i really wanna know who the patient zero was in how we all collectively interpret pennywise's naked body like was it one artist in 2017 that did the black legs and arms and everyone went "yes" or did multiple people see his ungloved hand reveal in that one scene and all come to the same conclusion independently?
either way thank god cus the high contrast two toned body is never not hot good job everyone lets hit the showers
every time y’all say “I want to fuck that old man” then point at a 30 year old you are introducing an invasive species into the fuckable old man ecosystem
Summary: After the most difficult goodbye of your life and being forced to wait 27 long years for your mates return, you learn about an important part of pennywises hibernation cycle. The recovery. The vulnerability gives you a very heartfelt conversation, one that needed to be had.
Tags/Warnings: ns/fw, it/its pronouns for pennywise, gender neutral reader, no description of reader, fluff, angst, emotions, hurt/comfort, heartbreak, grief, 5 stages of grief, emotional hurt, longing, yearning, caretaking, mention of spiders, smut, frotting, biting, cw blood (not a lot), wounds, pennywise loves you, pennywise is weak and vulnerable (for a week), dialogue heavy in parts, long ahh backstory, despite my best efforts, very OOC pennywise, patheticwise
Word count: 5405
A/N: so, chat, I’ll be honest. I don’t like this one too much. Not my best work. I got the idea when I watched a video essay about keeping a tarantula (I do not have a tarantula and I’m not planning on getting one, I just found it interesting.) And I do like the idea and some parts of this, but overall it might be a bit too corny, for lack of a better term. I let my angsty emotions get the best of me while writing this. But oh well, still a fun little story I guess, I’ll let you be the judge of that. If even one person enjoys this, I have no regrets. The next one will be better, I hope.
‘The week after a tarantula molts, it enters the most vulnerable state of its life cycle. Its body softens, it becomes sensitive, easily startled and frightened. It won’t attack, it can’t defend itself. It cannot eat. It is crucial, if you own a tarantula, to allow it to hide and burrow. It requires your utmost attention to keep it safe and comfortable before regaining its strength.’
Pennywise is not a tarantula.
It doesn’t molt during its hibernation, it doesn’t return with a new skin after shedding its old one.
Yet, somehow, those rules will prove to still apply.
The last time you saw the clown, was almost exactly 27 years ago.
It was the hardest goodbye you ever had to go through.
When you first met it, 28 years ago, you never imagined ever missing the entity, you never even imagined coming out of that ordeal alive.
You nearly died, naturally. That’s the fate everyone had met upon meeting it. Somehow, you survived the encounter.
Thinking back, you almost don’t remember what exactly happened. You remember being scared, being terrified. You remember feeling pain, it was your stomach, but you only know that because you have a thick, dark scar as a reminder.
You assume pennywise got into your head to wipe your memories clean. There isn’t really another explanation, you’re sure otherwise you wouldn’t forget something so significant. You don’t mind though, you feel if it deems that memory better off forgotten, it must be right to do so.
The first real memory you have of it, happened later, when you weren’t scared anymore.
You remember being held, cradled, being licked clean, you remember dark growls vibrating against you.
After, you had been visited by pennywise daily. There was a connection between you, otherworldly, incomprehensible to the both of you. It didn’t want to kill you, you didn't want to run away.
Like an instinct pulling towards one another, like fate, destiny. Or something like that, who knows.
When the year came to an end, when your relationship was the tightest its ever been, your love and dependence were the strongest, it announced to you it had to take it’s rest.
You didn’t understand, it was the first time you'd heard of this ‘rest.’ It waited for the last day to tell you. You asked how that could be, since it would sleep next to you nearly every night.
It explained how it usually would’ve left after a few months, the additional rest with you bought the whole year. It said it like you should've been grateful, maybe you should’ve, but at that moment you were nothing but heartbroken.
You went through all the stages of grief.
At first, you didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to hear any of it. You thought it must’ve been playing a trick on you, it must’ve selfishly coaxed fear into you, to get a kick out of it.
When you finally realized how serious it was, you got angry, you got furious. You yelled. You shouted at it, how could it be so cruel to you, how could it do this, get in your head like that, make you love it, love a monster like it was just to abandon you for decades.
