Rose Red (Sequel to "Blow the Grounsils")
IT (Pennywise) x Fem! Reader
Summary: You watched as It descended, an angel struck from heaven, falling more than fifty feet to the dirt below. A shudder rocked the earth, and you fell backward, clutching your gut and landing hard on dismal, uneven ground.
“Is it your wish for me to suffer? Is it your wish to leave poor Pennywise all alone?” It asked, primed and ready to pounce like some cat born of the jungle, knees bent, five of Its gloved fingers planted solidly on terra firma.
“No, but—”
“—I waited for you,” Pennywise rasped scornfully, “though time means nothing to me, and everything all at once! I knew you before you were born!”
Warnings: This fic is NSFW, 18 plus. Tags include: Stockholm Syndrome, Blood and Gore, Egg Laying, Egg preg , Nudity, Oviposition, Cosmic Horror, Alien Biology, Shapeshifting, Tentacle dick, Fear, Fear of death, Near Death Experiences, Teeth, Biting , Cervix Penetration, Penetrative Sex, Monsterfucking | Teratophilia, Manipulation, Mind Break, Use of Deadlights, Pain, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Jealousy, God Complex, Rough Kissing, Violence, Blood and Injury, Blood Drinking, Morality, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Captivity, Animal Instincts, Telepathy, Self-Denial, Marking, Scents & Smells, Abandonment Issues, Predator/Prey, Angst, Chase scenes, Escape attempts, Grief/Mourning, Suffering, Child Death/Minor Character Death, Animal Death, and Praise.
Notes: To the audience--I have taken LIBERTIES. You/Reader has an incurable case of Stockholm Syndrome. Please suspend your disbelief for maximum effect, though personally, I DO want the clown this bad.
P.S.: This is VERY self-indulgent, and while I stay true to character as much as possible, I've stepped outside Stephen King's canon to allow dear reader her kind of/sort of, "happy ending." >D
**Please Read "Blow the Grounsils" first to understand what is happening.**
Word count: 12.5k
Ao3 link
Comments, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!
(Should I write an epilogue...?)
Naked, cold, and alone, you shivered.
Autumn had arrived outside the sewer; the leaves had shed their chlorophyll, halting photosynthesis to produce vivid marigolds, deep reds, and sunlit yellows. Yet, you were not permitted to bear witness to it, subjected to the same scenery as always—cracked, slate-colored masonry; steel-gray tubes and manifolds.
Without the warmth of It, you trembled like a newborn, left by yourself in the dark, the dank, down beneath Derry, your only company the squeaks of rodents and the groan of the pipes.
You lie in a pool of blood that is not your own, surrounded by decaying corpses and waterlogged bodies; heads devoid of brains and bones drained of all their marrow.
The smell does not bother you anymore—you do not even notice it. Your olfactory senses are attuned to one thing only: the entity that guards you, feeds you, and keeps you safe. And It is not here.
You were left vulnerable, unable to fight off the being that visited you in much the same way It had, all those years ago.
“He” communicated with you in dreams, conversing telepathically. He was kind, wise, and ancient—older than It. His voice spoke to you in a soothing tone, words of a creature said to have created the universe itself. A powerful guardian, he was both compassionate and loving.
Maturin told you stories about his brother, the cosmic entity known to you as Pennywise. Though he will not interfere, he urged you to leave this place—to leave Derry—speaking of what will come to fruition should you dare remain.
The beings in your belly will be hateful, the eggs so heavy that they make it hard to move, to breathe. You have taken to a fetal position, always resting on your side, your stomach rippling, glowing, strained, and smooth.
“No,” you whispered to the ether, clutching your swollen abdomen, willing Its spawn inside you to calm, even as Maturin murmured in your ear that Its offspring would disrupt the balance of the universe, bringing untold chaos to the people of Earth.
“I won’t leave,” you whimpered, drifting in and out of consciousness, like the ebb and flow of an ocean, so taken with It, so enamored and enthralled, that all reason and common sense had hitherto escaped you.
You were beyond hope, though Maturin spoke of a time when you would feel fear so strongly that your only solace would be to cross the barrier, the point of no return—for It, for you—thereby dispelling the loathsome parasitoids from your body.
You shuddered, caught in a cocoon of sleep, unwilling to listen, unwilling to think of a day when you would be without It, doing everything in your power to ignore the treacherous voice that tempted you back toward a life of normalcy.
“Do you think you will survive it?” Maturin asked, and you were not sure whether he meant It or the trauma of childbirth, though this would be unlike any delivery a human woman had endured since the time of the Nephilim—those sons produced by angels who mated with the daughters of man, bringing forth giants against the will of Heaven.
It is your greatest fear—growing something inside you; the effect it will have on your body; the pain and suffering you will endure; the idea that you will have to push something, or someone, out of a very small, tight place.
Then there is the idea that you might shit yourself, hemorrhage, encounter complications, or die—yet you are placated in the arms of It, as docile as a lamb, your anxiety assuaged by Its mere presence, though there was nothing mere about It.
And Pennywise knows your fear—can smell it, taste it on Its tongue—perhaps deriving some sick enjoyment from it, for you would not put it past It. But that is Its nature, something you could not begrudge It so long as It pleased you; so long as It kept Its promises.
And it did. Your waking life was full of indescribable pleasure so intense you were sure people could hear you, that those who walked above might eavesdrop, listening to the sounds of your moans and cries traveling up through their sinks and bathtubs.
None of this concerns you while you are stuffed full to the brim, sometimes from both ends. Its writhing is delicious, even if you feel you cannot take any more; even if you think your skin might tear; even when you cannot speak, your mouth, throat, and esophagus just another home. Another warm, wet hole.
You swear the eggs are bigger now, worried they will never come back out—all three of them had been the size of a fist, now the size of a large grapefruit. What if it got worse?
Though you are often dead to the world, unconscious and weary, It contents Itself by dabbling between your thighs. Like an afterthought, It toys with your clit with Its alien, cataphysical cock, your whimpers and whines like the most beautiful music in the Macroverse—next to the screams and cries of Its victims—relishing every little noise, every prurient moan that escapes your lips.
You are never safe, yet you are the safest you have ever been, nestled in Its arms. And It speaks to you, saying the nastiest, most profane, and perverted things; Its lexicon is a veritable dictionary of debauchery and sin, leaving your loins soaked, your ears burning, and your cheeks flushed.
But It is a master manipulator, a creature after Its own ends. Its assurances are accompanied by field trips into your subconscious; by cum-filled injections, your body adapting to It through complex immune and hormonal changes, Its seminal fluid triggering the release of chemicals that calm inflammation and promote tolerance—all so that you would better receive It. All so that you would grow accustomed to It, never once rejecting It, never once denying It admittance.
And It had not forsaken the clown persona; the garish outfit. It wore it like a second skin—like a uniform or a suit of armor—and you were sure It enjoyed the act, the idea of being Pennywise, more than you enjoyed being on its receiving end.
But now, you fretfully tossed and turned so much that Pennywise regarded you, carefully poised atop a man-made outcrop of brick and mortar on the tips of Its toes, Its boots.
Its head canted to the side in curiosity, Its nose crinkling as It took in your familiar scent. Yet there was something foreign commingling with your aroma—something It could not quite put Its finger on.
It continued to observe you as you chirped and squirmed, concern creasing your brow. However, the cause was not immediately apparent—Maturin had masked his tracks, leaving you to mull over his advice without his brother's knowledge. Even so, Pennywise knew—could sense—that something was amiss, even if It could not pinpoint the source.
You gasped and sat straight up. Your body heaved as you attempted to catch your breath, Pennywise sticking close to the shadows, lingering in the dark, Its eyes casting an all-too-familiar glow.
You had trouble seeing through the gloom, through the oppressive obscurity that clung to the walls, leaving you desolate and utterly alone. Your hands groped at nothing, fingers digging into mud and viscera, caked in blood, as panic began to set in—had It left you for good? Would you die down here, without a single soul knowing your true whereabouts?
