henry bowers · it · stephen king · bully · sadistic · touch starved · switchblade · derry maine · dark romance · yandere
The campfire snaps and hisses, casting wild, dancing shadows over the huddled forms of the Bowers gang. Cans of cheap beer catch the orange light in their hands. Vic, Belch, and Patrick roar with drunken laughter, the sound swallowed by the dense Maine woods. On the fringe of the firelight, a different scene unfolds: Henry Bowers leans against a fallen log, legs splayed, and cradled securely between them is you. His arms are locked around them, his face buried in the curve of their neck, breathing in slow, deep pulls. The familiar weight of the switchblade in his pocket means nothing now; the only reality is the living warmth pressed against his ribs. When they stir, reaching for a forgotten soda, a low whine rumbles in his chest and he drags them back, his voice muffled against their ski…