Throughout your fit, it stayed entirely still, for once being kind enough to let you pour and pour and pour.
Then, you began asking, could it not wait a little longer? Sleep with you a few more nights, maybe a week? Maybe hibernate for only a year, at least only ten instead of 27? If that was so necessary, could it at least lay its form to rest in your bed, in your home where you could look at it and not feel so alone?
Of course, there was nothing to be bargained. This had to happen, it did.
Your heart once again shattered into a million pieces like it did in the beginning of the process. You began crying, you wept. The second you sunk to the ground, pennywise was crouched by your side, a heavy hand gripping your arm almost painfully tight.
It let you cry, it let you sob, it let you wet its costume as it held you close, utterly silent. You felt it lick the tears on your face, you felt it bite at you here and there, its body tense, twitching. It was shaking around you, it was keeping its instincts at bay.
That made you realize this wasn't just hard on you, it was struggling as well, its own version of a heartbreak. This really wasn’t a choice it was making.
Eventually, with that realization, you finally came to acceptance.
It wasn’t happy acceptance, you weren’t content whatsoever. The conclusion came heavily, it came painfully, but you gave in, you knew you had no choice.
And you didn’t want to spend your last night together in anger. You didn’t want to feel resentment for the next 27 years, not when this pain it caused was the direct result of all the undeniable love you felt.
It would spend the night with you, a last time. It would stay with you until sunrise, it would imprint itself on you, it would make sure you remembered.
The night was many things. Most of all, a show of love. You held each other, you were intimate. It was soft at times, it was harsh at others. You were kissed and bitten and licked and scratched. It touched you, every inch of skin, and you did the same with its own body. You brought each other pain and pleasure alike, over and over. Your body was an artwork of blood, wounds and bites, they would scar and ground you for the time to come.
You remember it so clearly, you think about that night often.
At the end, not long before sunrise, you lied in its arms, faces inches apart. It’s eyes had been glowing a fierce yellow, then they were blue, soft. It looked tired. Oh, so spent.
It wasn’t the kind of tired you'd see when it joined you in bed at night. It was the kind that required a proper rest. As much as it saddened you, guilt overcame you for attempting to deprive it of that.
You apologized for your outburst, it understood.
You made it promise to return, it did without hesitation.
It made you promise not to die until it woke up, as if that was in your control. You promised anyway.
You kissed a last time, deeply, heavily, meaningfully, when suddenly you got tired, so incredibly exhausted.
It was out of your control, like you were hypnotized, you were falling asleep.
The last thing you heard, you think that’s what you heard anyway, was a distant, quiet, hesitant ‘I love you.’
By the time you woke up, a little after noon, the bed was empty next to you. And you knew it would stay like that for a very long time.
“I love you too,” you spoke into the lonely space.
That day you spent in bed entirely, crying, smelling the spot it lied just hours earlier.
The first few months were horrible, they were hell.
You ached, day and night, you missed that horrendous clown so much, some nights you were convinced you couldn’t keep your promise. That you'd die from sheer pain.
The pure yearning and longing clouded your mind, made you forget everything else.
But with it, came determination. You swore yourself to wait, to never forget and to embrace it with open arms as soon as it returns to you.
After the initial months of agony, you slowly, very slowly, got better.
The first few years were difficult to navigate, you thought of pennywise daily, always, everything reminded you of it. Seeing a balloon, seeing a spider, seeing posters of the carnival you didn't dare visit.
Then, it got easier.
Over the many long years, you thought about it less, and when you did, it wasn’t agonizing, it was a fond memory.
You'd look down at your scars, the bite marks and scratches, run your finger tips over them, trace the shape of it’s teeth.
Toward the end of the wait, you had yourself a sense of normalcy. But you never dated, never got intimate with anyone other than yourself during more lonely nights. You belonged to someone, always.
There was a space in the back of your mind reserved for it, always there even if you rarely visited it.
You'd go out with friends, laughing in restaurants, you'd watch new movies, try new foods and meet new people, pennywise was always there in your head, yet it wasn’t.