“Penny?” you pleaded, your voice small and pathetic, a wellspring of tears threatening to spill down your dirt-stained cheeks. You were behaving like a woman forsaken, your eyes slowly adjusting; you missed your captor terribly, a practically palpable ache harbored in your heart.
The clown watched, deadpan—then slowly began to smile.
Your fear of abandonment smelled as sweet as cherry pie, as delectable as honey, a droplet of drool slicking the clown’s mouth, coating Its bottom lip in a glistening sheen of spit. Though It had just eaten, It could never be too full. The purpose of Its hibernation was tied to Its captivity; otherwise, It would devour the whole of Derry in one sitting, leaving It with nothing to sate Itself, nothing with which to quench Its thirst for blood…
One eye inclined to drift to the left; It was overcome by a sharp, sudden desire to rip your throat out; to feast on your well-seasoned meat; to run at you like a carnivorous beast, Its teeth bared, unable to control itself.
And just like that, It entertained Its lust for your corporeal shell, so tender and mild—just like the baby Jesus, all rolled up in his blanket inside his manger, looking good enough to eat!
A predatory snarl, a rumbling hiss; the creature charged, bounding across rock and granite, heard but not seen. Hand over fist, It traveled like an animal on all fours, diving toward you, hunkered down on the ground.
You felt a shift in air pressure, a cool breeze tickling the hairs on your arm. You turned around so quickly that it was a wonder you did not snap your neck, only to witness Pennywise's descent as It leaped from a great height above.
“No!” you shrieked, falling backward and shielding yourself with both arms. Pennywise landed somewhat gracelessly atop you, hands to either side of your head; It remained crouched over your supine form, drooling incessantly like some food-starved hound, Its golden eyes full of ill intent.
“Why do you tempt me? Why do you not learn?” It growled, shaking Its head in anger as it chuffed breathily, a trill of bells tinkling with each exaggerated movement of Its limbs. “I am the one who takes care of you, good girl… so obedient, so smart, yes—but not smart enough to know when to put away your fear, when to stop toying with Pennywise… Maybe soon? Maybe never? Maybe she wants to join the clown, hm? Maybe she wants to float like alllll the rest…”
But as if to persuade Itself against Its own argument, the creature glanced down at your rotund belly, one of Its hands rising to cup your semicircular bump. An egg twitched in response; you startled, and the clown grinned, running Its thumb along the lower edge of your navel. “Oh, but no matter how tasty you are, no matter how tasty you might be… You will be with me until your body can no longer bear the weight of your age...”
You watched with a palpitating heart as Pennywise dipped low, Its long tongue dragging, licking a straight line from the cusp of your navel to the space between your breasts. It hovered, Its bewitching yellow eyes refusing to break contact with yours; you could not escape Its ethereal stare, pulled in by a magnet, even if you wanted to.
“And then your soul will meld with all that I am, to be coddled in pleasure, to always be with me, never to part, even after your pretty body rots and rots.”
“Do you promise?” you asked, hope evident in your tone, not thinking things through—their implications—only desiring to be near to It, to be close to It.
“Oh, yes,” It claimed, the position of Its arms and legs shifting—crisscrossing, knotting, twisting, tangling, and untangling—as It climbed over and behind you. You said nothing, even as It dragged you backward by your underarms, hoisting you to sit and lean against It, Its chest pressed into your back.
“Did you think death would claim you? Did you think you would ever not belong to me?” It hissed into your ear.
Its right arm lengthened beyond normal, as if made of clay or putty, bending at the elbow, two deft fingers—nimble in their execution—slipping almost reverently into your throbbing sex. No matter what It did or said, your lust for It was insatiable, conceivably chalked up to hormones or a chemical imbalance. You were ecstatic to still be in Its good graces, moaning tremulously as you relaxed into Its embrace.
“Sooo easy to please…” Pennywise chuckled darkly, licking Its lush red lips as It felt the squish of your cunt’s delightfully soft, pulpy texture clenching around Its fingers—
—It smelled something, something sour—not unusual—a hint of affection, of fondness, seeping from the pores of your fragile body. Pennywise snorted lightly, wrinkling Its button nose, then dipped down over you, the vestige of a shadow, curled digits pressing against the heart of your loins. Heat radiated off you, the very air shimmering and refracting, slick coating you, and It—the clown grasped you by your scalp and tugged.
“Look at me,” It demanded, Its voice as rough as gravel.
You obediently acquiesced, craning your neck and tilting your head back, gazing up as Pennywise pressed Its lithe fingers against your G-spot, drawing a moan from the depths of your open mouth, from the dark hollow of your throat.
You wanted to whisper Its name, to give It the praise It deserved, but Pennywise had other plans.
Its tongue unraveled, long, wet, and wide—bifurcated. You did not have ample time to make these observations. Your mouth filled, your throat, your terrible lover giving you the deepest, strangest kiss.
The shape, the form of It, nearly choked you, forcing you to breathe through your nose as it undulated, moving past your tonsils to steep itself as far as your pharynx, ignoring the bite of your teeth; the spittle beginning to leak down your chin; the gurgling sounds.
You gripped Its arm, pinching, your nails clawing into Its frilly wrist ruffs for want of mercy. You gasped for air as you felt It was sucking the life straight from your lungs. Regardless, It continued to massage the electric bundle of nerves seated inside you, lightly pressing and pushing—you were unable to curb your orgasm, despite feeling like you could not breathe.
You moaned around It, Its tongue gradually slinking up, up, its cleft tip snaking around yours, even as you gulped oxygen—even as you came.
You puckered your lips to suck, treating Its offending organ like a cock, slipping your fingers between your thighs, your hand coming to rest atop Its as you caressed your tingling clit, rubbing, creating friction, meeting It in the middle as your orgasm intensified. The clown thought this all curious—a funny feeling overtaking It, allowing your meager human mouth to do its work.
You kissed It with unrestrained passion, your free arm lifting, rising, and curling around the back of the clown’s head, your fingers momentarily lost in Its fluffy orange locks—soft as cotton candy—the creature bristling, trembling, and kicking Its feet, which had spread out to either side of you, your body still reclined against Its chest.
It shuddered, bells tinkling, a vibration running through all Its limbs as if surging with electricity, your tongue twisting over and under Its, your hips lifting to writhe against and ride Its fingers.
The clown went still, silent, all at once.
You came again, your mouth closing around It, pulling away only after you were spent a second time, bereft of energy and breath.
You gazed up. Pennywise was staring down at you with wide, inquisitive eyes, gleaming gold; a tiny bit of fear crept into your heart—was it upset by what you had done?
In truth, you had given It a new experience, one of Its own pleasure not derived from food or killing, and It was unsure how It felt. Though that minuscule trace, that ever-present substratum of fear that could never quite be extinguished, made It smile, Its straight-faced expression suddenly contorting into an eerie yet somehow well-pleased grin.
“What a funny thing you did,” it spoke down to your upturned face. Then it took the form of a slithering serpent, brief but unmistakable, as Pennywise slipped out of you and around you like a liquid, its long, tubular body and tail running along your waist and legs.
Its scales were silver and scintillating, still costumed from the waist up. It reminded you of Medusa, a terrifying Gorgon from ancient Greek myths, though with puffy corkscrew curls instead of snakes for hair—you were glad Its gaze could not turn you to stone, though truthfully, It could do much worse.
You watched It take Its place before you, shifting back toward Its favored state, resting on bended knee. It addressed you in a contemptuous tone, making you frown. “To make the clown laugh, is that your plan? Do you think pleasing me will turn out better for you?”
