he's holding her in the sewer, her legs wrapped around him, drooling just like she is. her body rutting against his as broken, desperate whimpers leave her throat. 'your smell...' he husks, his bright eyes rolling behind his head. he's never smelt anything like it. blossoms and nectar rather than the sinister decay he's used to. it has shivers crawling up and around his form. 'tasty...'
she tugs at a strand of his hair. at his puffy sleeves. her pussy soaking through her panties as she traces the hard shape of what lies beneath his clothes. 'show me your teeth,' she cries.
he opens his mouth, giggles, wider and wider. dozens of rows of sharp teeth protruding from his gums. his mouth so massive it could swallow her whole. the sight has her spilling over the edge. the fire in her core reaching its peak as she counts them. 'so beautiful,' she marvels, rutting desperately. her hand softly touching his face as her eyes close, her pussy throbbing against him.
As the Losers begin to fracture under fear, Nanny makes the devastating choice not to save Dean from Pennywise in order to preserve the ritual, shattering Bill’s trust and leaving the group more divided than ever before.
33. The Betrayal
Day 3 started brittle.
The sky over Derry was the color of dishwater and the motel smelled like stale air and old secrets. You could feel the town pressing against the thin walls, listening.
They gathered in Bill's room because it was biggest, because it had a table, because someone had to choose and Bill always did.
You were there first.
You sat in the single chair by the window, legs crossed at the ankle, a book open in your lap like this was any ordinary babysitting job and you were waiting for a toddler to wake up from a nap, not a group of grown men and one woman who'd once been your charges and were now marching toward mutual slaughter.
One by one, they came.
Eddie first, pale and tight as a drawn string, his hand hovering near his pocket where the old inhaler dug into the fabric of his jeans. Ben next, careful movements betraying how shaken he still was, yearbook page tucked safe inside his shirt. Richie, trying and failing to swagger; Beverly, eyes sharp and rimmed in kohl; Mike, silent, rock heavy in his palm.
Bill came last, shoulders hunched as if he were already bracing for impact.
They didn't talk at first.
The quiet in the room wasn't peaceful. It was the silence between lightning and thunder.
Richie broke it.
"So," he said, too loudly. "Tokens acquired. Trauma revisited. Everyone enjoy their little solo haunted house? I give mine one star on Yelp, the leper spit was a bit much."
Eddie flinched.
"Don't," he said.
"Don't what?" Richie snapped. "Don't joke? If I don't joke, I start screaming, Eds, and I don't think the motel is ready for that kind of review."
"We shouldn't have split up," Ben muttered.
"Kind of hard not to when the magic turtle says 'fetch,'" Richie shot back.
"It wasn't the turtle," you said mildly, turning a page.
They all looked at you.
You closed the book around a finger.
"Sorry to disappoint," you said. "No reptilian deus ex machina this time. Just the thing that crashed here, and you, and me, and a ritual that might get very messy."
Bill exhaled through his nose.
"We d...don't have to do it," he said suddenly.
Five heads snapped toward him.
Mike frowned. "What?"
Bill stared at the tabletop.
"I mean...we do," he corrected quickly. "We have to. It's just...we're not..." He swallowed. "We're not ready. We've barely remembered half of what happened and we're already..."
"Already being hunted?" Bev said quietly.
He looked at her.
Her gaze didn't waver.
"I saw it," she said. "After the bathroom. After the blood. When it...looked at me. I saw...all of you."
Her hand shook as she reached for her cigarette packet, then thought better of it and let it drop.
"I saw you die," she said.
The words dropped into the room like stones.
"Beverly..." Ben started.
She cut him off with a sharp shake of her head.
"Alone," she said. "All of you. Different places. Different times. But...not old. Not...grey, or wrinkled, or..." Her voice faltered. "You don't get there. None of you do. If we turn around now...if we go home...he doesn't just leave us alone. He...waits. He punishes us for leaving."
Eddie's face went ashen.
"How?" he whispered.
She looked at him, and for a second you saw the girl who'd stood in her bathroom, drenched in blood no one else could see, and refused to look away.
"Badly," she said. "Quickly, but...alone. Scared. Like we were...kids again. Except this time, it sticks."
Richie laughed.
It was a horrible sound.