Weeks, months, you went without thinking about it.
Yet, every time you caught yourself doing so, you felt anticipation rise, just a bit. With it, came longing. Soon, you thought, soon your yearning would pay off.
And now, 27 years later, it’s time for it to return.
You don’t know when exactly, but some time this year it will happen.
For a while, every now and again, you imagine what it’s going to be like.
In your daydreams, you imagine it emerging from the shadows, just appearing like it usually did. You imagine it with a wicked grin, announcing its return. Maybe, as a welcome back gift to itself, it would scare you. Or maybe it would launch at you right away, maybe it would shower you in kisses, all the while laughing maniacally. Maybe it would bite you, gifting you new marks. Surely even in its sleep, it must miss you like you do it.
Sometimes, when you imagine these things at night, your thoughts go further, to your first intimate night together after being neglected so long. You imagine how it would touch you, you assume it will be rough, desperate, rewarding. Oh, how you want to be rewarded for waiting so patiently.
When you imagine these things, you usually end up touching yourself. Shameful, maybe. But it’s the only thing getting you off.
Today is an ordinary day, it has been so far anyway.
It’s late, already dark outside.
You lie on your couch, wrapped in a blanket, tv playing some old movie you haven’t seen yet. It’s not too interesting, you begin dozing off.
Before you can fully fall asleep, you jolt awake again at a loud noise cutting through the air. It came from the basement door that’s facing your couch from the other end of the room.
Your eyes are wide, body rigid as you stare in bewilderment. The implication doesn’t cross your mind yet, what this could mean.
There’s another noise, a thud. Then something clatters, then there are footsteps.
Within moments you're on your feet, adrenaline pumping through you.
The door opens slowly, you hold your breath.
A long creak, the door is wide open.
Darkness. Then, two eyes. They glow, tho not very bright, you barely see them.
As soon as your mind catches up to what’s happening, tears begin to fill your eyes.
You let out a shaky breath, carefully stepping closer to the dark staircase. To the eyes.
They're fixated on you, unmoving.
You swallow thickly, holding back from jumping at it, in case your excitement is misguided.
“Pennywise…?” You whisper carefully, testing.
You smell a foul stench in the air, it doesn’t register much.
Quiet, wet footsteps sound to approach, then it’s whole figure steps into the light of your living room.
Despite your excitement, surprise overcomes you at the sight. You're alarmed even.
Pennywise looks different. It stands tall in the room, but so meek, so worn down. It’s knees wobble.
Most of all, it’s covered in filth. Dried blood and gore cling to its form.
It stares down at you and takes a raspy breath, “Y/N,” it’s voice is hoarse and small, barely audible to you.
Nevertheless, you smile up at it, a sob crawls from your throat. “You’re finally back-” your voice breaks as you dash forward, moving to embrace it.
When you do, it flinches. You're stopped in your tracks, utterly confused. “Oh. Are… you okay?” You ask carefully, looking at it, taking in its weakly growing eyes, it’s sluggish posture, “you seem so… different.”
It licks over it’s teeth, scrunching its nose up, looking around, “I’m… recovering,” it murmurs, it comes as almost a growl.
You blink stupidly, looking down at its body. It’s arms hang by its side limply, it seems to struggle to hold itself up. You don’t know what exactly it’s recovering from, it seems not in the best shape.
Still, you nod, “okay,” you say and try again. You're dying to embrace it like you'd promised yourself nearly three decades ago, so much so, that you don’t care about getting dirty, “can I touch you?”
It shivers visibly, fingers twitching. “Yes,” it says.
You move in again, slower this time, keeping an eye on its reaction. When your arms finally engulf its waist, you nearly break down.
Love, ignored and neglected, floods through your veins. The same love you felt 27 years ago, like nothing ever happened between then and now.
You squeeze your eyes shut, making sure not to inhale the stench too deeply.
Its own arms inch up your back, clinging onto your shirt. You feel its body tremble, its muscles twitch weakly.
Then, you hear it sniff. It sniffs at your hair, down your ear, your jaw, your neck. It inhales you like it had been starving for your scent.
Its body gives in, being supported entirely by you right now.
