#bowers

Content Warnings: Canon-typical Patrick Hockstetter (sociopathic/apathetic behavior), dubious consent, graphic depictions of sexual assault and gore (on-screen in films), toxic dynamics, rough sexual content, biting, and predatory behavior.

Read at your own discretion because this is not a romantized version of Patrick.

The smell inside the VHS store was magnetic and almost entrancing within this god-forsaken hole of a town called Derry.

You walked through the different sections of the store, searching for something that would truly catch your eye. You couldn't help but see the covers of some really colorful romantic VHS tapes, but you had little interest in them and never would.

With your warm fingers, you traced over different cartridges, categorized into sections and a compulsively neat, alphabetical order. Someone had done good work here.

You stopped abruptly at the section with aggressively forceful covers, featuring lots of blood on the jackets and exaggerated expressions.

You stopped abruptly at the horror section. The covers here were aggressively forceful, featuring cheap gore and exaggerated expressions. It wasn't your first time buying from this aisle; in fact, you were a regular fixture here. Your fingers came to a halt on a movie you hadn't seen, one that everyone was raving about: A Nightmare on Elm Street.

You took the movie and inspected it meticulously.

A low but powerful voice came from right behind your back the voice almost make you jump out of ur skin.

"Freddy talks too much. Sometimes it's better when the victim's body is in a complete struggle for its life and fails." For the first time, you saw him alone, without the band of apes he always run around with—the Bowers Gang.

His eyes remained in a hypnotic void beneath his long lashes, his hair fell right over one of his eyes, and his skin shone under the store's cold light.

Patrick didn't bat an eye at your scare and simply grabbed one of the movies from the highest part of the shelf to analyze it and then stretched it out in your direction.

"Fuck!" You scrambled to pick up the tape and turned toward him, your brow furrowed. You hadn't even processed half of what he’d just said.

The cover was a bit worn, but the title "Psycosis" could be clearly read on the front.

"This edition is from the 60s. Norman managed to capture the technique of the effects too well; it's... clean." His monotonous voice ran through every fiber of your being, making you feel small.

During this brief span of seconds, you began to recall all those rumors that circulated at Derry High about Patrick. He wasn't particularly known for being charming—quite the opposite.

He had a big reputation for being off his rocker.

Once, you heard some girls in the bathroom talking about how they would never sit in front of Patrick again, it was as par of the course to feel a hand roaming their legs or even directly groping the breasts of any girl who sat in front of or around him.

You swallowed dryly, feeling the tension in your muscles turn rigid at his proximity and his intoxicating smell of sweat and metal mixed with faint notes of licorice.

"I have some VHS tapes at home that would make these movies look like children's programs..." His voice became thick, and his breath almost hit your cheek directly. For a moment, he looked away to glance at the employee who was organizing VHS tapes, completely oblivious to what was happening between you.

He quickly returned his gaze to your eyes without blinking for a single second.

"We could go watch them." He licked his lips with a lascivious smile full of mockery and curiosity.

It was a fucking mystery how he talked you into coming to his house, but here you were. Patrick maintained an almost disturbing calm, pacing around his room as if you weren't sitting on the edge of his bed. He picked up a tape without a cover... You inhaled, trying to keep your cool, but it was impossible when his presence was so dead inside. He sat next to you as the small device began to act up with static before throwing images onto the screen.

You adjusted yourself a bit on the edge of the bed, trying not to take up too much space, although his bed was quite big for the two of you.

You glanced sideways at Patrick, who didn't take his eyes off the small TV. His profile was bathed in a powerful blue light, and his eyelashes remained static, as it seemed this weirdo never blinked.

You quickly looked away when you felt him look back at you in the same way; you swallowed dryly again.

The images the device was playing were truly taken from hell. It looked like a homemade short film with really unnecessary close-ups of cuts on skin and the victims' expressions of dilation.

There was a girl who was naked, tied to a clinic table, completely immobilized and gagged. A really unpleasant close-up of the union of bodies between the perpetrator and the victim was shown. It was a clear rape scene.