"Cool," he said. "Cool, cool, cool. So stay and die in a sewer or leave and die somewhere else. Choices. Love that for us."
"You d...don't know that's what it meant," Bill said weakly.
"Yes," she said. "I do."
You watched the words sink their teeth in. You'd seen visions before, yours and Mary's and the ones that clung to this town like mildew. Bev's weren't as sharp. But they were clear enough.
She wasn't wrong.
"I'm not asking you to stay because I want to play hero," she went on. "I'm asking you to stay because I've seen what happens if we run. We've been running for twenty-seven years already. It doesn't save us. It just...postpones the bill."
"You keep saying 'we,'" Eddie said. "Like you're not in those visions. Did...did you see yourself?"
"You are allowed to be scared," you said. "You are not allowed to use that as your only excuse."
Richie glared.
"We're not all immortal umbrella people, Nanny," he snapped. "We break. We die. You float off on your magical carpetbag and...what, call it a job well done if even one of us is left breathing?"
You didn't flinch.
"I've buried children," you said. "Real ones. I'd rather not add any of you to that count."
"Then tell us we win," Eddie said. "Tell us we walk into that fucking well and walk out again and he doesn't."
You looked at him. At all of them.
"I can't," you said.
"That's what I fucking thought," Richie said, and shoved back from the table.
The chair scraped.
"I'm out," he said. "I'm done. This is a stupid fucking plan and I'm too old to die in a place that smells like shit."
"Richie..." Mike started.
"No, man," Richie said, jabbing a finger at him. "You stayed. Good for you. You lived in this freakshow for almost three decades and kept the scrapbook and the flaming rock and the conspiracy podcast voice. I get it. Somebody had to. But I'm not that guy. I'm the one who leaves. That's my whole fucking thing."
He turned toward the door.
Eddie stood up so fast he wobbled.
"I'm coming with you," he blurted.
Richie blinked. "What?"
"You're not leaving me here," Eddie said, voice high and shrill. "If you go, I go. I'm not gonna be the only one who knows this and has to..." He flapped a hand at the room. "...and she just admitted we're gonna die anyway, and..."
"I did not admit that," you said.
"...and there's no magic turtle and I slept like shit and my arm still hurts," Eddie steamrolled on, "so yeah, I'm going with him because at least if I die on the way out of town, I won't be underground."
"Great," Richie said, forcing a grin. "We'll go be cowards together. Road trip."
"Stop," Bev said.
They didn't.
Ben's jaw worked, like he wanted to say something and couldn't find the words.
Bill looked like someone had just kicked his dog.
Mike's eyes were on you.
Do something hung between you.
You did...nothing.
You could make them stay. You could slam the doors, twist the locks, tilt the floor so the hallway never quite got closer. You could keep them like birds in a cage until they broke.
That wasn't the kind of magic Mary had taught you.
That was the kind he used.
"Go," you said quietly.
They all stared.
"What?" Eddie squawked.
"If you're going to leave, leave now," you said. "Don't drag it out. Don't half-stay and hope someone else will make the hard decision for you. Either you walk away now or you don't. But know what that means."
"You said we die if we do," Richie snapped, jerking his thumb at Beverly.
"I said I saw possibilities," Bev shot back. "Not certainties."
"What's the fucking difference?" he demanded.
"You," you said.
He froze.
All those years ago, in a sewer, with blood on his shoes and Eddie's broken arm screaming, he'd stayed. He'd gone down the well. He'd fought.
He could do it again. Or he could go. That choice was the only thing in this town that had ever been truly his.
"None of us are children anymore," you said. "I can't drag you by the collar. I can't...sing at you until you behave. I can only tell you the truth: there is no version of this where you never hurt again. There is a version where you hurt, and other people don't have to as much."
Richie laughed, but it was thin.
"You should put that on a motivational poster," he said. "Hang it in the sewer. Really spice the place up."
He stepped into the doorway.
Stopped.
His hand lifted, fingers pressing to the scar on his palm.
He'd done that a lot since he came back, without noticing.
Eddie watched.
His own hand mirrored the motion, thumb rubbing over the faint line.
"We...we said we'd come back," he said, almost to himself. "We promised."
"Promises are for kids," Richie said, but there was no heat in it.
