The living room lights are low, their soft orange glow making a pretty painting of the couple on the couch. From the corner, the record player sings softly, intermittently overshadowed by the low voices of the rooms occupants.
It’s been a while now since it pressed the joint to his lips, an hour or two at least. Dick’s pleasantly high and pliant in Pennywise’s lap, not that he has any say in the matter. He’d come home drunk to find It waiting for him on the porch. An unexpected promotion at work put him in the position of head chef in the only upscale restaurant in Derry. When his friends heard—well, he couldn’t turn them down for a little celebration now, could he? His moonshine-hazy brain didn’t realize he was walking into a trap when it pulled him inside, walked him to the couch, and sat him in its lap. No, it wasn’t until Dick heard the flick of the lighter that he realized he’d made a mistake.
“Isn’t this fun?” It coos, pressing its lips to his neck. Dick tries to answer but finds his tongue too heavy in his mouth to form words. He nods instead, and it pulls him closer, petting down his sides once he’s as close as it can get him. Dick never thought he’d be getting high in the creature's lap, guard down and relaxed, but here he is.
The feeling of It’s cold hands sliding down his sides makes him a little dizzy, and he leans his head back further against Pennywise’s shoulder with a soft whine that dies in his throat halfway through. It doesn’t go unnoticed, and It runs its hands down his sides again, stopping to grope at his chest a bit.
“S’nice,” Is all Dick can manage, and the clown, never one to deny itself its favorite brand of torture, does it again. Somewhere on the third or fourth run of its hands—Dick’s too hazy to know exactly when—he realizes it has more than two hands on him. There are the hands on his sides, sure, but there are two on his thighs too, and then there are two more pulling his own hands up behind his head. Weakly, he runs his fingers along what he can reach of its face as more hands slide up his shirt to grope his chest exclusively now while the rest rub and wander to its greedy hearts content.
Dick is so soft in It’s hands like this, so pliable. It can’t help itself. There’s no denying that whatever Dick got from Rose is affecting It too, though it’s clear it isn’t enough to do much of anything to impair the god. But Dick, oh Dick squirms under the attention he’s being paid, too sensitive to do anything else. His movements and thoughts are sluggish as he tries to keep up with the many half-tickling, half-groping hands. The only part of him that hasn’t gotten the memo that things should be a little delayed right now is trapped, straining against the seam of his pants.
It ignores the shifting of his hips as it strips him down to nothing, knees held open by both its legs and its hands. Dick’s come down a bit by now, enough to speak without too much effort but not enough to do much else. Certainly not enough to shield himself from the onslaught of sensation when it shifts its hips beneath him. He expects to feel the slick, ridged form of its tentacle-like cock against his inner thigh, but is immediately thrown off and out of his element when he feels what is very clearly a tongue drag directly over his hole.
“Fuck,” Dick swears in surprise, repeating himself a little softer when Pennywise licks at him again, burying its face in the crook of his neck to bask in the light fear and lave its tongue over his skin like it can lick it off of him. Pennywise takes its time, slow and gentle. The next time it tries this, maybe even later tonight, it won’t be as kind. It will dive in without the warm up, without the long, flat drags of its tongue across his hole. It will stretch him slowly and savor the taste of him before stuffing him full.
“Nobody ever kissed you there before, Dicky?” It asks, scraping its teeth over his neck just to feel him tense involuntarily under both of its tongues. Dick shakes his head, gasping softly as it ghosts silk-clad fingers down his length, just to tease.
“No. Don’t hate it though,” Dick manages, and smiles as it rumbles a quiet “good” into his neck. His smile doesn’t linger, wiped away almost immediately as its tongue returns, the texture rougher than its cock but not unpleasantly so. The initial shock has faded, leaving him only with the almost electric feeling of its tongue greedily lapping at him.
Dick prays silently that whoever this clown had been in life, before he encountered It and met his subsequent demise, appreciated his gloves the way Dick does. Soft silk drifts up his thighs, across his torso, over his chest, everywhere its hands can reach as they move back into action. They drift frustratingly close to where he really wants them, ignoring his whines for their own secret agenda.
“Touch me, c’mon,” Dick finds the willpower to whine, and it huffs out a laugh, trailing its fingers up his inner thighs.