You press into its sides as you hold it up.
At the pressure, you hear it whimper. Quickly, you soften your hold again, overwhelmed by what’s happening. “Sorry-“ you blurt out and look up at it, unsure. The smell becomes strong, you're unable to ignore it at this point. You figure you can ask questions later, this is more important, “let me- uh, clean you up.”
You feel it nod, straighten, then you’re walking with it towards your bathroom.
Slow, steady. It’s skittish, looking around, twitching at noises, wether coming from you or from outside.
This isn’t what you expected at all, when imagining its return.
Something in you, a tiny part, might be a little disappointed, to be perfectly honest. Disappointed you don’t get to launch at it, don’t get to drop it on the ground, shower it in kisses, get embraced so tightly you can’t breathe.
But more than that, much more than that, you’re happy, so happy and content to have it back. If having it back means treating it like a sick old man, so be it.
Upon reaching the bathroom, you realize this is something you’ve never seen it do before. Undress, wash. Usually within the blink of an eye the clothing it wanted gone, disappeared, the body part it wanted shown, exposed. Never was it dirty, never was it unkempt or if it was anything akin to that, it just wasn’t anymore when it wanted to.
Now, you stand before it.
“Can you make it disappear?” You ask, motioning to its suit. It looks down at itself, then shakes its head.
You furrow your eyebrows, take a breath, nod, “okay. No problem.”
Your hands move slowly, careful not to startle it again like you did earlier. That still hasn’t left your mind.
You undo buttons, open zippers. You pull off its gloves, ruffled collar, shoes, socks. Bit by bit, more of its ‘body’ reveals itself to you. Things you haven’t seen before. Like it’s hands, you’re certain this is the first time you see them. They’re lanky, fingers long, black, fading to white at its knuckles, into the white that covers its whole body. Its toes are the same, another body part you haven’t seen before.
Soon, the suit and everything else it had on, is gone, discarded to the ground to be dealt with later.
Now, more than before, you notice it looking kind of… deflated. Like it’s muscles have shrunk, it’s frame sunken in a bit.
Thinking about it, it makes some kind of sense. It hasn’t moved a whole lot in those years. Tho, you never imagined that having any consequences, considering this is just a form it takes on when it pleases. Over the year you spent together, you learned not to think too much about it, to you it’s incomprehensible anyway.
You give in to your urges for a moment, reaching to touch its chest. Your palm lies flat on its skin, feeling it vibrate with an emerging purr. How you missed that.
Then, before its knees can buck and give in, you help it to your bathtub.
When it sits and you’re certain it’s comfortable enough, you begin washing it, making sure the waters warm.
It takes forever to soak the filth and rinse it out, especially the one matting it’s hair.
You rub at its skin, comb your fingers through its hair, all the while being stared at relentlessly by its, now, blue eyes. Both of you are silent.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you’re finished. Hair not tangled anymore, skin clean.
The hard part is getting it back up.
Wherever you hold and pull, it winces pathetically.
At one point, it snaps at you, teeth bared.
You shush it, apologizing for causing pain.
Eventually, it’s out of the tub, dried and walking to your bedroom. It sits on the edge of the bed, you scramble, placing any pillow you have around it, grabbing blankets. Making a nest. Just like it would do when you were ill, just like you know it will like. It watches you, when it itself is satisfied with your work, it lies back, slumping into the pillows and blankets.
Taking a breath, you sheepishly crawl onto the bed with it, sitting beside its body. You look it over, it’s still bare. You drink the sight up, while trying not to become aroused.
It looks up at you, studying your face, seeing how you’ve changed over the years.
You reach your hand out, slowly, to touch its cheek, caressing it. It’s eyes follow the movement closely.
“What happened?” You ask.
It tilts its head, “I rested.”
You stare at it, blinking, “yeah, I know. But- so, is this normal, then?” You trace the red line on its face.
It huffs through its nose quietly, leaning into your touch, closing its eyes, “when I wake up from my rest, my physical form has suffered greatly. I usually must wait a week to break the body in again. Then I emerge from my resting place, with all my strength.”
“Then… you came out a week too early?” You ask, wearily.
