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A little fake comic cover I made - it’s a redraw or previous Richie drawings I’ve done that I might share and compare via reposting :3

Theres a couple little details I added like the “neibolt street authority” with a 29 symbol- and of course the sticker eluding to 27 years!

It's too late.

Yandere! Henry Bowers x Quiet Loser! reader

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.

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