"No," Bill said hoarsely. "Promises are for us. Because we b...broke them already once, and look what it cost."
They all saw Georgie.
They all saw Stan.
Richie closed his eyes.
For a second, you could almost feel the coin in his pocket weighing his decision.
He sighed.
"Shit. Fine," he said.
He stepped back into the room.
Eddie sagged with him, like they were tethered.
"But when I die," Richie said, pointing at you, "and my ghost shows up at whatever cosmic address you're floating at, I am haunting the hell out of you."
"Get in line," you said.
A faint, strained laugh circled the room.
It was not much.
It was enough.
For now.
You felt Dean before you saw him.
He was not one of yours.
He had never been.
You'd spotted him under the bleachers at the ballgame, sharp little face, smart mouth, the kind of kid who'd already learned to spit first so no one saw him flinch.
You'd filed him away as a worry and moved on.
You couldn't carry every child in Derry at once.
You felt him now because Pennywise did.
Curiosity.
Hunger.
A little spark of possessive delight.
Found one, he sang in your bones.
Bill heard him by more ordinary means.
He was in the motel hallway, alone, palms still itching from clubhouse dirt, when he caught the glimpse of a familiar green rain slicker in the vending room doorway.
Dean.
The kid from the Jade alley. The one who'd said he heard voices in the drain.
He was feeding coins into the machine with the concentration of someone who'd already lost too many quarters to jams.
"Hey," Bill said. "Hey, Dean."
The boy's shoulders stiffened.
He half-turned, defensive.
"Oh," he said, recognition sliding over his face, followed by immediate annoyance. "It's you."
Bill almost smiled.
Dean had a talent for making grown men feel twelve again.
"Careful," Bill said. "The carnival..."
"I know," Dean cut in, rolling his eyes. "Big scary sewer ghost, whatever. You're not my dad."
He yanked the lever. The machine whirred and clunked. A soda clattered down.
"You shouldn't go," Bill tried again. "It's not s...safe."
"No kidding," Dean said, popping the can. "Some weird guy is yelling at me about storm drains."
He brushed past Bill.
The smell of cheap cologne and adolescent bravado followed.
Bill stood there, heart thudding. By the time he moved, Dean was already halfway down the street, cutting through back lots toward the fairgrounds.
You were on the motel roof when Bill burst out the front doors.
You watched him look both ways and then bolt, Silver abandoned for speed.
"Don't," you murmured to the sky.
He didn't hear you.
Pennywise did.
The carnival lights blinked in the distance.
Laughter floated over, tinny and frantic over the rumble of generators and the screech of rides.
You stepped off the edge of the roof and let the umbrella carry you, drifting high above the line of the street like any other gull-harried scrap of shadow.
People didn't look up in Derry.
Too dangerous.
Your boots hit the gravel at the edge of the fairground just as Bill pushed through the gate, breathless, eyes scanning.
The place was a riot of color: striped tents, spinning metal, kids waving cotton candy like flags. The smell of popcorn and frying sugar churned your stomach.
You could feel him under it all, the clown, coiled around the foundations like roots, leaking tiny bits of wrong into the midway games and the carousel lights.
"Dean!" Bill shouted, shoving past a group of teenagers.
No answer.
You saw the boy duck away from the crowd, cutting toward the far corner where the cheap attractions lived, the rickety rides, the rigged games, the funhouse with its grinning facade and chipped paint.
He disappeared inside.
You landed lightly near the entrance.
"Don't go in, William," you told Bill.
He looked at you like you'd slapped him.
"He's a kid," he snapped. "I'm not leaving him!”
You met his eyes. He was shaking.
"William," you said softly. "You don't understand what you're walking into."
"I've been in his head," Bill said, voice rough. "I've seen what's under him. I know."
He shouldered past you.
You could have stopped him. You didn't.
The funhouse swallowed sound.
Inside, the music and midway noise sank to a muffled throb. The air smelled like old carpet and sugar and breath gone stale. Mirrors loomed on either side of the winding path, reflecting reflections of reflections until it was impossible to tell which way was forward.
"Dean!" Bill called.
His voice bounced back at him from six directions.
You stepped in after him.
The mirrors didn't like you. They began that this last cycle.
Your reflection was always a half-second out of sync, a ghost in your own skin, too bright or too faded. In places, you didn't show at all, just a smear where a person should be.