“Yes.”
You’re confused. Knowing pennywise, you’d never think it would willingly show itself in such a vulnerable state, “why?”
It opens its eyes again, looking into yours, “because I missed you,” it states.
It’s a simple statement, surely it should've been obvious, yet here you sit, speechless. Utterly surprised at its openness.
You avert your eyes, taking in the warmth that’s overcoming you. The tears that have been welling in your eyes the whole time, threatening, finally tip over, streaming down your cheeks. Your hand slides from its cheek to its chest, trembling there.
It watches your hand move, then looks at you again. “Did you not miss me?”
Quickly, your eyes snap to its face again, they're red and overflowing with tears, your vision is blurry.
“I did- I missed you so much,” you stutter, voice strained, “you have no idea, I thought-“ you whimper, sob, “I thought I was going to die.”
It hums, hand reaching up to trace its black fingertips over your tear streaked face, “you promised not to.”
You sniffle and huff, “I know, that’s why I tried so hard not to.”
“Yes, you did, indeed. Very good,” it mumbles, thumb brushing over your lip, “did you think of me often?”
You nod, so focused on its touch, “all the time.”
It’s lips split into a smile, slow, wicked, despite its weakness, “I know you did, I felt it,” a faint giggle bubbles from its chest, quiet, yet a sound you'd missed so badly, “I thought of you too,” it says.
You swallow thickly, “you did?”
“Yes,” it confirms, pulling your face just a tad closer, “I dreamt of you. For all 27 years, I did.”
Your lip wobbles a bit, you know it likes you, evidently, but you never imagined it feels so intensely. To be fair, usually it was never this sappy, this is all vulnerability from its weak state.
Yet, you're truly enjoying this heartfelt moment.
“I think I felt it too.”
It smiles, “say, how did you spend this time?”
“If you’re asking if I’ve dated anyone-“
“No,” it shakes its head lightly, “I know you didn’t. I would’ve smelled it.”
Ah. Right. You’ve already been sniffed out thoroughly.
Despite yourself, you chuckle quietly, “okay. Well, uh… I had a few jobs. I made some friends, worked on the house and... Honestly, I didn’t do too much. Just, lived my life, I guess.”
“A fulfilling life?”
You think about that, looking down at your lap.
Maybe if you never had met pennywise, never had spent that year together, maybe it would’ve felt fulfilling, yeah. Maybe you would have allowed yourself to leave this town, enter relationships, get closer to people. Maybe it would have made you happy, would have been enough.
But it wasn’t enough, ever. Because deep down, as much as you sometimes ignored it, you always knew who you were waiting for, who you wanted to be with at the end of the day.
So, you shake your head, “no,” you whisper, still not meeting it’s eyes, “it was nice, I had good times. But… I never felt whole in those years, without you.” It feels embarrassing to open up like this.
It stares at you for a moment, silent, thinking.
“I see,” it says, finally, index finger brushing over your jaw before it drops its hand tiredly, “I suppose, that is the consequence of having a mate.”
You look down, silently nodding.
“But, if it eases your mind, as long as you are in derry, you aren’t ever without me. I am a part of you, as you are of me. As long as you stay within this town, within my grounds, you will be whole. I made sure of that from the very beginning.”
As much as this sounds comforting, it sounds equally worrisome. Or, it should. Because you know pennywise doesn’t speak in metaphors, it doesn’t sweet talk, it doesn’t use romantic symbolism. So, if it says there is a part of it inside you, and it took a part of you for itself, that might just be meant in the most literal sense.
Of course, you don’t care about the implications.
“That does ease my mind, thank you,” you say earnestly and breathe out, “Luckily, this year I won’t only have a part of you, right?”
It licks over its lips and nods, “yes, that is right.”
You smile, looking at its face, its lips, watching its tongue wet them. You’re itching to kiss it. To taste it. When you lean down, it’s eyes widen a tad bit, staring at you.
“Can I kiss you?” You ask when you’re inches away from its face, your own flushed.
Asking wasn't usually part of the protocol, you weren’t usually so careful and gentle with each other, but this is different, you suppose.
