#turtle god

My friend doesn't understand Stephen King. But nobody else does either.

I’ve had this Idea in mind for a fic for a while, now, and I thought It’d be a decently good place to start for this blog, so boom, here’s a reader-insert fic starring Big Bill and his trusty bike. This is sort of a gift for a friend, roughly based off of an idea from an IT story we started a while back, and it plays a little bit with the turtle god connection all the kids have, that the reader’s involved with, too. PAIRING: Bill Denbrough/Reader WARNINGS: Blood and Cuts, A little bit of cursing, that’s about it. SUMMARY: Bill Denbrough runs you over with his bike and insists that It’s now his duty to make sure you’re okay. You bond over bandages and comic books. __________________________ The first time you really meet Stuttering Bill Denbrough, he runs you over with his bike.

When you take away all the pain it caused the both of you, the situation was really quite comical. It had been on a Saturday morning, and the front tire of what you now know is named ‘Silver’ crashed straight into your thigh halfway through your journey across the crosswalk in front of Derry Library. You had briefly heard a boy scream something along the lines of ‘Watch out!’ and a loud clink and scrape of a roller chain before the impact, and at the time you hadn’t known where to look after opening your eyes; the books in your hand flying out towards the side of the road in a fit of flapping papers and endangered spines and cover arts, or the poor boy above you, his bike tilted completely forward onto his front wheel and his shins catching just on the handlebars before he could fly any farther. His eyes were comically wide before the both of you made unpleasant contact with the road, and you think you would have laughed if it weren’t for the shock you had been in, at the time.

It happened really quite fast, after all.

You’re sure the instant he started talking after both of you mutually shared a few groans and grunts of pain was the instant you recognized him. It was hard not to; you two had an art class together, and because he was a fifteen year old freshman and you were a seventeen year old senior, it was the only class you two shared. He only talked when he had to, but the few times he spoke really did ingrain itself in your memory for one honest reason; his stutter. It was hard to miss, because sometimes when the teacher forced him to talk It’d get so bad that his knuckles would turn white on his desk and his face would go red until Ms. Stevens let him off the hook when the class would start murmuring and your indifference towards most of the Derry High students would turn sour. When Bill Denbrough was the topic of a conversation, it would almost always be about his stutter. You’ve heard immature students mock him in the halls all the time, both behind his back or right when he’s walking by, and although you never joined in on the teasing because you wouldn’t want to label yourself an asshole, you know you still fall victim to the fact that It’s almost always ‘Stuttering Bill.’ You’ve just never been able to talk to him enough to recognize him as much else, though you know he’s very pleasant to talk to when you two are partnered up for something, and his art skills are amazing.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m s-so sorry, are- are you o-okay? I-I should’ve b-been watching where I-I-I was g-going,” He’s talking faster than he normally does when he pushes himself back onto his feet and moves his bike off of the lower half of your body, and you notice that his stutter gets a little worse when he realizes who you are. When the situation kicks in as he holds his hand out to help you up, you suddenly don’t know whether or not to be angry at him for his blatantly reckless driving, or amused. When you’re pulled up back onto your feet, you don’t really get to decide, yourself, because his clammy grip on your hand almost slips halfway through getting you back on your feet and when you stumble a bit you start to giggle. There’s a look of confusion in his cerulean blue gaze at this fact (you note he’s about an inch smaller than you, if that, at his age,) before he looks like he wants to laugh, too, and he hides a small embarrassed smile that tugs up on his lips by ducking down to start collecting the books that are sprawled out across the road. You try to tell him that It’s okay, you’re fine and you could do it yourself, but when he further insists that it was entirely his fault (which, to be fair, it was,) and that he wants to help, you let him collect the rest of your things with a bit of a smile.

While you watch him grab the last (bent, you’re devastated to see, you hate ruining books,) book off the road, you can’t help but notice the tint of red that dances across his cheeks and runs up the tips of his ears. You pass it off for simple embarrassment, because at the time it very much was at least half that, and another feeling you wouldn’t realize until much later.

You continue to try and reassure him that the crash hadn’t hurt you too much and that you’d be fine on your walk home after he hands you your books and insists he take you to the Center Street Drugstore to get you patched up, for it was just a right turn away, but you stop trying to walk the pain off on your own when you realize how badly all the scrapes and bruises on your body sting and ache after the adrenaline starts to wear off. There’s blood already staining the right knee of your blue jeans, seeping through the fabric around the tear the fall made, and you notice a red smear on one of the covers of the books you’re holding, as well, when you shift your hold to steady the stack.

You two end up walking there, side-by-side, instead of hitching a ride on Bill’s bike, because you didn’t trust it enough to get you to the drugstore safely after having been pummeled by it just a few minutes ago, and the crash had injured the Denbrough’s leg enough to where he was limping and had to use the big bulky piece of metal as something to lean on. You don’t think It would’ve worked, anyway, even if his leg was alright, because you have about six books in your hands and he takes four when he sees the scrapes on your palms halfway to the Center Store. You mostly let him because you know this isn’t only helping you, but It’s also helping him ease some of his guilt over running you over full-speed on a bike he barely fit on.

You make small talk on the way there, and find out that he was headed to meet up with a friend at his house; a boy by the name of Richie Tozier, who you share a Theatre class with. You tell Bill of this fact, and when you do he gets an amused but knowing grin on his face before you two end up talking and laughing about how Richie loves theater class despite him constantly cracking jokes about it to his friends to stay as cool as Richie Tozier could, and how Richie’s surprisingly good at what he does during games and practices and Bill seems happy to hear that you genuinely seem to enjoy the trashmouth’s company in the class; that he makes it more fun to be in. You end up moving on to art talk, and he makes suggestions of where to get supplies in Derry because you’re new and hadn’t found a place yet and you compliment what you’ve seen of his skills in class and he compliments you right back. You hadn’t realized how easy and enjoyable it was to talk to the boy until you two arrived at the Corner store faster than you think you would’ve liked, and all the laughter and the charisma between the two of you is instantly stubbed out when all the aid supplies seen through the window on the shelves reminds Bill of the situation the two of you are in, and he sits you down a bit sheepishly on the green bench outside and tells you he’ll be right back and It’ll be quick.