“I am,” It replies as the fingers on his chest pinch gently along his pecs, moving toward his nipples tortuously slowly. Still too high to argue, Dick just arches into its fingers as they roll over his nipples, moaning softly. He can feel his brain really stop working as it begins to nip his shoulder in time with the drawn out pinching of his nipples.
When it finally gets a hand on Dick’s cock, he wants to cry with how good it feels. Even if it’s only holding him with thumb and forefinger while its middle pets small circles over his frenulum, it makes his brain short-circuit. He moans, soft and desperate as it smears the bead of pre that’s gathered at his tip across the pads of its fingers. It's tongue presses against his hole again, pointed this time, ready to breach, and he feels his dick throb in its hand. He could cum like this, he thinks to himself as his eyes fall closed, he really could—might, even, if It lets him. Exposed and vulnerable, its tongue working him over while its fingers do the bare minimum, hands roaming across his skin.
“Fuck I’m sensitive.” Dick doesn’t mean to say it out loud, doesn’t mean to whisper it under his breath as it dips its tongue into him before pulling back. One of the hands on his chest disappears, coming up to tilt his head to the side so it can lick its way into his mouth while the tongue pressed against his hole mimics the motion. He can feel its eyes on his face, watching him as it pushes in with both tongues as he moans and almost chokes on the one in his mouth.
“Tastes so good,” Pennywise coos once its tongue is out of his mouth. “Fitting, for head chef.” Dick somehow finds the wherewithal to laugh and almost chokes again, this time on the moan that’s ripped from his throat as the tongue in him curls, licking at something sensitive.
“You’ve gotta slow down—“ Dick protests as he starts to feel his orgasm building. The thought cuts through the haze in his mind like a blade, and far too late, he realizes he’s too already. “Wait—“ He tries again, a little more panicked this time, but it’s all for naught. Pennywise doesn’t listen, just giggles against his shoulder and quits the teasing, dragging its fist over his cock. Dick’s thighs start to tremble as he moans, his own fingers searching for something to grab onto. He weaves them into its hair, shouting as it sinks its teeth into his shoulder.
That’s what does him in, in the end. Dick shoots, clenching around the tongue in him weakly as it pushes and licks at his sweet spot, bucking his trembling hips up into its soft hand. He screws his already closed eyes shut tighter, moaning as it pulls its teeth out of him in favor of licking the tears off his face.
Dick can’t see the way he glows in moments like this, shine flaring during the brief loss of control, but It can, and it doesn’t want to miss a second of it. It reaches out, Deadlights barely grazing the wispy edge of Dick’s shine before it has to pull back, shuddering at feeling just a fraction of his energy. It could feed off of this forever, give and take like ocean waves.
It doesn’t want this to end, not yet, so It doesn’t stop as his orgasm starts to die.
Dick squirms, trying desperately to ignore the overstimulation. He bites his tongue, holds his breath, thrashes weak and uncoordinated in It’s many arms. Dread sprouts in his chest at the realization that it’s not going to stop, and the clown leans back in to smell it blossom into fear as Hallorann begins to laugh uncontrollably.
“Too much—“ Dick laughs. He feels electrified, pleasure turned up by a thousand and he just can’t take it—it hurts, it tickles, he wants it to stop, he needs It to keep going.
“What do you think you can do about it?” It rasps in his ear, absolutely elated that it’s managed to break him down like this. Dick is helpless, high on the endorphin rush and squirming in arms far too strong for him to escape as they pet along his sides, over his chest, down his thighs. That cruel fist continues to drag itself over his cock, soft silk gloves now turned into a weapon to be used against him. Pennywise’s tongue writhes, pushing deep and Dick whines, toes curling as he tries to fold in on himself. His stomach clenches hard and he keens, blunt fingernails digging into his palms as he tries to get his hands up and over his head, fighting for some crumb of freedom.
Belatedly, he realizes he’s going to cum again, right around the moment he realizes he can feel It’s cock pressed slick and greedy against his ass. The clown only smiles, licking a long stripe up his neck as it flicks the lighter to life.
(Warning, mentions of PTSD, minor angst, and medical mistreatment)
He may have primarily been a cook during the majority of his time in the service, but that did not spare Dick from the sights and sounds of war. He thought he was different than the other soldiers when he returned stateside, he thought he was safe from the psychological damage. Dick believed, wholeheartedly, that he was immune to the breakdowns and mental distress that came hand in hand with those who returned from war because of his shine. A few months before he was stationed in Derry, he discovered just how wrong he was.