You moved through the maze by feel, stepping between the angles, finding the slivers of space where the glass thinned. You slipped ahead of Bill, into the heart of the attraction.
He found Dean first.
The boy stood in a corridor lined with mirrors, all of them showing him at slightly different heights, slightly different ages. His face was pinched with annoyance rather than fear.
"This place sucks," he muttered. "Everywhere I look, it's just me."
Somewhere above, the clown laughed.
The lights flickered. The mirrors shivered.
You smelled him.
Pennywise seeped in through the glass.
Not his whole body at first, just a hand in one pane, long fingers drumming; just an eye in another, pupil huge; just a mouth in a third, lips stretching into a crescent grin.
Dean's face went blank.
Then his eyes widened.
You almost smiled, despite yourself.
Pennywise did, too.
"Good nose on you, kid," he cooed. "Smell the rot, do you? Hear the walls? Hear the drains?"
Dean's jaw jutted.
"I hear you in my bathtub," he said. "Doesn't mean I'm scared of you."
"Liar," the clown sang.
Bill skidded into the corridor entrance.
"Dean!" he shouted.
Dean and Pennywise both flinched.
The clown's grin sharpened.
"Oh," he sighed happily. "We have an audience!”
He stepped out of one mirror and into another, his image multiplying until the corridor teemed with clowns, each one slightly off, slightly delayed, slightly wrong.
Bill staggered to a stop.
He saw Dean ahead, small hands pressed to the glass, eyes wide.
He saw himself reflected a dozen times, older, thinner, desperate.
And in the panels behind Dean, warped by the curved glass, he saw them.
Pennywise, looming.
And you.
You were on their side of the mirror.
Standing in the same narrow corridor as the clown and the boy, the geometry folded wrong to allow it. To Bill's eyes, you were slightly behind and to the right of Pennywise, one hand resting flat against the glass as if testing its strength.
Your umbrella leaned casually against your shoulder.
You looked calm.
Too calm.
"Nanny," Bill rasped.
He smacked into the glass between you with a hollow thud.
Dean jumped.
"Run!" Bill shouted. "Dean, run!"
Dean spun, saw you, saw the clown, saw no way that made sense.
He froze.
Pennywise's grin stretched.
"Don't be rude," he chided. "We have a guest."
He tilted his head toward you.
"Governess," he crooned. "This one yours?"
All the mirror-Bills saw you.
All of them saw the little hesitation before you answered.
"No," you said.
Your voice sounded thin in your own ears.
"Then he's mine," Pennywise purred.
Bill's hands slammed against the glass.
"You can g...get in there," he gasped. "I've seen you. You can break this. Break it!”
You could. You could warp the funhouse into something else, tilt the world so the glass dissolved into rain, pull Dean out through the reflection of his own eyes.
You could spend power you didn't have.
You could fling yourself between the teeth and the boy and let the backlash hit the threads holding this whole ugly game together.
You could hear Mary's voice in your head, warning and weary: You cannot save all of them, child. You'll tear yourself in half and feed him the pieces.
Dean was not bound to you.
His fear did not hum against your ribs like the Losers'.
He did not believe in you. He barely believed in Bill. He believed in the clown.
"Please," Bill said.
His breath fogged the glass, stuttered.
"Nanny, please!”
You met his eyes.
Across the warped panel, his face was wet and wild, reflection doubled and tripled until you were looking at a whole hall of little boys in a grown man's skin.
Pennywise watched you from the corner of his eye.
You could feel his glee, sharp as tinfoil on fillings.
They'll find out what you are, he'd murmured in your room. They'll turn on you. They'll try and kill you too.
He slammed his palm against his side of the mirror.
Cracks spiderwebbed out from the impact, racing across the surface like frost.
Dean screamed.
The sound bounced around the maze, multiplied.
Bill hammered his fists against the glass.
"BREAK IT!" he shouted. "Nanny, do something!"
Your storm surged, instinctive, wanting to answer.
You held it back like a leash cutting into your palms.
If you did it once, for a boy who did not shine for you, who would never even know your name, the cost would come due somewhere else.
On Bill.
On Bev.
On Eddie, who already panicked at his own pulse.
On all the children you had already chosen.
