outside, the rumor mill churned, and patrick hockstetter nursed his wounds, and the whole school wondered.
but in your alcove, with the taste of stolen ham and cherries on your tongue and the solid warmth of henry beside you, there was no fear. there was only this: a fragile, fiercely protected peace, built by an animal with nice arms who was, against all odds, learning how to be gentle.
Description: Henry has had a crush on the quietest member of the Losers' Club since childhood, and when he's older, he decides she'll be his girlfriend, whether she likes it or not.
Type of fic: Headcanon
Warnings: Forced relationship, threats, abuse, harassment, the reader is 14 and Henry is 17, stalking, dark themes.
Author's note: I've been having a flood of ideas lately, so expect a few more posts before I take a break.
Since they were children, Henry always chose you first. Not because you were the weakest, but because your calm was an enigma his violence couldn't solve. While the other Losers ran away, you stood still, holding your breath, your heart pounding against your ribs, yet managing to keep your face serene. And that facade of fearlessness drove him crazy.
"Why don't you say anything?" he spat once, pushing you against the metal fence. Fear froze your blood, but you managed to hold his gaze, your voice came out as a thread of air, firm despite the tremor you felt inside: "I have nothing to say."
From then on, his attacks were different. They didn't aim to hurt you essentially, but to break you. He stole small, insignificant things from you, meaningless to anyone else: your favorite pencil, the ribbon you wore in your hair, a crumpled drawing you threw in the trash. For him, they were trophies. Small victories in his crusade against your calm.
He never insulted you the same way he did the others. His voice lowered, almost hoarse, and he spoke to you too close, as if he wanted your fear to smell his breath. "Don't think you're better than anyone just because you don't talk." And you remained silent, knowing that would enrage him more than any word.
Sometimes Victor and Belch followed him, laughing, but even they knew it was different with you. Henry didn't mock; he studied you. There was something in his gaze that didn't belong to a simple bully, but to someone who didn't understand why he needed your reaction so much.
One day, after a particularly harsh beating from his father, Henry disappeared. He went into the woods, looking for a place where no one would see him lose his composure. He didn't know you went there too, seeking a corner of peace away from the noise.
When he saw you, his first reaction was the same as always: rage. "What are you looking at?" he growled, his voice laden with shame and pain. But upon seeing you weren't running, but standing paralyzed, your eyes fixed on his fresh wounds. He was a cornered, wounded animal, and you were in his territory. Your mind screamed that running was useless, that any sudden movement could be the trigger. With your heart shriveled from pure terror, you acted on instinct. You walked towards him slowly, your hands visibly trembling. You wet your handkerchief in the stream and, without breaking eye contact, wiped the blood from his split eyebrow. It wasn't an act of compassion, but of survival; a peace offering to appease the beast. He stood rigid, confused by the gesture born from fear but which felt like a care he didn't deserve. When you finished, you took a step back and, without turning your back, walked away as fast as you could without running. Not a word. Only the ghost of your cold handkerchief and the tremor in your fingers remained in his memory.
That night, Henry couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he relived the moment: he didn't see compassion in your eyes, but the same cautious dread he sees in prey before he attacks. But unlike them, you hadn't run away. You had approached. Your hand had trembled, and that tremor betrayed your authentic terror, which made the gesture of cleaning his blood even more disconcerting.
That contradiction drove him insane. Why approach if you feared him? Was it some kind of silent mockery? Or was it that, even terrified, you believed you could control him? The idea that you, whom he had categorized as his victim, felt pity for him or, worse still, tried to manipulate him at his lowest point, was unbearable. It wasn't gratitude he felt, but an urgent and fierce need to see you again. He needed to reaffirm his power, he had to prove to himself —and to you— that he was the one in control, that your gesture hadn't changed anything. Or, if it had changed something, that this change put him in a position of greater dominance.
The next day at school, he tried to return to his routine: pushing, shouting, laughing at Richie, bothering Eddie. But when you passed by in the hallway, his attention broke abruptly. He couldn't stand that you acted like nothing had happened. That you didn't look at him.
He blocked your path in the hallway, his voice a harsh whisper. "Why did you do it yesterday?"
"So you'd leave me alone," you lied, avoiding his gaze.
A crooked smile appeared on his face. "Too late for that. Now you're in my head."
Your silence this time tasted like defeat.