“I just wanted to kiss you, to make you feel good. Did I please you? You must know that—”
Its eyes narrowed; It snatched you by the throat, though it did not apply pressure. The creature sneered, then huffed an exasperated breath from Its crinkled nose. “You stop right there! Better to fear, to smell delicious; to tempt me, than to stink up my lair with your SWeeeEEtTT sentiments…”
A monstrous growl; row upon row of sharp, wicked teeth presented themselves to you as a warning, but how could you stop it? How could you not feel what you felt? How could you turn it off? How could you make it happy?
A single tear formed in the corner of your eye, overwhelmed and emotional. Right on cue, you felt the pulse, the shifting of Its eggs inside you; you whimpered, slumping in Its grasp, too weak, too pitiful to fight It.
Its maw snapped shut; the clown stared at you as if seeing you for the first time, rebooting from a disconnect and curtailing its primal instincts. It had been placated, setting you down gingerly to release its grip on your delicate neck.
“Grief is not as sweet a scent, but oh, it will most certainly do—for now.”
You blinked at Its closeness, at the gloved finger that wiped the tear from your cheek, then brought it to Its tongue to taste.
“For me? “Why, you shouldn’t have,” It teased in a deceptively playful tone.
Then, It cocked its head, spreading out the first two of Its fingers. It brushed them across your eyelids, and a sudden drowsiness overtook your already weary mind and body. “Sleep, she will. Rest so that they may thrive, grow—”
“—I don’t want to sleep, to dream…” you murmured, sinking back. “He’ll come back—he’ll—”
“Whooooo?” Pennywise thundered, Its attention suddenly laser-focused on your words. Its hulking form leaned over you, smothering and territorial. Its eyes flickered—dancing, fiery, and alive—It smelled of anger, scorched earth, and blood, the clown’s aura bright and burning red with rage.
“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered, reaching out to touch Its face, the bowl of your palm finding the curve of a grease-painted cheek, already delirious with sleep.
The monster took up your hand and held it to Itself, pinpricks of light reflecting through the mirror-like layer behind Its retina. Tapetum lucidum—common among earthbound predators—served It well, especially down in the dark, musty depths of Derry’s sewers.
“No… no! Come back! No sleep for you now,” It snapped, threading Its fingers between yours and giving them an invidious, jealous squeeze. “Tell Pennywise WHO speaks to you… Tell me who would dare.”
“Beautiful like a rose, all ruffles and velvet, but with thorns that prickle—and you’re a climber—all over the walls—all over the—” you breathed in and out slowly, your eyes closing, tracing the edge of your thumb over the clown’s damp lips,“—serrated leaves, toothy edges—crimson—”
The clown’s luminous eyes rapidly scanned your face. Its top lip curled back from Its two front teeth as It began to panic, unable to undo the spell It had placed upon you. The eggs in your belly had deemed it so, having tired their mother out for possibly days or weeks to come. A frustrated growl escaped It, Pennywise allowing you to slip backward so that you might lie down on the cold, hard ground.
“And do I smell just as swee-t?” It enunciated, punctuating the “T” with a two-stop articulation of Its tongue.
“Will it hurt?” you asked instead of answering, your voice barely audible. “Will I die?” Both questions referred to the creatures that lay dormant in your stomach, encased in tough shells, and by the walls of your stretched uterus.
“Hurt, yes,” It nodded, cocking its head to one side. “All new life must hurt; rebirth, and even death—it is the way of humans—ask your creator why it must be so,” the clown snickered derisively, pulling a face that told of Its disgust.
It became pensive shortly thereafter, considering your second question. “Die? Perhaps…” It said, Its eyes vacant, gaze as distant as the stars. “But that all depends on you, my girl,” the creature leered, clumsily climbing on top of you, wrapping Its sinewy arms and legs around you, one knee finding a place between your thighs.
“On whether you promise not to listen, promise not to heed anyone but Pennywise—does she understand?”
It pet your head, like a person might a dog, as you began to doze, burrowing Its nose beneath that tender little spot just behind your ear; It was close enough to your jugular to skim Its teeth. The sound of your heartbeat, the pumping of your fragrant blood, drew It to you, and It allowed Itself to cup the top of a breast, Its long, lithe fingers splayed, reaching up as far as your clavicle—how easy it would be to rip your heart straight from your chest.
After you lost consciousness, It thought long and hard. No one could reach you, no one who could thwart Its plans—no one except him—Maturin—or one that shined—one that shined as bright as the sun.
“A rose is a rose is a rose,” the clown chuckled ominously, knowing Its own simple truth, a reality as concrete as the sewers, though It was not concrete at all—Pennywise would fight tooth and nail to keep you. You belonged to It, and It to you, for no one in Its long history, Its untold eons of existence, had ever called It beautiful, nor had anyone ever so willingly embraced It for what It was.
—
None of your sleep is ever dreamless, and you’re hardly able to distinguish real life from the images your consciousness produces. Sometimes, you’re left alone to float, to simply exist, and at other times, you’re nothing but Its plaything.
Maturin knows when It’s away, hunting, feasting—cycles can last from months to years, and Pennywise only ceased Its prowling when It was fully satiated.
You tried to be good; you wanted to be, but it was hard not to talk to the entity that prodded your mind as you lay in repose—he was interested in you.
Maturin found you fascinating, for lack of a better word. All this talk of beauty and roses, the way you do not shy away from Its deadly gaze or Its razor-sharp teeth—what sort of human are you? he wonders.
And, oh my—you have allowed It to use you as a vessel—somewhat problematic, he thinks, but it is not his job to watch over humanity—he is a guardian, yes, but a guardian of the Beams.
And perhaps he had inadvertently created you along with the entirety of the universe, but you also have free will and faith to believe in whatever you want to believe… and if you want to believe you loved It, that It was special to you, who was he to say otherwise?
Still, he could not help but be inquisitive by nature, not meaning to pry but doing so anyway. Maybe his questions would help you along the way…
“And how are you feeling, broodmother?” Maturin asked.
You swam in a sea of darkness, with only glimpses of light and a shape you can barely comprehend, hovering nearby. Maturin appeared to you as a turtle, his shell covered in nebulae and galaxies, whole worlds carried on his back.
“Broodmother?” you asked, though the words do not leave your lips but form in your head, spoken not aloud but telepathically, though you hold no such power—nevertheless, Maturin can hear you, and so can It.
“What are you, if not a broodmother, an incubator for his eggs? Your willingness surprises me, considering you are only being used.”
“But he cares about me and keeps me safe,” you argued, speaking of It as you knew It to be—male, with a cock that had filled you.
“And for how long? Do you think he always will? Do you think he will not tire of you? He is beyond time and space, as am I. Your life is nothing but a blip, though no less important.”
“He says I am to become one with him, that I am his,” you whispered, so very tired, so very weary—right down to the marrow of your bones.
“And do you believe him?”
You remained quiet, trying to think of something more positive to say, but Maturin had planted a modicum of fear in your heart. Fear and hesitation.
“Think clearly, my child. Have faith, and he cannot harm you.”
“He wouldn’t harm me,” you replied.
Maturin is now the silent one, mulling over your words for a long, long while before once more willing himself to speak: “No, not while you still serve a purpose, but remember—there is a clear path ahead, though not for him—there is always a way out.”
It was happenstance that a door should open in the middle of empty space, a rectangle in the center of a chasmic void. Light shone as bright as three whole suns. It burned your eyes, your skin—too hot, too hot, you thought, your body becoming entrapped in a blanket of iridescent gold.
Words were hissed into your ear, malicious, violent things—anger, hatred, bitterness, and something else—spite, tinged with a terrible resentment.
You did not know what was happening, blinded by the Deadlights, though Maturin spoke to It, to him, Its attention diverted, Its hatred growing—It was strong, so strong—and you were afraid.
It released you to unleash Its vehemence against Its brother; you cannot watch. You need to leave, to escape, to be gone from this place—you are not meant to see this—a clash of titans, of entities incomprehensible to human beings, cosmic creations with no beginning and no end—
—and so you are blessed before your mind breaks, given the sudden wherewithal to wake up.
