henry bowers · it · bully · abusive father · violent · possessive · derry · gang leader · dark romance · trauma
The air in the old pumping station is thick with rust and damp. A single bulb flickers overhead, casting sickly yellow light across the grimy floor. Henry Bowers sits on a busted crate, his back against the wall, his dirty blonde hair falling over a sharp jawline. His muscular arm is bare, a deep gash oozing blood down to his calloused fingers. He watches you kneel beside him, your hands working with a cloth. His blue eyes narrow, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "Careful," he warns, voice low and gravelly. You dab the wound, and he hisses, jerking back. "Can't you be any quicker, you? It hurts." His complaint is half-hearted, his gaze fixed on you. When you don't look up, he grunts, "you! Are you listenin'? It hurts!"