From that moment on, something changed. He no longer treated you like a simple loser, but he didn't know how to treat you either. If he saw you laughing with the others, he felt an anger he couldn't explain. If he saw you alone, an awkward guilt gnawed at him. He was trapped between the impulse to scare you and the need to have you near.
That confusion became dependence. He began to seek you out with his eyes, at recess, in the hallways, in the places he knew you'd be. He didn't speak to you, he just watched you, as if expecting you to touch him again, to clean him, to acknowledge his existence once more.
Henry started leaving you notes. They were his distorted prayers, a mix of demand, plea, and adoration towards everything he saw in you.
The first note you found tucked in the slot of your locker. His handwriting, usually clumsy, seemed more controlled, as if he had made an effort: "Yesterday you saw a bird fall from the nest and you picked it up with those hands that never touch me. You cared for it. I also have something broken inside. Why him and not me? Heal me. Be the place I belong." Your hand trembled as you tore the paper, confused by the rawness of his vulnerability. The next day, another note, this time with a small, dry maple leaf, said: "I keep the things you touch, because they are the closest I can get to your light. Don't leave me in the darkness."
Wherever you were, he was there too. Sitting at the back tables in the library, lurking around the perimeter of the schoolyard, standing across the street when you left the store. He didn't always approach, but his presence was a constant. A tall, blond shadow watching you, making sure everyone knew, without words, that you were off-limits.
His "gifts" were never things you wanted, but things he decided you should have. One day, a dead bird appeared in your backpack, placed with macabre care, with a string tied around its leg. The note said: "It sang too much. Now it's perfect, like you when you're silent."
Henry stopped actively bothering the other Losers when you were around. If Bill or Richie tried to approach you, he would intervene with a look or a low growl, but his violence was no longer indiscriminate. It had refocused. You were his unique project, his exclusive obsession, and the others were mere distractions on his path to possessing your attention completely.
He became irrationally jealous of any interaction you had, even with your friends. If he saw you laughing with Stan, his fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. Henry didn't accuse you of anything; he knew you were too innocent to know other people's intentions and that the problem wasn't you, but them, for daring to look at what was his.
Climbing through your bedroom window became an almost daily ritual. He waited for the lights in your house to go out and the sound of your breathing to become slow and regular. Then, he would slip inside, standing by your bed for hours, watching you sleep.
One night, you woke up with the feeling of not being alone. His blue eyes, glassy in the dim light, stared fixedly at you from your desk chair. A scream choked in your throat. "Sshhh," he whispered, without smiling. "I'm just watching. Go to sleep." And you, paralyzed by a fear you didn't understand, closed your eyes, feeling his gaze burning into your skin until exhaustion overcame you.
Henry decided he had waited long enough. The confusion and obsession solidified into a possessive certainty. It was no longer enough to observe you; he needed a title, an acknowledgment that, in his mind, was already a fact.
He found you alone at the end of the school hallway, a place he knew had no cameras. "Enough," he said, his voice low but sharp, like glass. His body blocked your exit. "This ends today. You're my girlfriend. Do you understand?"
You, with a knot of fear and rage in your throat, managed to articulate a trembling whisper: "But... I don't want to be your girlfriend."
A crooked smile, almost triumphant, spread on his lips. As if he had been waiting for that spark of resistance. He leaned in, his breath grazing your ear. "You think it's a question? It's not. It's what you are. Since you looked at me without screaming. Since you touched me. You have no choice."
His hand closed around your wrist with a firmness that was non-negotiable. "I don't care what you want. I care what you are. And you are mine."
After his "confession," Henry acted as if you had always been together. He walked beside you in the hallways, his arm sometimes brushing against yours in a way that wasn't accidental. If someone looked at you strangely, he growled. You didn't need to speak; he spoke for both of you. "My girl has nothing to say to you," he snapped at others, and in his distorted mind, it was the truth.
His violence, which was once directed at you, was now completely redirected towards anyone he considered a threat. He became your unsolicited "bodyguard." One day, his friend Patrick Hockstetter dared to try to look under your skirt without you knowing, but Henry saw him. The next day, Patrick didn't come to school. And when he returned, he had two fractured ribs and never looked you in the eye again. Henry told you about it as if it were a romantic achievement.
They developed their own language, built on silences and looks. A slight frown from you meant "leave me alone." A sustained look at his hands meant "your knuckles are hurt." He, in turn, spoke to you with possessive touches: a hand on your waist to claim you, his fingers tangling in your hair to calm you, his forehead resting on your shoulder in rare moments of vulnerability.