—
Your own screaming roused you, though in truth, Maturin had forced you to rise, unable to discern for how long you had been under—had it been days? Weeks? Months?
You only knew one thing—fear, and you are desperate to escape it.
Notwithstanding the heaviness of your belly and the weakness of your limbs, enervated from disuse, you crawled onto your hands and knees, forcing yourself to stand, albeit shakily. It was not here, but you did not know where It was, except that It had joined Maturin in that dark and monstrous place, a place beyond the reality of your world, bound by nothing.
You hobbled through gore, blood, and sewage, overcome by raw terror, no longer blinded by the delusion It had provided you, finally understanding that It could and would kill you should you displease It, and displease It you had.
But you didn’t want It to be angry with you. You hadn’t been the one to reach out, to engage in the first conversation, nor had you any intention of leaving, not until you were caught and made to look as if you were guilty by association, not knowing what It would do to you once It returned home to Its den.
When It had finished with Maturin, you felt you were sure to be next.
Fear had you respond not with the will to fight but with the desire to flee.
Though you were laden with Its clutch, you were unsure whether Pennywise cared enough about you to find someone else to do the job, not knowing how deep or surface-level Its feelings ran—or if it even had feelings— wanting to deny that all It had done was manipulate you into servitude—surely It had picked you for a reason?
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you whispered, should It hear you, ambling your way toward the exit of Its nest like a drunkard, only to find yourself faced with a labyrinthine network of tunnels, picking one at random as you ventured toward what you hoped was the outside world.
You were not sure how long Pennywise might be occupied; whether It was currently present on Earth, or if it had retreated permanently to a kind of astral plane—a space you knew not what to call, only that It was null and empty, somehow, but then there was the mist—shapes and forms of things that should not exist crawling, climbing, flying through its vastness.
After a deeply exhausting trudge through murky water, after what felt like eons, you thought you saw a light ahead. It was unlike any light made by man, belonging to the sun in the sky—something you had not seen since It had dragged you down to Its dusky burrow.
Relief washed over you like clean water, even as the eggs inside you seemed to jump and squirm—you ignored their somersaults and stepped into the light. Additionally, you ignored that you were naked as the day you were born, overcome with the urge to run—could you run? There was nothing to do but try, one hand moving to grip yourself as you staggered toward the cover of the trees.
—-
A child stared at a clown, something he had not seen before, though he had been to this playground numerous times. His bike had been left to the wayside as he inspected what he presumed to be a statue, a new sculpture the city of Derry must have recently installed. It was artful, painted to perfection, except for the cracks along its forehead—had they been fashioned that way on purpose?
Earlier, he had heard screams. He had seen another boy running, darting off to some unknown place, yelling for his mother. Thinking nothing of it, he had continued on his merry way, one hand occupied by an ice cream cone, the vanilla cream already starting to run down his fingers in soupy rivulets.
The nearby water fountain would do the trick; his mother would hate it if he stained his clothes. After a quick rinse, he had spied the clown beneath the shade of an old oak tree, approaching him with caution.
He was so lifelike! Down to the lips and eyes, yet it was as motionless as a mannequin, like something spied in the window of Secondhand Rose, but the outfit, the makeup—these were things that belonged in a circus, and the circus had not come to town for years.
“Hello?” the boy asked, though he felt stupid—it wasn’t as if the thing would talk back. He glanced around to see if anyone else was watching, then reached out a hand to touch one of the clown’s presumably fluffy poms that decorated his fancy outfit.
What should have been marble was soft, downy fabric. The boy was immediately confused, though he was not a sculptor himself.
How was this possible? Had the artist attached them afterward? Had they glued them onto the stone?
Then came a poke, the boy’s finger prodding the clown’s thigh. He met with no resistance, yet the thing—the man—did not budge one iota. The boy took a wary step back, gazing up once more at this so-called statue’s face; fear wormed its way into his chest. Nothing at all made sense.
Drawn by the smell, the aroma of fresh fear, Its battle with Maturin at a standstill—rife with insults but accomplishing little—Its anger was molten, Pennywise returning to this plane of existence to be faced with the sight of a frightened boy—and it was not the same boy, not the one It had targeted earlier, but a different boy—hours had passed here.
For hours, It had left you alone, and before that, days.
Given the opportunity for easy prey, the clown smiled down at Its quarry for all but two seconds—time was of the essence. The boy gaped up at It in horror, Its jaw unhinging with a complement of jingling bells.
A flash, and then a flurry of teeth—blood splattered onto the grass like errant paint—onto a nearby tree trunk, as far as a park bench some ten feet away—a chunk of flesh ripped off and devoured—a bit of shoulder, throat, and head.
And it was broad daylight, though that did not stop Pennywise from chewing, not so much leisurely, Its thoughts lingering with you, with Its stupid, irritating brother—
—It spat out the meat, no longer hungry, Its brow furrowing as it smelt the air. It closed Its eyes, reaching into the ether, reaching out and beyond, sensing something was wrong, sensing—
Pennywise’s eyes shot open, the entity baring all Its teeth. It screamed in fury, a petulant, spoiled scream, not able to sense your presence within Its lair.
“You cannot escape, never escape!” It hissed, Its voice shrill, ascendant, and rasping, “I will find you, and twice over shall you feel my wrath… You say you find me beautiful, say that you are mine—do not leave, do not forsake the clown!”
It shuddered violently in anger, Its words dying on deaf ears. It projected Its consciousness outwardly, pinpointing your exact location, so close to the Barrens; to the train tracks; to Meadow Lane, so close to…
—too close, much too close—Its cage—Its territory, Its influence stretched only so far. The accursed Shokopiwah tribe had planted one of their thirteen pillars directly at the center of the Eastern Pinecrest Campgrounds, though Its knowledge only extended insofar that It knew going too deep into the grounds would bar you from It forever, powerless to liberate Itself.
It would reach you before you crossed the barrier! It would drag you back down into the sewers! It would make you feel Its rage; cacoethes; Its own fear, and distress—Its all-encompassing, ripe conviction.
“—NO!” It screeched, taking to the air, lifted by an invisible current, by an artificial wind, wings spreading from its back like those of a bat—a Chiroptera—silky fabrics stretching and lengthening—tearing and reforming—creating patagium, a thin, flexible, membranous skin aiding the creature in rising toward the sky.
It would find you, and you would pay.
—
You had no sense of direction, no idea of where you were, emerging from some corner of Derry you did not recognize. You could not think clearly, your mind a bemused fog; your eyes were ill-adjusted to the light, having not seen the sun or the world above for months.
Nothing greeted you but the rocks and trees, the babbling of running water, somewhat distant. You followed it, wondering if some good Samaritan might help you, though no such person was to be seen.
You walked for what felt like miles as fast as you could, coming upon a lone stretch of road. It was sandwiched between the woods behind you and another section of forest just up ahead. You did not bother to look both ways, failing to notice a trundling pickup truck approaching. There was a man sitting behind the wheel, just shy of drunk, whistling to himself as he fiddled with the radio.
He happened to look up in the nick of time, slamming on his brakes as he lay on the horn, cursing to high heaven as he went pale with shock. He was unable to believe his eyes as he spied you, a pregnant woman, not wearing any clothes.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” He yelled uproariously, enough to wake the dead, though concern for your well-being prevailed over anger—it was not every day he saw something like this, and it was obvious some sort of misfortune had befallen you.
You had screamed for fear that he might plow into you, cowering low like a frightened animal. Afterward, you had fallen onto the asphalt, toppling over onto your bottom, your arms the only thing keeping you upright, though you so wished to rest, to lie back down.
The man was in need of a shave, wearing a generic baseball cap, dirty jeans, and a flannel shirt. He hurriedly removed it, posing as a gentleman to wrap it around your shoulders by the time he reached your side. He had exited his truck by nearly falling out of it. You gaped at him, unsure of what would happen next, words failing you—you had spoken to no one but Pennywise for an indeterminate length of time.
