𝑯𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒚 𝑩𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 (𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕) ₊˚ʚ 🚜🌾 ₊˚✧ ﾟ.
Content Warnings: Canon-Typical Bowers (Aggresive), Violence & Aggression, Degradation, Parental Abuse Mention, Clumsy sex, Toxic dynamics, Abuse, No condom. (All Characters are 18!!)
Read at your OWN discretion because this is NOT a romantized version of Henry and around.
Talking about Henry Bowers was often like talking about some kind of classified government secret. If you were caught whispering his name, a beatdown was a guarantee. It wasn’t the first time some idiot tried to mock the "King" of Derry. There was this one time a poor bastard had the bright idea to make fun of a jacket Henry was wearing. Blood sprayed everywhere, and the kid's teeth ended up as nothing more than souvenirs embedded in Henry’s knuckles.
It was fucking ironic how everything had been turned upside down lately. Henry wasn't the usual violent bully when his old man was around; seeing him fall silent was pure, unadulterated horror—worse than hearing him scream. You held your breath. Victor Criss and Belch Huggins were right there beside you. Neither of them wanted to leave Henry alone, so you all just stood there, watching him pick off bottles with a god-like aim, never missing a shot.
The truth was, Henry had been more vulnerable lately. He was almost unrecognizable with how "quiet" he’d become. And by quiet, I mean he was literally dissociating—staring into the void. So, yeah.
The crack of the gunshot sliced through the air like a whip, making your heart and body jump instinctively. On either side of him, Victor and Belch just laughed, cheering at their leader’s marksmanship. For the first time in weeks, you saw them actually laughing—Henry included. He wore this twisted smirk of power and pleasure that sent shivers down your spine.
The bullet shattered one of the bottles like a goddamn explosion. Shards of glass flew everywhere, and you swore right then that you didn't want to be there anymore. Your hands gripped the sides of your legs, knuckles white, as you tried to keep your shit together. Seeing Henry Bowers with a gun was never, ever a good thing.
The sound of their laughter and the crack of his old man’s gun felt like a migraine—a fucking unbearable ache. You pushed yourself off the hood of Belch’s car and started walking toward the edge of the property.
The three of them stared at you, and their laughter cut out instantly. In a matter of seconds, the "pleasant" atmosphere shifted into a deathly silence, thick with the underlying threat of violence. Vic tilted his head, wearing that look of curiosity; deep down, he understood your discomfort, but he never did a damn thing to stop anything.
"Leaving already?" Vic asked. His eyes scanned your body quickly before meeting yours with that dark, hollow gaze. You flinched.
"I have things to do," you muttered. You didn't look him in the eye; instead, you stared at the tips of your shoes, feeling jittery, just wanting to get the hell out of there as fast as possible.
"Doing things?" Henry’s gravelly voice sliced through the air, making you shrink in place. "What kind of bullshit is that?" he asked irritated lowering the gun as he glared at you with a mix of anger and sheer hostility.
Your lips parted to give him an answer—to finally move your ass out of there—but you were cut off by the sudden, unnecessary slam of the screen door on the porch. Henry wavered for a split second, his eyes widening more than usual. He stared at the grass, his posture turning into stone.
You held your breath, and so did Vic and Belch. They didn't hesitate for a second to stand up and face the source of the noise.
There was only one man on the face of the earth capable of ripping Henry’s will into tiny pieces. That man was Butch, his father.
"What the fuck is going on out here?" His voice was thick, and the rancid stench of cheap beer and days without a shower practically flooded the air. Henry spun on his heels to face him, but he didn't look him in the eye.
"I was... cleaning your gun" Henry swallowed hard, looking away. His voice became strangely small. "Like you asked."
Vic and Belch were too cowardly to move a single inch from where they stood, and so were you. If you moved, you’d catch Butch’s crazy-eyed attention, and that was never a good sign.
Butch looked down his nose at Henry, who only seemed to shrink further under his gaze.
"Cleaning my gun, Henry?" His voice tensed up, his brow furrowing into an expression of pure, beer-fueled rage. Henry’s eyes widened slightly as he tried to look up at him.
"Dad..." his voice came out as a pathetic whisper, holding his breath while his heart thudded with every passing second.
Butch’s face twisted into a mask of pure disgust.
"WHAT?" he bellowed, a roar so loud it even made Vic jump in place. You watched the whole scene in shock, careful not to make eye contact with Butch. You knew his reputation for being a complete jerk; he truly didn't give a damn who ended up on the receiving end of his fists.
Henry cowered even more. For a few brief seconds, you saw him for what he really was: a scared little boy, terrified of the place where he was supposed to be protected.
Butch turned around, snatching the gun out of Henry’s hands.
Henry’s hands stayed suspended in mid-air, right where he had been holding the gun. For a fleeting moment, he thought it was over, that he could finally release the breath he’d been trapping in his lungs. But with Butch, there was no such thing as a war without a scar.