It’s eyes hesitantly flutter shut, it nods and puckers its lips.
You press yours against its, hand finding place on its cheek. Your lips engulf its, you feel it’s saliva coat your mouth, your tongue darts out to get a taste. Heavenly.
When you pull apart, you're breathless. It opens its eyes and looks up at you, soft.
“I can take off work for the week, if you want. I can take care of you,” you offer, part caring, part selfish.
It hums, “I won’t be needing much care taking,” it mumbles, shifting slightly, “but I wouldn’t mind you staying.”
You smile, chuckling quietly. How nice of it to not mind you staying in your own home. You nod and brush it’s damp hair back, “okay, then.”
The week goes well, you think.
It really doesn’t need much care, for the most part it’s just lying there. You ask if it needs to be fed, the only thing you truly were worried about considering the food it requires. To your relief, it won’t be eating till recovered, it can’t digest yet. The only thing it does need, is some water. That, you can provide happily.
When you realize it doesn’t need watching the whole time, you decide to get some chores done here and there. Every now and again you see what it’s doing, but usually it just stares at the ceiling.
Sometimes it sits up slowly, stretching its limbs, letting the joints crack and pop, by the looks of it painfully so. The most literal way of ‘breaking the body in.’
Sometimes it’s crawled under a blanket, hiding. Especially at night.
If you approach while it is hiding, you’ll get a growl, a threatening warning to leave it alone. You oblige, as much as you don’t want to.
It’s sensitive to touch, you learn, very sensitive. Brushing over its skin when it’s not previously aware gets a yelp, a whimper, a weak snap at your fingers, depending on how startled it is.
Loud noises, it doesn’t like at all. Whenever you accidentally drop something, shut the door too loudly, anything really, it perks up at you with an offended look.
You make sure to apologize every time.
By the end of the week, the sixth day, it looks much better. Joints don’t seem to hurt anymore, voice becomes louder, it’s moving around more.
You're relieved.
By the end of that day, it seems to almost fully have recovered.
You know this, because as you’re lying in bed next to it, already half asleep, you're awoken by a light pain to your neck. It starts as a dull ache before starting to sting and burn.
When you open your eyes and see what’s hurting you, you feel and see pennywise behind you, latched onto your neck.
It’s eyes are glowing, bright and proud like they used to. It’s hands grip into your shirt.
You whine quietly, pushing at its forehead to pull it’s teeth out of you.
It looks up, pulling off with a loud smack. “Oh, how I’ve missed the taste,” it growls into your ear, sniffing at your wound.
Your body heats up immediately, you're frozen in place.
Then, pennywise moves on top of you, fueled by lust and newly won strength.
Tho, you notice it still is a little wobbly, still a little lightheaded.
You're turned on your back, facing up to look into its threatening, hungry eyes.
“Tell me,” it whispers, “did you think of me often?”
You blink, gulp, “I already told you-“
It grins down at you, “I mean,” its hand brushes over your crotch, not at all subtle, not taking its time or letting you adjust, “did you think of me often, when you touched yourself?”
A whimper falls from your opened mouth, pathetic, trembling, “yes-“ you blurt without thinking.
“Did it satisfy you?”
You shake your head, “it was never enough, never like it is with you.”
It’s mouth splits wide, grotesquely wide. It drools into your face obscenely, eyes fully ablaze. “Good.”
Within seconds your shorts have disappeared, you're bare and at its mercy.
It leans down again, pressing its teeth into the other side of your neck, the one it hadn’t wounded yet. You feel it bite down, you feel it’s teeth dig in, then you feel many more teeth, razor sharp.
Of course, it hurts. But it hurts good, you wouldn't deprive either of you from this.
It’s crotch is pushed into your own, you feel it press, then you feel wetness against you. You can’t see its genitals, not sure what kind it had appear, either way they're grinding into you with so much force, your vision blurs.
You moan loudly, thighs spreading as far as your joints allow.
It begins panting against your skin, hips speeding up, noises of slick flesh filling the room.
Your hands fly up into its hair, you pull, tho not too harshly. Not like it would matter.
The friction is killing you, both of you it seems.