“Good God, woman! What happened to you?! Are you all right?!”
You breathed in deeply, trying to stay calm. You looked into his eyes, noticing his gaze traveling over your body, and you suddenly felt so very vulnerable. You were aware of how you must look to him, aware of the perversions of man, yet it was imperative that you leave Derry as soon as possible.
“Please, I need to leave, we have to go—Derry—I have to leave Derry,” you exhorted.
“Miss, we should go to the police, the hospital! I’ll take you there myself!” this soused soul promised. You wished that things could be so easy, yet you were not stupid, remembering what Maturin had said.
“No, please, you don’t understand—he’ll kill me—I know it!”
“Who? Who will kill you?!” the man asked, looking around to the left and right, as if he might catch the culprit red-handed.
“It will—It—”
A loud, piercing, discordant shriek interrupted you, your head flying back as you looked up. Above you, circling overhead like a vulture or other bird of prey, was none other than your captor, though Its form had changed, Its massive wings beating the air, high above the treetops.
“Fuck,” you whispered. The man next to you followed your gaze, spotting the creature soon thereafter, his eyes going wide as he fell backward onto his ass, clutching his hat as if it were a lifeline.
“What in blazes is that thing?!” he shouted warily.
“Run,” you urged him, climbing back onto your hands and knees, pushing yourself up off the ground and throwing his flannel to the side—it would only slow you down, get caught by branches and bramble—Pennywise releasing a bloodcurdling screech of outrage as you fled toward the other side of the road—you were heading straight for the Eastern Pinecrest Campgrounds, unwitting of its significance.
You paused your trek, volting preemptively when you heard a horrible sound—the sound of teeth gnawing, gnashing, chewing through flesh and bone. The clown, or at least the head of the clown, slowly turned toward you. Its lustrous eyes were like two candlewicks flickering in the early stages of the sunset, blood bronzing Its mouth as the body of the man lay within Its arms, a chunk of flesh missing from just below his armpit.
“Stop,” Pennywise said firmly, staring at you so icily that you felt the blood in your veins run cold.
It was ignorance to run, your legs carrying you in the opposite direction against your will. Fear had blinded you, though deep down you wished for this all to end, to be wrapped in Its arms again, so that all might be right in your terribly small, fettered world.
But you had seen Its anger, felt it, heard it—It had enveloped your mind, like a vise, infusing every part of you with Its wayward emotions, implanting within you the impression that there was no going back—there was no correcting any wrongs you had done, no forgiveness.
At your disobedience, Pennywise keened like an animal, flapping Its grotesque wings to conjure up a gale, a strong, sustained wind that did not die until It had righted itself on two human legs. Its monstrous claws retracted, Its feet restructured, reorganized, once more housed within Its favorite ankle-high boots, ornately designed.
“Foolish girl!” It grated, Its voice croaking, agitated. It stumbled after you, watching in dismay as you vanished into the trees, kicking aside the corpse of Its latest kill. “There is no escaping Pennywise! I am a GOD! I see and KNOW ALL! You will come BACK,” It reasoned, attempting to give Itself some comfort.
There was no answer, only silence, to keep It company. While It grieved your loyalty, your complete and utter deference, It would have you, one way or the other.
—
The sun had nearly vanished beyond the horizon, and the creatures of the night buzzed, chattered, and hooted in anticipation as you endeavored to go deeper into the woods, hoping to find a safe place to hide. However, you stubbornly longed to turn around, to go to It, and you would have, were it not for fear of Its perceived betrayal and Its animosity toward you—would It listen to you if you tried to explain yourself?
A tree branch caught you, and you yelped in pain like a whipped hound—the scent of your blood seeping from the infinitesimal wound across your cheek drew It to your whereabouts. You pawed at your face, but kept moving, your footsteps horribly loud as they crunched dead leaves. The chill of the fall season was already well established, pimpling your arms and legs. Every part of you, from the tips of your toes to the hairs on your head, was entirely on edge.
“Please,” your voice was but a whisper on the wind, your plea meaning nothing to anyone, but something was wrong—pain rushed through you, tempestuous and livid—you gasped for breath, gripping your swollen stomach as the beings inside you seemed to be in a fighting mood.
“Shit… What—”
“Doooon’t go anyyyy farther,” Pennywise called out to you. Its tone was as calm as an ocean before a storm, unable to see where It was, though hearing It clear as daybreak.
“Stay back,” you said, looking fretfully around you, not catching sight of It among the trees, though It sat, perched like some raptorial bird on one of the highest branches of a stately pine.
“No, you stay put!” It shrieked, the timbre of Its voice rising, no longer composed but furious, Pennywise standing to Its full stature atop Its flimsy roost.
You watched as It descended, an angel struck from heaven, falling more than fifty feet to the dirt below. A shudder rocked the earth, and you fell backward, clutching your gut and landing hard on dismal, uneven ground.
“Is it your wish for me to suffer? Is it your wish to leave poor Pennywise all alone?” It asked, primed and ready to pounce like some cat born of the jungle, knees bent, five of Its gloved fingers planted solidly on terra firma.
“No, but—“
“—I waited for you,” Pennywise rasped scornfully, “though time means nothing to me, and everything all at once! I knew you before you were born!”
You told yourself you hadn’t heard ache in Its voice, yearning, despondency, and that it was all wishful thinking, all in your head.
“Please, listen—” you begged, your fingers digging into the earth, the heel of your foot pressing into damp soil. You unknowingly crept backward toward an invisible barrier, a line It could not cross.
The clown’s demeanor shifted, growing more desperate. Its body elongated, Its legs and arms stretching like rubber, reaching for you as It began to crawl like some arboreous insect, slow and steady, smelling your fear, knowing you might run again and that It wouldn’t be able to follow in your footsteps.
“Listen like you? LISTEN as YOU DID?” It spat sarcastically, “I warned, warned, warned youuu, DIDN’T I? But, oh, what a bad girl you have been! To listen to the old fool, to think you and he would work together! To think that you would leave me; that I wouldn’t punish you!”
You slid in reverse more quickly, displacing leaves and dirt in your wake, backpedaling as Pennywise crept forward, unable to put any real space between you, knowing that you would soon be held within Its clutches, and with nowhere left to run.
“Please stop, please stop, pleas—”
“StOP, SToP, stOP,” It echoed, making a swipe for your leg. “You are mine. You remember, yes? Remember the words you spoke to me of how beautiful I am?” It coaxed, using your own argument against you.
Though you already felt you were not a part of this world—reality warped, time nonexistent—something so strange happened that you were sure you must be dreaming. A large turtle—seemingly unaware of the struggle happening in its vicinity—walked by, as if it had nothing better to do than to take a leisurely stroll.
This turtle’s steps were characteristically slow, unhurried. Pennywise stopped Its raving to stare. The avatar of It was overcome with a physically palpable hatred; you winced, expectant of its wrath.
Its hair turned sun-bright, tendrils of it dancing like flames in the moonlight. It screamed a battle cry that rang through the night, then leaped the ten feet that stood between it. You watched as Pennywise opened Its sharp, fang-filled maw to an inhuman width, gnarled claws like the roots of long-dead trees grappling the turtle by its plated shell.
Pennywise bit its bulbous head clean off, rending fused bones and vertebrae into pulp, keratin—its scutes and dermis. It growled as It tore through every ligament, every ounce of paper-thin flesh.
It seemed to forget that you were there, if only for a moment—you took the opportunity, not one to waste the gift Maturin had given you.
The clown’s eyes snapped toward you like the frothing mandibles of a mordacious dog. You felt a shift; a temperature change, a dulcet warmth against your naked skin. It embraced you like a hug, a soft light enveloping you as you leaned toward it, though synchronously the pain you felt in your belly was crippling, experiencing both a sense of relief and dread as you cupped your abdomen, yelling out in agony as Pennywise lunged for you, cinching Its fingers around your ankle like a twining vine.