Butch spun on his heels, his face contorted with sheer rage. For a second, you thought about moving your legs, about doing something, but you were too paralyzed by fear to act. Butch aimed the gun at Henry’s feet and started firing.
Henry let out a choked groan as he jumped in place, his hands instinctively flying to his face. He was trembling, but he didn't move an inch from his spot. Vic and Belch looked away, unable to watch their leader being humiliated like this. Butch let out a dry, humorless laugh—twisted and sickening.
"Look at him now, boys," he gestured toward him with the gun. "Nothing like a little fear to make a paper man crumble." He delivered his sentence, then turned around to leave them alone, grabbing one of the beers sitting outside the porch on his way in.
The silence that followed was deathly. Henry remained in the same position, shaking, his face still buried behind his arms. Vic and Belch walked back toward the Trans Am with their heads hanging low. It wasn't news that Butch was fucking insane, but this was the first time the humiliation had reached such a level of cruelty. They walked in silence and got into the car without a single word, sitting there staring at the street as if it were the most interesting thing in Derry.
Henry was still standing there, his back turned to you, but the shaking had stopped. His muscles were completely rigid, locked in place. He looked like a statue of salt—frozen, brittle, and one second away from shattering.
You didn't know whether to reach out or just leave him be; it felt strange just existing in his space after what had happened. You forced a breath, trying to steady yourself for a moment, but it was useless. You edged closer to Henry, ignoring the looks Vic and Belch were giving you from the car—expressions that screamed, "Don't do it." You didn't give a fuck.
You were inches away from his back now, your pulse racing at a thousand miles an hour.
"Henry" you murmured, your voice coming out soft and velvety. As you got close enough to see the ripple of his muscles, the scent of fruit-flavored bubblegum, sweat, and cheap cologne flooded your senses.
You hesitated for a moment, but your fingers finally grazed the edge of his clothes—hesitant yet determined not to let him drown in his own hell alone.
"Henry... are you—" Your voice was cut short as he jerked away from your touch, as if your skin had scorched him. He completely ignored whatever you were about to say; honestly, he didn't give a rat's ass. His steps were stiff as he stomped across the grass toward the porch, heading inside with wild, unfocused eyes and a heavy scowl.
You glanced back at Belch’s Trans Am. Vic and Belch were about to hop out to stop you, but you shot them a look so furious they froze in their tracks. You picked up your pace, watching Henry move like a ghost through the hallways of his house. Butch was there, shirt unbuttoned, slumped over one of the sofas with a kid's show blaring in the background—the same show Henry would lose his mind over if Belch ever tried to change the channel.
Henry seemed to be in a state of total shock, his blue eyes almost entirely swallowed by his pupils. He stopped at his bedroom door and shoved his way in, with you right on his heels.
Before you even stepped inside, you noticed wet patches on the floor. You weren’t about to get close enough to smell it, but you were more than certain it was urine. You bit your lip in an anxious, frustrated gesture—hating your role as a mere spectator to this verbal massacre. You heard the sound of the shower starting up; Henry was turning on the water. You grabbed a rag, desperate to clean it up a bit so he wouldn't have to face it later.
It felt like an eternity passed while you scrubbed, and then you found yourself back at his bedroom door. Your stomach felt hollow at the mere thought of going in. You didn't have a clue what to say to him, yet there you were—your ass standing right outside his door.
You held your breath as you slowly pushed the door open. There he was, an old towel wrapped low around his waist, hunched over the edge of his bed in total silence. You stepped forward, nerves fraying, and the floorboards groaned under your weight. Henry stiffened instantly and bolted to his feet. Finally, his eyes locked onto yours—a volatile mix of shock and pure, unadulterated fury.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" His voice was raspy and razor-sharp. You shrank back where you stood; truth be told, even you didn't know what you were doing in the lion’s den.
But before you could even manage a coherent answer, he lunged forward, slamming your body against the bedroom door that was now held shut by your weight. His breathing was ragged—shallow and wounded.
"Did you come here to watch my old man keep throwing shit on me?" he roared, slamming his open palm against the door right next to your head. You couldn't help but flinch, gasping as you held your breath. You didn't want to answer him; the truth was, you didn't even know the answer yourself.
Your eyes, which had been lost somewhere in the corner of the room from pure tension, finally met his. His hand gripped your chin painfully, forcing you to look at him.
"Henry, I..." Your words were cut short again as his lips slammed aggressively against yours—a desperate attempt to hold onto a contact that burned, turning you to ash. You let out a muffled whimper; this was NOTHING like you had ever imagined your first kiss. It was a jagged mix of blunt desire and a clash of teeth that actually hurt. His large, calloused hands moved toward your hips in a grip so painfully tight it made you part your lips to let out a groan. Henry leaned further into you, devouring your mouth in a kiss that was utterly clumsy and devoid of any experience. He pulled back just a few millimeters, just enough to witness your look of pure emotional wreckage.
