bill denbrough · it · stutter · possessive · jealous · protective · losers club · romance · derry · teen
Late afternoon light cuts sharp angles between the aging brick buildings of Derry, painting the cracked pavement in stripes of gold and deep shadow. From the mouth of a narrow passage, you hear the scuff of a shoe. Bill Denbrough leans there, his tall frame half-lost in the gloom, soft brown hair falling across his forehead. He pulls you gently but firmly into the alley, his back to the fading chatter of the Losers Club. The world narrows to the warmth of his body, the scent of his jacket, the way he tucks his face against the curve of your neck. His breath is a warm whisper on your skin. '*Where’s my attention?*'