Pennywise's smile went slow and satisfied as he felt your restraint.
"Watch closely," he said, almost tender.
He timed it for maximum cruelty.
He threw his weight against the glass from his side.
On Bill's side, the pane exploded outward, shards flying, the barrier in front of him vanishing in a spray of glittering knives.
Bill staggered, hands cut, suddenly faced with open air and a clear line to Dean.
He lunged.
He hit something that wasn't there.
An invisible wall, another layer of It's funhouse geometry, a barrier that existed only on the boy's side.
Dean slammed into it too, palms squeaking.
Their hands met through nothing.
Bill's eyes went huge.
He pushed.
He could feel the heat of Dean's skin and the chill of whatever lay between.
Nothing gave.
"Please," Dean sobbed. "Please, I don't..."
Pennywise reared up behind him.
Bill saw every tooth.
"DON'T LOOK AT HIM!" Bill screamed. "LOOK AT ME!"
Dean tried.
He really did.
His gaze flicked between Bill's face and the white shape looming behind him, drawn helplessly toward the thing his brain had been wired to fear since the drains started whispering.
Pennywise's jaws unhinged above the boy's head.
You could still have moved then.
You could have thrown yourself into the deadlights' path, taken the bite yourself, let your own light go screaming down into the dark with him.
You did not.
Your fingers pressed harder to the glass instead.
It didn't break.
Pennywise's teeth came down.
The glass on Dean's side bloomed red.
Bill's scream tore his throat raw.
He slid down the smooth, unseen barrier to his knees, hands leaving streaks.
Dean's body jerked once, twice.
Then went slack.
Pennywise let him drop like a puppet whose strings had been snipped.
Silence hit harder than the sound.
Bill was still making noise, a ragged, gasping litany of no no no no, but it felt thin under the weight of what had just happened.
Pennywise stood on the other side of the invisible wall, mouth smeared, teeth pink.
He pressed his hands to the barrier, matching Bill's position, like a grotesque reflection.
Then, slowly, he shifted his head and looked at you.
In the mirrors, your own reflection finally lined up.
Bill saw it.
He saw Pennywise's painted face and your calm one side by side, both framed by glass, both dry.
He saw your hand still resting on the surface, not pushing, not warping, not saving.
Pennywise grinned.
"See?" he cooed, voice muffled but clear. "We are the same."
You ripped your hand away like the glass had turned hot.
Your deadlights roared under your skin, sick with what you had not done.
The clown laughed and melted backwards, his shape smearing into reflections, disappearing pane by pane until only your face remained for Bill to look at.
He did.
Very slowly, he turned his head toward you.
He'd never looked at you like that before.
Not even when you'd dragged him out of a sewer by the scruff of his soul.
His expression wasn't fear.
It was worse.
"You let him die," he said.
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came out.
You tried again.
"He wasn't..." you started.
The words tasted like rust.
"Not one of yours?" Bill spat.
You flinched.
He lurched to his feet, cuts on his hands dripping onto the funhouse floor.
"You c...could have broken it," he said, voice shaking. "I've seen you. You...you fly, for God's sake. You could have...you could have pulled him through the glass. You could have..."
"Bill..."
"DON'T," he snapped.
You'd seen him furious before, at his parents, at himself, at the whole unfair structure of the universe that had stolen his brother.
You'd never seen him aim it at you.
"You chose," he said hoarsely. "You stood there with him and you chose to let that boy d...die."
"I am trying to keep you alive," you said, and you heard how awful it sounded even as you said it. "If I break the wrong thing, if I pull too hard, the ritual won't..."
"Fuck the ritual," he snarled.
Spit flew. Your storm twitched.
He advanced a step, blood on his palms, on his shoes.
"You think it matters to Dean if your...your cosmic balance stays tidy?" he demanded. "He was a kid. He trusted me. I told him not to go and he went anyway because that's what they do and then I followed and I thought..." His breath hitched. "I thought you were on our side!”
"I am," you said.
He laughed.
It was a wreck of a sound.
"Whose side?" he asked. "Ours? Or his?"
Pennywise's whisper curled at the edges of your awareness, smug and soft.
They'll betray you. They'll call you monster when you don't shine the way they want.
You shoved the memory away.