His brow was still furrowed, and the dying rays of the sun caught the blonde strands of his hair; he looked almost beautiful. You exhaled, trying to steady your breath and process what the hell had just happened. The same bully who carves names into skin and snaps bones was stealing a kiss from you, while you stood there as stiff as a broomstick, paralyzed.
You saw a flash of concern flicker through his pupils, only to be instantly replaced by a visceral anger that made him scowl even deeper. You noticed it immediately and reached for his shoulders with care, your hands sliding softly toward the nape of his neck, pulling him closer in a desperate attempt to defuse the bomb that was about to go off. Your eyelashes fluttered for a fraction of a second before your lips met again—but this time, you had started it. Your foreheads bumped in a clumsy rush for more contact, making you let out a nervous laugh, but it only made him grunt. He buried himself even deeper into your scent, a reminder that for the first time, there was something inside that house that didn't smell like rot. His free hand fisted into your hair, yanking it back to expose your throat.
"I'm gonna break you in every way you can imagine" he hissed, letting go of your hair with a sharp, blunt movement as he dragged you toward the bed with raw, brute force.
"You could try to laugh now" he sneered, his ironic tone lashing at your senses as he threw you onto the mattress. He began unbuttoning your shirt clumsily, nearly ripping the fabric apart. His ragged breath hitched as he buried his face desperately in the crook of your neck, delivering aggressive suctions and grips that would surely leave bruises behind.
"Henry— wait that hurts!" you gasped in a low voice, trying to keep your tone from shattering the peace of his old man’s drunken sleep. His hands sought out your breasts, kneading them without a hint of care. He shoved your jeans aside, jerking the zipper down and positioning himself between your legs like a predator. Your breathing was frantic while his face remained buried in your neck in sheer desperation, until finally, he yanked the loose knot of his towel, letting it fall lifelessly onto the dirty floor.
The air was thick with controlled aggression and testosterone radiating from his every pore. He finally looked up, his lips meeting yours in a ghost of a graze, while his blunt fingers clumsily shoved your underwear aside. He pressed his forehead against yours, panting, fueled by pure adrenaline. Incoherent phrases tumbled from his lips. "I’m gonna break you... I swear" he hissed, before pressing the tip of his painfully erect dick against your wet heat.
He buried the tip of his length into you slowly, holding his breath, while his lips slammed against yours in a clumsy motion. He deepened the kiss, fisting your hair to jerk your head back, gaining the freedom to move. Then, in a single, blunt thrust, he sank completely into you, spitting out curses and gripping your hair so tightly you felt as if he might rip it from your scalp.
A guttural growl tore from his throat, muffled against your mouth. His hand let go of your hair to grab your hip, pinning you down as he remained still for a heartbeat. He finally released your lips, and all you could do was let bitter tears leak from your eyes, moaning and gasping for air as if you’d just finished a marathon.
He began to move without giving you a moment’s peace, his thrusts raw and violent. The head of his cock slammed rhythmically against your interior; he would pull back only to bury himself deep inside you again and again, letting out silent sighs and ragged gasps. He grabbed one of your knees, hooking your leg to drive himself even deeper, making you see stars on earth. Your moans grew louder as he sank further into you with that animalistic hunger. He gripped your ass with bruising force, doing the same to your breasts as he kneaded them. His hips crashed against yours, making the collision of your sweat-slicked bodies inevitable in that thick, heavy air.
His lips clamped around your nipples, giving you a double surge of stimulation, while his movements grew more irregular and less intense—a sign his orgasm was close. His hips pressed even tighter against yours, leaving nothing but the sound of a dull echo in the air and the filthy creaking of the bed beneath you. One of his hands gripped your neck, squeezing lightly at the sides as he drove himself deeper one last time, desperate to reach the edge.
His face remained buried in your chest while he let out deep, nearly inaudible moans. His hair was soaked in sweat and a mess; his hands slid tremblingly down to your hips, digging his fingers into the flesh of your backside. Finally, he pulled out, coming across your abdomen «he was a clumsy guy, but he wasn’t stupid enough to want any brats.»
His breathing began to steady quickly. In one swift motion, he pulled away from you and grabbed the towel from the floor, wrapping it around his waist once more. He snatched a pack of cigarettes and sat on the edge of the bed beside you—not close enough for you to feel cared for; quite the opposite. His trembling fingers flicked the lighter, bringing the flame to the tip of his smoke while keeping his back turned to you.
"Get lost already" he stated flatly, the cigarette hanging from his lips, his gaze fixed on the bedroom door. His indifference burned like cigarette butts pressed against skin. You pulled yourself together, grabbing your clothes and dressing quickly without uttering a single word.
Lmk what do you think about the fic and be free to suggested anything i read every comment! 🎈
Ty for reading! And i want to thanks for the people to give me support! I love ya 🫀
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