IT characters x reader

Trashmouth

You and Richie Tozier had an odd sort of relationship.

It first reared it's head when it became apparent in around fifth grade that you two were just as foul-mouthed as each other. Where Richie was a motormouth with no filter, and any thought that swum to his consciousness simply HAD to be blurted out, your words were carefully chosen with just the right amount of dry wit to pair with whatever filthy phrase tumbled from your mouth to feel like a slap to the face.

It was a relationship built off mutual respect, an understanding for one another, but that was as deep as it went. You and Richie had probably exchanged less than a hundred words in the five years you'd known each other, even if you did find him funny and a little endearing with those massive, Coke-bottle glasses perched upon a freckle-smattered snub nose.

Nothing good would come of two trashmouths uniting, and so you never bothered to make real contact with the boy.

Until today.

You'd stayed after school to brush up on your biology, because, what, just because you had the largest vocabulary of swear words of any thirteen-year-old you knew meant you couldn't be smart at the same time?

In any case, you'd been making your way to the back gate with your bag slung over one shoulder, when the hum of passing traffic outside the fence halted, and other sounds of the seemingly-silent schoolyard began to creep in.

Sounds that sounded horribly like Richie Tozier getting laid into by Henry Bowers and his gaggle of goons in the crook of a gap between the art and drama block some feet away.

You didn't hesitate; spinning round so quickly you kicked up a load of gravel, you marched toward the shadowed gap, from which pitiful whines and curses coupled with laughs and thuds were emitting.

You halted at the edge, staring down in momentary shock. Richie looked even scrawnier than he usually did as he was now, half-standing and slumped against the wall, seemingly held up only by Bowers fisting a handful of his shirt.

"That's it, Bowers, let it all out," Richie said weakly, words slightly slurred. "Bottling up frustration shows itself in funny ways - like, imagine if you did something violent. Then where would we be?"

Bowers gripped a handful of Richie's wild, dark hair and slammed his head into the brick wall. Richie hissed, blinking hard to ward of unconsciousness, because the pain was bad but God if he wasn't terrified about what Bowers would do to him if he were passed out.

"Bowers!"

The yell stopped both seventh-grader and junior alike, both eyes snapping to the girl silhouetted against the opening of the alley. Richie's eyes widened behind his glasses, because if there was one person he didn't want seeing him like this, it was you.

Bowers stared you down with a malign fury, but you refused to budge, glaring back with a venom searing in your irises. Finally, Henry scoffed and broke the stare, and you took to opportunity to march forward, wedging your body between his and Richie's slumped on the floor and protesting feebly in the form of pawing at your ankle, trying to shove you away from the teenager who so obviously wanted to hurt you.

"Get lost, you dippy cunt," Henry snorted, backing up a little. "What're you gonna do? Bite my ankles?"

"Get away from him and go home to your deadbeat daddy, Bowers," you snarled. "Or better yet, why not Hockstetter's? If you're looking for a frustration outlet, I hear he's provided you with that a couple times before."

Before you could blink, two furious hands had grabbed fistfuls of your shirt and had shoved you against the wall. Bowers was so close you could smell the hot dampness of his breath pushing into your face, see each individual twitch of each wound muscle in contorted face.