On particularly bad days, those that ended with new bruises and a deep hatred in his heart, Henry wasn't content with just watching you sleep. Your bedroom window was his lifeline.
One night, the sound of the window sliding open woke you. But instead of staying in the chair, his silhouette staggered towards your bed. He smelled of blood and cheap beer. "Move over," he murmured, with a broken voice that wasn't that of a bully, but of a wounded child. Without waiting for an answer, he slid under the sheets, turning his back to you. His body trembled. You remained motionless, holding your breath, until his trembling ceased and his breathing became deep. He didn't come to observe you that night. He came to feel safe.
He began to appropriate your most intimate belongings, not to use them, but to possess them. Your favorite sweater, the one with a small hole in the cuff, disappeared from your closet.
You looked for it for days, without success. What you didn't know was that, in the privacy of his room, Henry would wrap it around his face before sleeping, inhaling deeply your scent that still lingered on the fabric. It was his ritual. Your pencil with the marks of your teeth, the eraser you used... small trophies he kept in a metal box under his bed. They were the relics of his devotion, the tangible proof that a part of you existed only for him.
In his mind, he had rewritten your history. The day in the woods was no longer an act of fear on your part, but the moment you fell in love with him. Your attempts at resistance were "games" you enjoyed. Your silence wasn't a strength or fear, it was a tacit agreement. He was completely convinced that you wanted this, that you needed it as much as he needed you.
Your friends in the Losers' Club noticed. They saw the way you walked in his shadow, the finger-shaped bruises on your wrist you tried to hide. Bill tried to confront you, stammering his concern. Richie made a tasteless joke that failed to hide his nervousness. But you shook your head. What could you say? That your silence had created a monster you now believed you couldn't leave.
Despite everything, or perhaps because of it, Henry developed a fierce, distorted loyalty towards you. In his world, he was the only one who truly understood you, the only one who could protect you from a world he himself made dangerous. If someone else made you cry, the consequences would be much worse than if he had done it. Because his pain was a "love" you deserved, and the pain of others was an affront.
With time, the fight inside you died down. His nightly visits became an exhausting routine you no longer had the energy to oppose. You stopped flinching when his rough hand took yours; you simply accepted it, empty. It was easier to yield than to keep resisting.
He had achieved his goal. You were no longer the girl from the Losers' Club. You were his shadow, a silent echo of his will. And that part of you that once felt pity for the wounded boy in the woods now only felt the exhaustion of someone who has stopped swimming against the current. You had resigned yourself to flowing in the direction he pushed, because it was the path of least resistance... the only one you had left.
° he bullied you first bc he thought you're 'fat'. he called you names "fat" "piggy" "pig" etc
° Actually, he has a crush on you. But he didn't want to admit that he liked "fat" girl. That's why he bullied you.
° But you weren't fat. You have big tits so you were just wearing baggy clothes
° One time, he pushed you into the river and that's when he realized you weren't fat. you were wearing a loose white T-shirt, and as it got wet, it revealed the curves of your body
° He had never seen such a big tits. he kinda got embarrassed and didn't know what to do so he just left you and went home. (He gooned while thinking about your tits) From the next day, the name he calls you changed from "pig" to "cow"
° He breaks into the locker room while you are changing clothes to 'bully' you. (He just wants to see your tits one more time)
° He purposely bumps his shoulder against your tits every time he passes you in the hallway. He likes it when you whimper in pain.
° Somehow you noticed that he has crush on you so you went to school wearing a tight cami. he got very annoyed that other people are looking at you and gang members are whistling at you. So he bullies you even more throughout the day.
° Somehow, you ended up dating him. He's going to tell you not to wear tight clothes except when you and he is alone
° He will always put his arm around your shoulder and let his hand rest on your tits. He can't take his hand off you
° When you and he are alone, he will put his hand inside your clothes and squeeze your tits. Even when he plays games, or you two watch a movie, or take a nap, his hand never leaves your tits.
° He's gotten so used to unhooking your bra hook because he keeps find your bare tits
° He really likes leaving bite marks and red hickeys on your tits. That is his way of showing that your tits are his
° He's borrowed Victor's Polaroid camera and takes a picture of your tits. he put that picture in his bedside drawer (so he can jerk to it)
° After he got beaten by his father, he will come to your house and without saying a word, just bury his face in your tits and hug your waist. To him, your tits are not just sexual; they are warm and soft, giving him a sense of security.