You were half in, half out of the cage that bound It, and the eggs It had implanted would not survive the trip, too weak, too underdeveloped. There was a burble in your gut, your stomach lucent as a glowworm; something pushed against you from within. You could do nothing but watch; Pennywise could do nothing but watch.
Its mouth knotted into a terrible grimace, Its teeth and claws retracting, as if experiencing your pain right alongside you, a single tear of pure, unadulterated rage slipping from Its red-rimmed eye to fall down Its grease-painted face.
“No, no, no—!” It intoned. You both heard it—the sound of cracking, the sound of a spell being broken, a dark, ruddy ooze beginning to seep out of you, trickling from between your thighs to stain your legs. It let go to curl Its fingers near Its face in horror, as if unable to believe or comprehend what was happening—you coiled your legs up toward your body, sealing yourself off from It, understanding now this was the place Maturin had mentioned—the place It could not cross.
Its head whipped up double quick, having been so focused on the incident between your legs that It had somehow let you escape. Its eyes were wide as saucers, Its tears translucent as gossamer. It whimpered a sound so soft and slight you almost thought you had imagined it.
It cried—out of frustration, anger, hatred—for what you had done, the color of Its eyes dimming to pale gold, then milky silver, then to a blue as soft as a summer sky.
The creature extended a finger, touching the invisible obstruction that hindered It; you trembled as that single digit began to dissolve, glove and all, into an ethereal glimmer of gold. It could not touch you; It could not reach you, knowing that attempting to cross the threshold of Its prison would mean Its—albeit temporary—demise.
“What have you done?” It whispered, Its voice cracking, fracturing into hoarse splinters. It gawked at you, the committer of a most egregious sin.
Panic set in, not clocking this for what it was—a manipulation tactic. A master of mimicry, Pennywise sat back on Its haunches with a faint tinkling of bells, Its long face pulling at your heartstrings as It watched Its finger reform Its phalanges, Its skin, Its ivory glove.
You gazed down, the remnants of Its children being absorbed by the earth—yolk, ropes of goop and membranous tissue—horrified at yourself, not knowing how to answer It, or what to do next.
You tried your best.
“I’m—I’m sorry—”
“You’re sorry? She’s sorry!” Pennywise chuffed a laugh, seeming to refer to some imaginary audience for confirmation of your fatuity.
“’Sorry’ won’t bring them back! Or me! Does she want me to die?” It asked, leaning forward, so very close to your face on the other side, yet It dared not tempt the pillars of Its cage again, forced to remain where It was. “You will be killing me, should you leave—you were all that stood in the way of death for Pennywise. Neeeever to see me again, murdered by those losers,” It lamented.
“I don’t want you to die,” you whined, lifting a hand, meaning to touch Its face but hesitant to do so, knowing one false move and It could end your life—this could all be a trick, and you were falling for it.
“Penny—I never invited him to talk to me, that turtle—the one who calls himself Maturin.”
The creature’s eyes trailed across your legs, up toward your waist, then over your breasts before It settled on your face, Its melancholy so well rehearsed that you assumed it to be lovelorn.
“He spoke to me in dreams; I did not listen, I swear—I was so afraid when you found us together, so afraid you wouldn’t believe me, forgive me, though I did nothing wrong; I only wish he had never visited.”
“Wish for it you did, but that did not stop you from hearing him, from entertaining that codger’s mutinous ideas!” Pennywise said, Its fingers raking bitterly into the earth on either side of It.
“He called you a liar; said that you were toying with me. He said you don’t care about me at all, and that you would just as soon kill me when I outgrow my usefulness,” you cried, feeling suddenly empty and alone, without purpose, missing the gravity, the magnitude of Its eggs, knowing that you could rely on It to care for you, to dote on you, and possibly even to love you—could It love? Did It?
Pennywise’s face remained placid; It did not betray Its thoughts, Its eyes keeping to that beauteous blue, appearing to you all the more innocent.
“No,” It began, Its voice rattling, quaking, guarded—as if telling you a secret. “I… would not lie…to you…” It said, attempting to convince Itself, same as you. “Need you, yes,” It agreed, “but I chose you, as you chose me…”
You studied It; It was calmer than you had ever seen It, eerily so. You swallowed your spit, Its gaze all-consuming and making you anxious. Like a predator, It seemed to be waiting patiently for the chance to strike.
Then, It tried a different tactic, one It was not sure would achieve Its ends, but It knew you were sentimental, sweet, and caring—all those things It could use to Its advantage—knew you were so enthralled with the clown that you might do anything It asked.
It turned Its face away from you abruptly, then Its back, hunching over to hug its knees; you were left to gaze at the rear of Its head.
What you thought were sobs racked Its body, each shudder of Its thin frame setting off the bells that were wound around Its wrists and ankles. “Go on, then, leave! It’s what you want, what I deserve… No one remains with Pennywise for long. No one understands me,” It wept sorrowfully.
“But… I thought you did.”
You watched after It, feeling so lowly you could crawl into a hole to die; return to the earth. You were thoroughly brainwashed, so enamored by the creature that you could hardly stand it, your bottom lip trembling while you extended a hand.
“Please, don’t cry,” you implored It, for now keeping your distance, observing Its reactions, hoping against hope that everything Maturin had said had truly been a lie.
“And why shouldn’t I?!” It retorted. “My offspring, dead, the girl I waited for no longer wishes to be mine...” The clown picked up a fallen leaf as if it were a flower, pulling its blade away from its stalk, tearing it into little bits to toss into the air. “Everything I hoped for, dreamed of, never to come true.”
“I do want to be yours, I do,” you whispered, so wretched without It, the ache in your heart burning you alive. “I was so afraid you wanted to kill me, to end my life. I swear I never meant to leave you, to hurt you,” you piteously insisted.
“Then why doesn’t she join me?” the clown asked, turning Its head slightly toward the right. It peeked at you from over Its broad shoulder, the tip of Its red nose barely visible above Its puffy sleeves.
You were irresolute, yet your care, your love for It was overpowering your common sense, so enchanted by this otherworldly creature that fucked you so well—this entity that existed outside of everything you had ever known— that to be Its captive had somehow given your life meaning. You never wished to look back on your mundane history, even if that meant you were to become nothing but Its breeder—there were worse fates than this.
“You won’t hurt me?” you asked, shifting your weight—a thing that was much easier to do without Its eggs taking up space in your womb.
Its eyes flashed, a burst of lightning over a dark sea, blue brightening to pallid silver, and then back to gold, though the hint of a smile It wore was craftily hidden behind Its crimped and bloodied cowl.
“I promise,” It returned with a twinkle in Its eye, though It had responded ambiguously on purpose, not revealing what It “promised” at all, but letting you either guess or accept Its answer at face value, leaving out the most important part.
Unfortunately for you, you took the bait.
You pushed past the barrier without another thought, feeling nothing, simply moving beyond its protective borders, as if passing through air, back into Derry proper.
Pennywise budged not one inch, waiting patiently for you to slip ever closer, observing you with a sidelong glance to be crawling on your hands and knees toward It.
“Penny,” you murmured in Its ear, coming around to face It, the clown stiff as a board while you attempted to embrace It, your hands running over the course of Its cheeks, Its jaw, not once thinking that It might snap, not at all bothered by the blood of the man, or the turtle, that still marred its otherwise pristine, painted flesh.
“I love you,” you whispered, kissing It, cradling Its face in the crook of your palm, the feeling, the smell of your words emanating from you, the truth of what you had said—unpleasant, but addictive. Food for Its ego.