It’s hand moves down, along your torso, touching the old scars it left on you back then, the ones you'd trace so often, whenever you touched yourself. They flare up, begin pulsing, feeling fresh again.
“Oh- fuck, penny-“ you whine, pushing your hips up against its crotch.
When it lets go of your neck, you get a glimpse of its many rows of dagger like teeth, right before they retract and turn to normal. You're lightheaded at the sight.
It growls at you, a low, animalistic rumble from the depths of its chest.
Before you know it, you're close, impossibly close, your body starts tensing, your limbs are shaking. You cry out when it’s fingers dig into your sides, pressing into the flesh, bruising.
The heat washes over you, pulsing through every inch of your body. The kind of heat that, no matter how often or long you tried, you could never recreate by yourself, not even close to it.
You're crying, tears streaking your face at the intensity of the orgasm.
It’s watching you intensely, lips pulled back, snarling, it looks like it’s thinking about eating you right then and there.
Before you can start worrying, it’s eyes roll back into their sockets, its face scrunches up, its mouth overflows with saliva, making otherworldly, growling sounds, its hips press forward into you, as it’s joining your climax.
You feel it’s crotch pulse against yours, throb, twitch, drip and squirt.
Both of you make nothing but pathetic, loud noises, when you finally come down from the high.
It releases its grip on you then, pulling its crotch away when it seemingly overstimulates itself.
You're both panting, both covered in all sorts of fluids.
Usually, after an ordeal like this, it would begin licking at you, cleaning you, healing the many wounds you’ve suffered. It would hold you, despite itself, and comfort you in some way at least.
You never had imagined it being big on after care, yet it proved you wrong in its own way.
But this time, it doesn’t do that.
It looks down at you, teeth bared, it licks over its lips, then, it disappears.
You're wide eyed, still recovering, when you stare into the empty room.
“Penny?” You ask, but there’s no answer.
A little butt hurt, you sit up tiredly.
Well then.
You get out of bed and drag yourself to the bathroom, you suppose you’re doing this by yourself then.
When you walk through the door, you notice the suit is gone. Over the week you had tried washing it multiple times, the filth wouldn't come out fully. You had it hung above the tub, but now it’s not here anymore.
You begin cleaning yourself up, careful with the wounds as you dress them.
Tiredly, you leave the bathroom.
In your bedroom, you're stopped in your tracks.
Standing in front of you, is pennywise, back in its suit, now meticulously clean. It looks down at you, looking fully recovered, fully like it’s old self, tall, broad, strong.
It grins at you. You notice streaks of blood around its lips.
You blink stupidly, putting two and two together. It fed itself. Last step of recovery.
It begins chuckling, laughing, loud and rough, “we’re not done yet, my little human,” it says between giggles, drooling and spitting every word.
Excitement fills your mind, looking at the now more than ever fueled clown, how you remember it, how you imagined seeing it again, both dreading and anticipating what it has in store for you.
Willingly, you walk up and let it pull you in, ready for whatever is bound to happen, ready to get the treatment you’ve been dreaming of. You really missed this clown in every way and after seeing its vulnerable side, after it trusted you with it, you appreciate it even more.
Pennywise x reader (no gendered pronouns used for reader although they do have "toys that buzz") spiritual successor to Heat. NSFW. MDNI. Clussy fingering, vague mentions of clussy eating and non-specific fucking. Pennywise is still in heat and cums for days. Soft-dom coded reader but the dynamic is not the focus. One instance of biting (reader receiving.) Pennywise being petulant. Inspired by this art by @minisculemars and requests from @hisokamywaifu and anon!
The ache lingers.
Long after you fall asleep, content to slumber with Pennywise’s scent still clinging to your flesh, the entity’s heat rages on.
"This is your doing!" it snarls, towering above you the morning after. It practically spits the words at you. "What have you done to me?"
"Wait, you're still in heat?"
You're amused, and Pennywise has half a mind to eat you there and then, even as its aching, weeping sex craves yours.
But if it killed you, there’d be no hope of satiating that ache, or of ending the merciless heat. Because no matter what Pennywise does, what it rubs against or stuffs inside itself, your touch seems to be the only thing that comes even close to quelling the incessant throb.