It was a pan. That’s all it took.
A pan falling off of a counter and hitting the floor behind him. Never mind it was broad daylight in the middle of a mess hall kitchen in Massachusetts, none of that mattered the moment the sound hit his ears. Dick lost it, started whisper-shouting at the private who’d knocked it off. They were supposed to be quiet for God’s sake. Didn’t he understand he could get them all killed? He needed to be careful, unless he wanted to end up like the guy before him. Unless he wanted them all to go home in boxes.
Dick still feels bad about the tongue lashing he gave that poor kid.
They sent him to a doctor on base who didn’t understand. He’d seen it before, of course, dozens of men all struggling with the things they’d seen in combat, but he didn’t get it. On his third visit, after being told again to try taking a sedative when he started to feel like he was on the battlefield, Dick lost what little patience he had left.
It was the first time he’d used his shine in years. He knew he was putting himself in danger, thrusting himself into a spotlight he did not want to be in. But maybe if they could just see what he was going through—really, truly understand what he lived with, they would help him. Dick showed him everything, the nightmares, the flashbacks, the countless times he’d relived scenarios that had long since passed.
In return, they set out to make him a weapon.
Over time, he learned to cope, but it was never foolproof. Smoking helped, but he knew that the tobacco probably wasn’t great for him. Running helped too, but he couldn’t rely on himself to stick to it, well-disciplined as he was. No amount of sedatives, group therapy, herbal remedies from Rose, or drinking gave him the relief he prayed for. The only thing that did, he discovered purely by accident.
Pennywise’s lithe fingers run down his chest, smoothing thin braided strings of spiderweb over his shoulder. Soft as silk, strong as steel, and unnoticeable to any eyes but their own. Secret. It meticulously connects them to the strings running horizontal below his chest, before bringing them back up and over his other shoulder. The harness it weaves him into is intricate, putting pressure on all the spots he needs to feel grounded.
Dick shut his eyes when it began to work, standing still in the middle of his bedroom to give it room to maneuver. Warm in the morning sun, he tries to clear his head. He only moves when it asks him to, only listens to the sounds it makes, focuses solely on the feeling of It’s hands and tries to lose himself in it. He’s already feeling a little better than he was earlier, the tension gone from his shoulders and neck. Dick flexes, testing the tightness of the harness, and smiles as Pennywise hums appreciatively to his side.
The web shines in the sunlight where it’s bound his flesh, a visual feast for It and It alone. Marking him as It’s in a way that’s more intimate, to It, than the ring on his finger. Gently, it drags its fingers down his back and savors the shiver it pulls from him, chitinous claws catching on threads as it moves down. Dick’s seen it in this form before, lower half turned spider-like in order to spin its web. It expected him to shy away when it first showed him, expected the smell of fear and chemical mix of adrenaline—not for Dick to run his hands over its body reverently. He only made one comment about it, something that got lost in the passion that followed, but loosely it remembers something about it being a miracle, the fact that it fits in his bedroom.
“Arms out,” Pennywise instructs, some of the only words that have been said since they started, and Dick obeys. It uses the harness on his chest as an anchor, weaving down his biceps and decorating him in an elaborate design he is meant to feel more than see. Some days it will strip him bare, rig his whole body in carefully crafted diamond patterns that hug his skin no matter what way he moves. Others, like today, are simple and practical. Well, this was meant to be simple, but is quickly turning into anything but. Dick doesn’t mind—the longer it works, the more time he has to drift.
In the same way that someone who has never seen the ocean can’t understand what it’s like to stand on the shore, It does not fully understand the trauma Dick carries. It doesn’t have to, content to weave complex designs against Dick’s skin for as long as he will allow it. Yes, it finds his fear and disorientation delicious—but it sees the way his shine dims when his brain convinces him that he’s in danger, and it simply cannot allow that.
The pressure of the silk alone makes his shine pulse with energy, reaching out to It’s lights as he feels a little more weightless. It doesn’t make him reach for long, encircling his shine with its lights as it continues its tapestry, weaving down his torso, anchoring him tight. Eventually, it will run out of room on his upper body to bind him and eventually, Dick will have to leave the house to go to the store. But for now, just for a moment, he floats.
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