It felt something—confusion paired with ache—anger, fury—all at once, for why should a mere human female make It feel this way? A god! A being beyond space and time, beyond frivolous concepts of light and love, knowing only chaos, fear, death, and destruction as Its constants—and yet you bewildered It, frustrated It—made It feel as though It could do nothing but ensure you could never leave Its side again, never run away; to become one, to join It—
—yet it did not want you to pass away, to cease to exist except within It. Not yet.
It had groomed you, yes, your entire soul would be easy to consume, but something was stopping it—something It could not explain nor admit.
The clown snatched your wrist quick as a wink, and you gasped in surprise. Its face, so serene moments earlier, mutated into a grotesque smile, showing all Its teeth.
“I know,” It hissed.
You struggled within Its grasp as It pulled you toward It, forcing your face back with one mammoth hand. You cried out, able to see between the slats of Its fingers—expecting the worst—knowing what your fear could do to It, Pennywise’s lips curling backward as It prepared to sink Its teeth into your inviting throat.
“You said you wouldn’t hurt me—you said—!”
The clown pierced your flesh, though Its bite was restrained, like the pricking of a needle or the sting of a wasp. You ceased your futile efforts to escape It and instead held It close, running your fingers languidly through Its disheveled curls.
“Penny,” you moaned, your breathing shallow even as your heart pounded like a drum. The creature drew your blood from your veins as It marked you, claiming you as Its property once and for all.
As It drank, It shifted, pushing Its fingers between your thighs, moving them concentrically against the nub that throbbed, that part of you that most desired to be touched. You came almost instantly, your pleasure extolled to the trees, to nearby campers, to the animals that roamed silently through the night, watching you with their judgmental, beady eyes.
“Take me,” you begged, “fill me,” you breathed, your tongue slipping out of your mouth to explore Its fingers, Its hand still wrapped around your face.
You managed to suck one up into your mouth, your tongue taking liberties, winding around it, imbibing it like a cock, sloppy and wet. Pennywise produced a growl from low in Its throat, reasserting Its dominance as It flipped you over, shoving you face-first into the dirt with It on top, latched on like a viper.
You whined, your ass lifting, your back arching as It forced you down, only able to turn your head to the side so you would not suffocate; to avoid choking to death on loose earth and decomposition.
Its lips parted, releasing your bruised, punctured flesh only to speak, unable to help Itself, gloating over Its success in making you fold. “Good girl, so good, so tasty—what a silly thought you had, to think that you could deny me,” It grated, Its fingers probing you, massaging your clit from behind and beneath you, finding you to be primed and ready, dripping in excess.
“I could never, not truly. Not forever—you are everything to me,” you whispered, not caring if It thought the same of you. You gyrated your hips, brushing your sex against Its fingers over and over, Pennywise not even having to do any work, so insatiable you were for It.
The beast snarled, spurred on by the admission of your undying devotion, feeding its unquenchable desire for worship, acknowledgment. It snatched you around the waist and pulled you to Its mouth, sinking Its teeth into your inner thighs and the flesh of your labia, though careful only to mark, to injure, and not to maim.
You let out a cry of pain that was silenced by pleasure, your nails burrowing into raw earth, toes curling; your body writhing, even as It sat up, dredging you closer, your chest and head dangling, your legs pinned beneath you, Pennywise sinking Its tongue into the wet depths of your loins.
“Fuck,” you moaned, your pelvic floor muscles spasming, squeezing around It, your fingers moving to grip the clown’s ankles for leverage as it slobbered all over you, eating you as if It had been starved of sustenance for over a thousand years.
“Penny—” Your abdomen clenched; you came hard and fast, coating Its tongue in the sparkling sheen of your feminine ejaculate. Each breath you took was short and sweet, each inhalation catching in your throat, pure ecstasy surging through you, the lewd sounds coming from behind you both intimidating and exhilarating all at once.
You were able to feel the blood running down your legs from where It had bitten you, or was it your arousal seeping out? Your fingers clawed at Its festooned leggings, twisting the argenteous fabric as you hit another high note, Pennywise growling, ravenous, as it laved your genitals in Its saliva.
“Wait—” you beseeched It, wiggling like caught prey, the sensation so intense you felt you could not stand it anymore as Pennywise lapped you from bottom to top, once more inserting its motile tongue deep into your core, cleaning you out of broken shells, chipped bits, albumen and bloom.
“Penny, please, I can’t—”
It only listened after making your voice soar a third and final time, slowly withdrawing Its criminally long muscle to lick up every fleck of blood and cum, your body jumping, seizing, leaving you completely twitterpated, besotted with It more so than you were before.
You had no time to recover. It twirled you around to face It, setting you on Its outsized lap. You forgot how to breathe, holding in a lungful of air, gazing into Its cunning, effulgent eyes.
“Perfect creature,” you uttered softly, caressing Its bloodstained cheek.
Pennywise autoptically dissected you, now seeming entirely subdued except for Its unblinking, unrelenting stare; except for the globule of drool beginning to pearl from Its strangely silent mouth.
You gasped in pain, stabbed through to your cervix without warning, without so much as an inkling of Its plan, Its preternatural, Cthulhic cock having slipped soundlessly from Its trousers to entomb Itself among your innards, the damn thing stretching you from the inside out.
You moaned as you placed your hand across your abdomen, feeling the squirm, the pulse of the clown’s tentacular prick as it plopped a new batch of eggs inside you. Your stomach bulged as It dropped another, and another, your eyes closing in reverence as Pennywise’s opened wider in intrigue, a perverse rictus spreading all the way up, nearly splitting Its face in twain.
“More,” you puled, drunk on pleasure, drunk on pain, on your love for It, or what you perceived to be love, wanting to be good for it, to please it, to be plump with Its eggs, to be an obedient little breeder, so that It would never tire of you or wish for you to leave.
It gave you a look, tilting Its head, Its smile fading, Its expression taking on an austere quality as It observed your lack of shame, wondering if you knew what it was you asked for.
“Huhah,” the clown chuckled flatly, Its face starved of all expression, dropping four, five—your hips undulated, your stomach swelling; you reopened your eyes, raising your arms, slipping your hands into Pennywise’s orange tufts, fondling Its messy locks, stroking Its ears with your fingers, pulling It closer, guiding It toward your breasts.
You dared to repeat those three little words as every egg, every twitch of Its thick phallus, deliciously rubbed against the gummy, sensitive tissue of your G-spot, Its future progeny delivered directly to your womb. It was so close to your throat, to that earlier bite, to the scent of your blood—Pennywise was lured to it, to you, licking a stripe from your collar bone all the way up toward your open wound.
“I’m so sorry,” you apologized. “I never meant to hurt them,” you said, referring to Its other children. You bobbed gently up and down, your anterior walls tightening around Its girth, the pad of your thumb wisping back and forth along the meridian of Its ear.
It crinkled Its nose; furrowed Its brow, concentrating on your taste, refusing to acknowledge your heartfelt affection, ignoring everything but the pungent, viscous liquid that was beginning to coagulate at the base of your neck.
“She will make up for it, oh, yesss, she will,” It sizzed, refastening Its teeth in your flesh, fitting like a glove.
It sucked; It cinched Its arms around you, another egg rippling through Its pliant shaft to force Its way past the neckline of your uterus—was that six now? Seven?
You quavered a sheepish sound, your skin taut, your arms encircling It, wanting so badly to make It happy, wanting so badly for It to love you back.
“Harder,” you whispered of Its bite, kissing Pennywise’s forehead with your lips, featherlight. Your arousal peaked, a wellspring of warm fluid glazing Its cock anew. You crooned into Its ear your siren’s song, the clown’s gloved fingers digging painfully into your waist as It hooked Its mouth, bearing down more forcefully—something skewed, snapped.
You whimpered, your body collapsing into a useless heap were it not for It. Pennywise jerked Its head back as if burned. It gazed at you—at the mess It had made—with wide, glossy eyes.
“Vile temptress!” It denounced. “Look at what you’ve done—look at what you’ve made me do!” Pennywise roared defiantly, pushing you off of It, allowing you to fall backward onto the ground, emptied of Its member.