He sets his bike against the wall beside you and in about six minutes or so, he comes back out with disinfectant and bandages and bandaids and one or two other things he thought he might need and you find yourself chuckling a bit at the way he stumbles with the objects in his hands before he drops them all on the seat beside you with the same red color on his cheeks as before. “I’m glad I m-made sure to bring m-money, today.”

“Oh god, how much did you spend? I need to repay you, this is ridiculous.” You run a hand through your [hair color] locks after setting your books down when he sheepishly motions for you to, and he shakes his head with a smile that’s contagious enough to make you mirror him, and you’ve officially decided that he’s a very sweet boy before he even opens his mouth, again.

“N-no, don’t, I w-wanted to. I don’t think I-I would’ve been able to s-stop being guilty, otherwise. I’m s-sort of reckless when I’m- I’m riding Silver.” He mumbles out a passive ‘sorry’ when he dabs a disinfectant wipe on your scratched up palm and the sting makes you wince, and the look of concentration in his eyes as he works makes you smile a bit in amusement. You can’t tell if he’s terribly inexperienced with this or if he knows what he’s doing.

“Silver?” “My- my bike. I n-named it Silver.” His cheeks flush up in red again at the fact, and it seems to only make him focus more on your hand as he starts wrapping bandages around the fleshy tears and cuts.

“...Is that a Lone Ranger reference?” You might not be a huge fan, but you’ve dipped into your fair share of comic books and you’ve definitely stumbled across quite a few of the volumes in the Lone Ranger series. They’re relatively old comics, popular in the fifties, and you chuckle a bit when Bill’s face lights up at the sheer fact that you recognized the connection.

“Y-you’ve read those c-comics?” “Well, I read comics. I’ve only read one or two but It’s enough to know where ‘Silver’ came from.” You brush a few strands of hair behind your ear and swell with a tiny bit of pride at your knowledge; It’s not really something to be proud of as a Derry Senior high school student but the look of astonishment you get from the boy affects you enough to feel happy about your hobby for a little bit. “It’s a good series, you’ve got good taste, Denbrough.”

“...I-I can lend you some of the c-comics, s-sometime, if you- you’d like. I-I-I know Richie has s-some, too.” He proposes the offer in a bit of a way that sounds like he’s unsure, as if he expects you to laugh at him, his head ducked down to focus on where he was finishing up with your other hand, and you grin at the fact; senior girls must be intimidating to him.

“Yeah, sure. I’d like that.” He glances up at you then with a genuine smile, and you wholeheartedly grin back at him. You don’t exactly know how long you’d ended up staring at him-- his eyes were a really pretty shade of blue, you’ve noticed-- but he wasn’t shifting away like it was making him uncomfortable and something in your chest feels warm. It wasn’t anything like what you normally felt when you found a cute guy in the hallway, or made a friend, or exchanged something heartfelt with someone you’re close too-- It was more; deeper, and stronger, something that both made you incredibly happy and a bit overwhelmed. You’d felt this way before, numbly, with Richie-- a connection that made him stand out from the rest of your classmates, but this time it makes your face heat up and your heart jumps in your chest when somebody glances at the two of you when they walk by to head into the Center Store as if you’d almost been caught doing something embarrassing.

You gazes tear away, then, quickly-- he abruptly focuses back on bandaging up the rest of your wounds and your eyes shift beside you to read the title of one of your books as if this was the first time you were discovering it. A comfortable silence settles between the two of you until he’s done patching you up and tries to dismiss his own wounds but you force him into the bench seat to swap places with a shared laugh at the struggle, and he winces when you try to move his leg.

You tell him that he’s probably going to have to get that checked by a professional sometime, and he grimaces at the thought of the doctor’s office and It’s so terribly relatable that it forces out a bit of a laugh from your throat that gets him to loosen up. By the time all the bandages have been used up and all the wounds have been covered, the two of you have talked about multiple subjects and are already starting to crack a few jokes with each other about the bike incident and you wholeheartedly regret not trying to get to know him, sooner. He’s genuinely fun to hang out with; It’s odd how comfortable you are around him after only having been run over by ‘Silver’ about an hour or so earlier.

Eventually, Bill makes it to his bike and drags it out onto the side of the road, and you collect all your books and stand a couple feet away on the sidewalk in front of the drugstore with a smile and he shifts on his feet a bit before turning to look at your once more with a hesitant expression. “A-are you sure you don’t w-want a ride back t-to y-your house? I p-promise I won’t cruh-crash, again.”

He sends you a teasing smile and you chuckle and shake your head, shifting your weight onto one leg as you make a shooing motion with the hand not pressing your book pile against your chest. “Shoo, Denbrough. I live just a few blocks away, I’ll be fine. I’ll see you at school on Monday, alright?”

You get that warm feeling in your chest when he glances at you, again, and your gazes don’t linger as long because he’s holding up a heavy bike and he realizes Richie’s waiting for him and after saying your goodbyes, you watch him pull his weight on the peddles down the road and you don’t think you’ve ever grinned wider than you had at that moment when you hear him call out a “HI-YO, SILVER, AWAYYY!” down the road the second he gains smooth speed before he turns the corner and he’s gone. You try to read a few pages of one of the books in your hands on the way home but you end up having too many thoughts on your mind, and when you arrive at your front porch you’ve reread the first three paragraphs about five times.