And yet it knows. It knows no matter what you do to it, the relief can only ever be superficial because the body you touch isn’t real. Its true form is beyond your comprehension—you'd lose your sanity if it ever revealed itself to you and then you'd be completely useless.
So it must make do. You are the poison and a temporarily soothing balm, if not the cure. And so it suffers and begs, it yearns and despises.
It answers you with a plastered-on grin. "I need more. Touch me... Toucha, toucha, toucha, touch me..." it sings, "I wanna be dirty..."
You do what you can. Again and again. You give it what it desires. Yet even with your help, Pennywise's heat, and its climaxes, last for days.
Days of torment, of feeling the very essence of itself turned over and over, inside out, and burning beneath your touch.
It waits impatiently for you to come home, desperately seeking a moment of relief with anything it can find.
It plays with your toys that buzz and tickle until the batteries run flat, your hairbrush where your scent lingers, a wadded up shirt from the laundry hamper, the food in your fridge, the deodorant that masks your stink. It claims it all. And none of it helps. It tosses them aside with a frustrated growl and a curl of its lip.
It doesn't feel anything close to relief until you come home and catch it frantically humping your pillow.
"You're home..." it sighs, pitifully, reaching out a trembling clawed hand. It tries to stand, but its legs give way beneath it. "Help poor Pennywise out again, woncha?"
It passes another evening rutting and sobbing against you, dragged through wave after wave of tortuous ecstasy. Greedy, insatiable.
"Mine, oh-ho, mine, mmmmine," it babbles with slick and sweat and spital dripping from every orifice.
It brings you to oblivion with it, but you pass through all too soon with a maddening look of satisfaction. Never before has it craved the fleeting nature of humanity so desperately. Lucky lucky thing.
You lick and touch and fuck it until you're spent. But it still isn't enough. It cannot be enough.
The brief stillness of relief only heightens the torment when the next wave of need floods through it.
“End it!” Pennywise demands on the fourth day of choking on its own arousal. “Make it stop.”
There's little you can do but hold the eater of worlds in your arms and cradle it against you, stroking its sex as it comes apart endlessly.
It trembles, drenched and weak. Your touch is maddeningly gentle and more than it can stand.
“There… yes, just like that,” you whisper, your breath on its skin making its spine bristle. “Does that help?”
Among its strangled cries and frantic whimpers, you discern the words, "yes... mm- m-or- ohho."
"More?"
"Yes! Yes!"
So you push deeper, and finger it harder; down to your knuckles, then your wrist, deeper, deeper, until your arm is buried inside. And there, oh there, you come so desperately close to its core.
"You're so hot," you whisper, breathless from awe and exertion. "Burning. Like sunlight."
It comes apart a moment later with the steady curl of your fingers, climaxing so hard its voice breaks and teeth gnash. It isn't even conscious of biting into your flesh, not until the sweet tang of your blood trickles down its throat. Bliss.
"Oh yes, yesyesyes..."
And finally, it knows peace. Stillness. Its limbs are heavy and eyes barely open. But the heat fades.
"You did so very well..." it murmurs, it's voice rough and faint. "I must rest."
"You must be exhausted," you say, fetching a cloth to clean away the rivers of slick pouring from its pulsing core. “You poor old thing.”
“Don't you dare pity me,” it snarls, teeth bared despite the fact it can't open its eyes, "I have laid waste to countless worl-huh... hoh...."
Your gentle, caring caress and the warm, wet washcloth between its thighs is more than it can bear. It lays, whimpering, mouth slack and drooling against the palm of its hand.
"What a lovely thing you are," you coo, your voice, and praise, at once reigniting that terrible fire.
"Oh no..." Pennywise sobs, helplessly clutching it's burning face. Its thighs begin to quiver.
And within moments it's sex is throbbing, weeping, as though it has never once been touched. Desperate and ruined entirely for you.
"Oh no no no no..."
Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed it I'd love to hear from you! Comments and reblogs are so appreciated (reblogs especially help writers share their stories and help new readers find them!) You may also like my other Pennywise stories
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