You glanced sideways at Patrick again, who didn't take his eyes off the scene and watched it with a strange admiration and morbid curiosity.

His voice came out almost velvety.

"You don't need two thousand liters of blood to make a scene worth watching" he whispered. At his sudden interruption of the silence, you couldn't help but get scared and jump a little.

He glanced at you, scanning your face and body.

"Sometimes it's better to find the art in what others call repulsive." For the first time, he smiled—a smile that didn't reach his eyes but was a visible curve.

Behind the screen, the gasps and grunts of the perpetrator could be heard; it was a dirty and visually disturbing scene.

You adjusted yourself, a bit uncomfortable, and noticed how the fabric of his tight jeans began to strain, but he ignored it as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Patrick quickly noticed your gaze on his growing erection and slowly leaned closer to your body. Your nose almost brushed his when you turned, letting out a choked gasp.

He tilted his head with an insulting slowness.

"You haven't stopped looking at me during the whole movie" he stated near your lips while his bony hand held your wrist with a force that he could feel your bone poking him through the skin.

He licked his lips again with a small smile.

"You're interesting... any other girl would have left already; she wouldn't even have wanted to come in here in the first place." His greenish eyes searched yours while he maintained his closeness.

Without waiting for any signal, he dragged you close to him with a strength you didn't know where he got from.

You gasped in surprise as he pushed you against the mattress and his hands immobilized your wrists above your head.

His body settled on top of yours, separating your legs with his knee in a torturous manner.

"The shine in your eyes... will it fade away like the girl on the tape?" His voice sounded thick, almost dragging each word that left his lips. He buried his head near the hollow of your neck, inhaling your perfume and placing his lips on your warm skin; his lips felt strangely cold.

You couldn't help but sigh excitedly at his contact. This was wrong, but what is life without a little excitement?

You arched your back a little, seeking his contact, which he never refused to give you.

His teeth sank into the beginning of your collarbones without measuring his strength, making you let out a plaintive and pleasurable moan.

His eyes met yours after he morbidly licked your new mark.

His eyebrow arched in a curious gesture.

"If I had known you liked being bitten, I would have done it in the VHS store" he commented in a tone lacking humor, but in his head, it sounded funny.

He released your wrists to shamelessly lift your t-shirt until your abdomen and bra were completely exposed. He licked his lips, and one of his hands plunged directly onto one of your breasts, squeezing with excessive force, as if analyzing its texture and density.

You helped him a little and propped yourself up on your elbows, unfastening your bra without looking him in the eyes.

He stayed for a moment, kneeling between your legs, admiring your breasts under the light of the television. One of his hands returned to your chest, but this time his fingers carelessly wrapped around your nipple.

You moaned in response, somewhat embarrassed that the town's damn "weirdo" was making you let out such pitiful moans. You grabbed his shirt and pulled him toward you, unable to bear that he was technically inspecting you like an insect.

You pressed your lips together in a forced and almost passionate kiss. At first, he made no movement, but he began to imitate you, though he did it a bit clumsily.

You didn't know how or when your clothes disappeared and your mouths sought each other with desperation.

Your body was marked by his hickeys and bite marks across your ribs, breasts, and abdomen.

Without waiting, he entered you in a single thrust. You couldn't help but scratch his back to avoid screaming. His pupils dilated at the new sensation of your insides embracing his penis. He sighed heavily while his hands began to warm up a little at the sides of your hips.

You felt him tense up under your scratches on his back.

"Do it again" he murmured in an almost pleading tone disguised as an order, as he began to drag his penis inside you only to thrust back in abruptly, releasing almost imperceptible sighs that mixed with the sound of your bodies colliding and your moans.

You dug your nails into his shoulder as the thrusts became more powerful and aggressive. His hands traced the outline of your ribs with an almost sick fixation, while his eyes were hypnotized by how your breasts bounced with his thrusts.

His breathing became frantic, and so did his movements. It only took a few thrusts for him to let out a groan and finish on your abdomen.

After a few minutes, his breathing stabilized ridiculously fast. He adjusted his pants and looked at you.