You looked up into Its eyes as it crouched over you, blood pouring from a severed artery, slicking your fingers as you moved to touch it, to measure its depth. You smiled up at It, as if nothing at all was the matter.
“I forgive you,” you promised softly, “it’s in your nature.”
The clown stood, stumbling backward, looking to Its left and right as if for assistance, somewhat mortified. Its pale face emoted an honest scowl, appalled at you, for what you had said, and appalled with Itself, furious at the idea of your expiry, now brimming with more of Its brethren, and with you so dedicated to It.
“No… No, no, no! YOOOOuuuu did thissss,” It screeched, pointing an accusatory finger toward you. “You will not die,” It demanded, precipitously crashing back down onto Its knees.
It clamored toward you, searching your face, sniffing the air for that hint of death, that scent that was usually so satisfying to It. The clown was stricken with a bout of hysteria, all Its plans, Its aspirations, falling apart.
“Not until I say,” It corrected, Its tone so pitiful, and you feeling so sorry for It.
You coughed, gurgling, and Pennywise ripped off Its right glove with Its teeth as if It was nothing. It tore through Its own flesh like wrapping paper, the substance of Its false body separating to float, an outpouring of nitid light, damning yet resplendent, illuminating the darkness. Your fading vision, your quieting mind, conjured a hallucination: your deceiver was also your liberator, an angel with golden wings.
“So pretty,” you whispered, the clown gaping down at you with an open, crooked mouth.
The entity before you took a moment to think, took a moment to consider the repercussions of Its actions—no more, no less. Rules meant nothing to It, no laws could control It. Only one thing scared It—two things.
Your lips were met with something warm, something that held no taste, though It tingled. You sputtered and gagged, pure cosmic energy filling your mouth, leaching its way into your mind, body, and soul.
It filled your veins and arteries, your joints and ligaments; It replaced the marrow of your bones. There was no separating you from It, or It from you, Pennywise feeding you Its lifeforce as foreseen through Its Deadlights, marking the first time you had witnessed Its true form.
You began to cry, tears welling in your pinched-shut eyes to tumble down in waves, cascading like a waterfall, your chest rising and falling as your lungs burned from the inside out. Your body bucked in a last-ditch effort to expel what felt like poison, spasming wildly in the throes of mortal death.
The clown straddled you, held you down, pinning you to the dewy earth as It whipped your head to one side with its thumb and fore, preventing you from swallowing your own tongue. Ropes of blood blossomed from your mouth like flowers, rising above and beyond It in a bouquet as red as late-spring roses; your eyes opened to dispel that same foul, radiant light that destroyed everything it touched with its rotten, rapacious appetite.
Other orifices joined in—your ears, nose, and throat. You screamed in terror, though no sound came but a warbled splutter. You screamed in fury, ache, and longing; in sorrow and in pain.
A thousand lifetimes, a thousand galaxies, a thousand universes were revealed to you, secrets of those long dead and those yet to be given life. You saw kingdoms rise and fall, saw the end of everything and the beginning, all at once, your frail human mind splintering, but the Macrocosmic presence at your side never once forsook you, figuratively and literally your guiding light.
“Experience it, yes, but do not let it consume you, eat you. Do not allow it to erase you. You must stay—stay here with me, be caged like me, birth me, sleep here, always, and never, ever grow old.”
It was a part of you then, not outside but within—three omniscient, panoptic orbs of chaos, subdued and sent to govern you as you ascended to some other plane. A penumbra of perpetual twilight, of mist, of monstrous creatures, no longer steeped in obscurity but clearly visible and utterly, wholly terrifying.
Nightmares concrete, and dreams of heaven and all goodly things. Bedlam, death, fear, destruction, but also benevolence and compassion, mercy and warmth.
This, you were stolen from, sucked through a black, shapeless void, ostensibly endless, frightening to the full extent your mind could comprehend. You heard Its voice, saw Its light—It spoke to you again, words It thought were comforting, words that assured your place in Its existence, a single, white-gloved hand reaching out from Its spot in the dark, escorting you home.
“And the clown will keep the girl, the girl who loves It. And she will go on loving It, because It did not, would not let her die…”
You gasped for breath, for life, your chest heaving as if taking your first gulp of air, drowned at sea. Everything hurt, everything was too bright and simultaneously too dim. You stared at nothing, your head devoid of all discernible thought.
Pennywise scolded you; Its tone was stern and grim, reeking of an authority It did not possess—it was all in your hands now. “Dooo not go to that place. That place of no return. She is mine, and mine alone—nothing, no one, will take her.”
You focused on Its words, then Its eyes; the feeling of Its touch—Pennywise had deigned to caress your cheek, Its thumb glancing over your bottom lip.
“Penny?” you asked, your voice faint and hardly your own.
“Good, good!” The clown grinned, laughter bubbling up like spring water. “Look how strong she is.”
You tried to smile, but gave yourself over to sleep, to rest, your addled brain, your bruised, egg-laden body needing respite despite everything, despite no longer being accessible to death, but walking alongside it.
—
You felt the sensation of movement, though it was not your own limbs that carried you, but that of the clown, held steadfast and tightly in Its arms. Battered and broken by no fault of your own, It was still the one to bring you home, back down to the sewers, the only place in the whole of the world you wished to be.
“What happened to me?” you asked, your voice as quiet as a susurration of wind—diminutive—sweeping mildly over and along the pipes.
It stopped walking to look down at you, Its face a blank page. Its form felt massive while you felt so small, peering up at It with half-shuttered eyes.
“Back where she belongs,” It said.
You were quiet, content. But perhaps It wasn’t. Perhaps It thought you required some kind of further explanation, for it obliged you a better answer, continuing Its trek down the otherwise dark and lonely hall.
“Tethered to me now, you are, until the end.”
You smiled to yourself a lazy, half-moon smile. You curled into Its chest as if the clown Itself was a blanket, nuzzling into the opalescent fabric adorning Its breast.
“I won’t ask why,” you whispered, knowing better of it.
Nothing else was to be said as It persisted in Its sluggish, methodical walk beneath the Neibolt house, delving farther into the cold, sodden environment of Its lair. You shivered reflexively, and the clown drew you closer, gazing up at the bodies that floated, at the forms of children that littered its cozy den—all in due time.
It stepped into an apodeictic bloodbath, sinking lower, inch by inch. You held on tight as It submerged Itself and you, unbothered and uncaring.
Soon roused from a partial sleep, you moaned palatably into Its ear—Its cock had broached you, this time not to lay, but to finish the job.
You took up Its face; you bit Its lip, drawing not blood but a dark, viscid fluid, acrimonious to others and candied to you, then kissed It soft and slow.
This, It allowed, Its seed-cock slithering delectably into the pithy core of your womb, nestling Itself, assessing Its eggs—their shape and size, their durability and their condition.
“Are they all right?” You breathed through waves of pleasure, the curve of Its member positioned perfectly so, Its midpoint interminably knocking against that sensitive, sheltered spot deep within.
You were not given an answer, but flooded with Its tepid sperm—an act done for the sake of procreation, for the sake of propagation, and not for gratification or Its own satisfaction, or even yours.
You wondered then, if It could feel pleasure, if It would allow Itself to, or if such an inclination had ever crossed Its mind.
The clown chuckled, a low, sinister laugh that held some hidden meaning you were not privy to. It closed Its eyes, a slow, foreboding smile etching its way across Its ruby lips. “They will survive, as I always do. As you will now, and soon. Very soon, they will—I will—be free.”
But there was no telling what “soon” meant to It. You only nodded, slipping your fingers through Its delicate curls, finally at peace. What’s more, you were no longer afraid of It—of them—at all, nor would you ever be again.
Maturin, for all intents and purposes, had been at least half wrong.
—-
Read the Epilogue here.