His eyes widened upon seeing you in a state of complete surrender, with your legs still open and breathing heavily.

He walked away and rummaged for another one of his strange movies.

"Get your breath back soon. In this tape, the girl does something really interesting, and I want us to try it." His empty voice filled the room while you wondered how the hell everything ended up like this.

Tysm for reading and lmk what do u think abt this fic!

English is not my native language, so I apologize if there have been any nonsensical translations.

I hope ya'll enjoy this.

"M'sorry," he had whispered into your skin, the radio playing some sappy song even at the late hour. And you had just shushed him softly, kissing the top of his head as your hands kept working against his skin. He hasn't said much else other than apologies since he got here, sorry about waking you, being an inconvenience, and every time you had stopped him gently. A soft act he didn't think he wouldve appreciated so much.

His hands are shaky as the wrap around your waist, after you've finished with the cream, and you pulling the blanket over the both of you, him shoving a stuffed animal off the bed abit too harshly, in which you laugh, "who needs bears when your here?" You had whispered, peppering soft kisses along his face, before you had fallen asleep in each others grasp.

Waking up in the morning with him still at your side, realizing the reason you had woken up was your father in the doorway, you had told them about his situation not long ago, needing advice on how to help.

Henry helps you after he beats a guy for getting too handsy with you. 

Cw: implied sexual assault attempt, knife

“That was kind of over-kill, don’t you think?” You say once the brutal scene that just transpired is over. “Should I be flattered, or am I next?”

“Shut it, tits.” Henry grunts. 

He steps toward you, his expression matching yours of indifferent sass. Then he unbuckles his belt and pulls it from its loops, cracking a wicked smirk as you falter.

“What are you-?”

“I’m not arguing with you when your pants are falling down like some fucking whore.” He says with an insulting tone.

You groan and look down to see your belt is in fact broken–that prick ripped the tattered leather while trying to get into your pants. You’d be mad if Henry hadn’t just rearranged his face like a rabid dog but, seeing as he’ll be needing reconstructive surgery, you consider it even for the ruined belt. Just the belt.

“Bowers, I don’t think your belt is gonna fit me.” 

“It might,” He scoffs, eyeing you with the most judgmental look he can muster. “You’ve got fat hips.”

“Fat hips?” You question incredulously. “You have no idea how dumb you sound saying something like-”

He cuts you off, yanking you closer by your belt loops, eyes watching with cruel excitement as you briefly lose your composer yet again. He slides your broken belt out of place and tosses it on the ground, then begins to replace it with his.

“Yeah, yeah. I can do it myself. It’s still not gonna work though, ‘fat hips’ and all.” You grumble, taking his belt and feeding it through the last loops of your jeans. 

“Yeah, I know, I’m getting there–if you’d just shut your fucking mouth for one second.”

He pulls out his pocket knife, flicks it open with practiced ease, then watches you expectantly. When you don't squirm or panic, he frowns, puts his annoyed mom look back on, then tugs at your belt loops again–this time just to mess with you.

“Would you stop that?” 

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he pulls one side of his belt over the other, measuring the length of your waist. Then he burrows the tip of his knife into the leather just slightly, trying to gage the perfect spot for a new hole to resize the belt. 

He works methodically. Strong, calloused hands jerk you around and position you however he pleases. His brows furrow in concentration, eyes scanning with an attentive focus you’ve never seen from him before. For a moment, you’re his handy work–just like all of the carrying and refurbishing his father makes him do on his land plot in the summer. But you’re not a car, nor a broken fence. So when he parts his lips without thinking and tugs you closer by your waist with haphazard disregard for anything other than the task at hand, it doesn't go unnoticed in the slightest. He’s not gentle and he doesn’t break concentration, no matter how red your face gets or how much his fingers make you squirm. He only presses into your skin harder to hold you still. 

 When he’s done, he absent mindedly eyes his work and lets you go, leaving you with a new belt that he’s resized and unthinkingly buckled all the way for you. You don’t move for a second, jaw dropped and mind blank from the way Henry Bowers was just putting his hands all over your waist and using his knife mere inches from your skin–not to harm you, but to do that.

“Looks like shit.” He says.

And the astonishment is over. You give him a glare.

“What? I can’t have you looking like a whore out in public. Let's go dipshit.” He leaves no room for argument, grabbing you by the belt he just crudely tailored for you and pulling you along. 

You shove him off and fall into step with him.

“Why did you help me?” you ask begrudgingly, torturously curious but also dismayed to be speaking with him.

“I didn’t help you,” A cruel smirk spreads across his lips. “I'm doing us all a favor with the belt. No one wants to see more of you than they have to, darling.” 

You roll your eyes and ignore the way he called you darling–it was anything but sweet. He sounded like an axe murderer talking to his favorite hatchet in his collection. 

Yet, surely you didn't find it charming?

“No, I mean, I would’ve thought you’d try to do the same thing that jerk was going to.” 

At that, Henry got angry. Not necessarily at you, just angry.

“That’s bullshit. Only a pathetic, virgin, pansy would force himself on a woman like that. A real man would only get into your pants after you begged for it on your knees, like a little fucking slut.”

Only Henry could make feminist ideals sound so… misogynistic. Despite the incentive, it’s a surprisingly moral belief for him so you shrug and try to keep up with his mercilessly fast strides.

“Right.” Is all you care to say before he walks with you in silence for a whopping two miles to your house. 

You don't get intimidated by Henry you match him.

The first time he snaps at someone and expects you to flinch, you don't. You just tilt your head, watching him like you're trying to decide something. It throws him off for a second. Not enough for anyone else to notice but you see it.

You argue with him, but not in a normal way. It's not emotional it's sharp, fast, almost like you're both trying to outdo each other. He'll shove someone. You'll say something worse. And instead of getting mad at you he grins.

There's this constant push and pull. Who's louder, who's meaner, who goes further. Except sometimes, you don't even need to try.

You just naturally meet him at that level.

People start noticing that when you're both around, things escalate faster. Like you feed into each other without even trying.

Someone says something wrong, and both of you react at the same time not hesitating, not softening it.

He respects you in the only way he knows how. Not gently. Not openly. But he doesn't treat you like everyone else. You're not someone he controls you're someone he measures himself against.

There are moments where it goes quiet between you.

This is all theoretical and I could be making no sense here, but here it goes. In my understanding of Derry, It, and that universe in general, even during Its 27 year hibernation, the town is affected. Like, there aren't outwardly insane things happening (like the Ironworks/the Bradley Gang shootout/The Black Spot), but a lot of people in Derry are still racist, homophobic, and all around mean. It seeps into the ground and the water and the air. It isn't actively influencing anyone, but It is always there. I believe that the Bowers family is cursed with their own hate and prejudice that is so easy to manipulate. That makes them puppets to It, it's like they reproduce only for the purpose of being that tool for It.

Given all that (and again I'm sorry this is so long):

We know that Clint Bowers was the ringleader of burning down the Black Spot and killing all those people. I do wonder if he saw/would remember Will being in the building when they came in and then burned it.

Which then leads me to wonder: Henry says a line at the end of It (2017) "I still get sad every time I pass by that pile of ashes-- sad that I couldn't have done it myself". We can safely say Henry really didn't cause that fire since he would only have been four or five years old at the time. But who have been old enough, and we never got to see cause any harm to the Hanlon's (or really anyone other than Henry)-- is Butch. I ASSUME that Clint is the father of Oscar "Butch" Bowers, so he would have grown up knowing about The Black Spot and the Maine Legion of White Decency. Maybe Clint even told him that Will made it out, and made sure his family knew that the Hanlons were a main target.

I know at the end of It: Chapter 2, the cause of Mike's parent's death is officially changes to a "potential electrical fire" which burned down the apartment. But I just have to wonder if it wasn't an accident. Theoretically, It clearly wants Will dead so that Mike won't be born to kill It. Once Will and Jessica have Mike, what are the chances that Butch tried to finish the job and get both of them? Then of course, when Mike survives the fire, the torch is passed onto Henry.