"I am on Derry's side," you said, desperate to make him understand something, anything. "On the side of the ones I can save. I can't take all of them, Bill. I can't. If I try, something worse than him notices. You don't know what..."
"I don't care what rules you've decided are more important than a child’s life," he said.
His eyes were bright and hard and utterly broken.
"You let my brother die," he whispered. "And I was too young to know it. I thought...you tried. I thought you did everything you could and it still wasn't enough. Maybe I needed to believe that."
You flinched like he'd reached through your ribs.
"That's not true," you said, but your voice was thin.
Georgie's yellow slicker, red in the rain.
You had pulled six kids out when the town wanted to eat them.
You had not pulled the seventh.
"I saw you," Bill said, shaking his head. "In the vision. With the Shokopiwah. With all the other times this thing woke up. You were always there. Watching. Picking and choosing. Curating your little flock."
"That's not... me. Not yet."
"You could have saved him," he said.
He nodded toward the bloody smear on the invisible wall, towards the limp little body behind it.
"You chose not to," he finished.
The mirrors around you hummed.
The funhouse felt suddenly too small to hold the three of you: a man, a nanny, and the absence where a boy had been.
You stepped toward him, hand half-lifted.
"Bill..."
He recoiled.
"Don't touch me," he said.
Soft. Final. It landed heavier than any shout.
Your hand fell. Something in your chest, one of the little quiet hopes you didn't examine too closely, cracked along an old fault line.
"You still need me," you said, because it was true and awful and the only card you had. "You all do. You can't get down there without—"
"We'll manage," he said.
He turned his back on you. He did it slowly, like it cost him something. Then he ran.
Out of the corridor, through the maze, past mirrors that showed him stretched tall and thin and small and sobbing and furious. He hit the exit door with his shoulder and burst back into the garish wash of carnival lights.
You let him go. You could have folded the distance, stepped in front of him, blocked his way like a scolding nurse.
You didn't. You stood in the echoing funhouse, watching the blood drip down the unseen barrier until it became just another stain in a place full of them.
"Not one of yours," Pennywise murmured in the empty mirrors. "Good girl."
"Shut up," you said.
Your voice bounced back at you from a dozen warped versions of your own face.
You crossed the floor, each step loud on the warped boards, and stopped in front of the place where Dean's body lay on the other side of the invisible partition.
His eyes were still open.
Kids who'd seen him here later would tell themselves it was a prop.
The town was very good at that.
You lifted your hand.
For a moment, you let your storm flare, just enough to burn a single, small mark into the glass where no one else would ever see it, a tiny, white scorch shaped like an umbrella.
A gravestone, for you if not for him.
"I'm sorry," you whispered.
The boy didn't answer.
You didn't expect him to. You stepped sideways, through the lingering echo of the deadlights, and out of the funhouse.
The carnival looked the same.
Neon. Grease. Laughter pitched just a little too high.
Somewhere beyond the midway, Bill's figure was already a smear of movement headed back toward town, toward the house waiting for him on Neibolt Street, toward the friends who still believed, as of this moment, that you were wholly on their side.
You walked the other way.
Up, first, onto the sagging roof of the funhouse, where the rain-streaked sky pressed low.
Then higher, the umbrella snapping open in your hand, catching the wind.
The town spread under you: the river, the Barrens, the grid of streets, the old library squat and stubborn on its corner.
They'd go there.
That was where Mike lived, these days.
That was where the research was.
That was where Henry was limping, knife in hand, along a path you could already feel etched into the air.
You should go to Bill.
You should go to the boy hauling all this weight toward the worst house in Derry.
You angled the umbrella toward the library instead.
You didn't have the luxury of tending to one fracture at a time.
Bill's trust had just snapped like a bone.
You could feel it, a sharp absence in the web of light you held around the Losers.
You were losing pieces faster now.
"You could have saved him," Bill's voice echoed.
You told yourself, again, that Dean was not one of yours.
You told yourself that if you'd burned what it would have taken to pull him free, you might have lost all of them.
You told yourself a lot of things as you glided over Derry's roofs toward the library where your little flock was beginning to gather without you.
The storm rolled closer.
You tightened your grip on the umbrella and headed into it.
🎈🩸🤡🎈🩸🤡🎈🩸🤡🎈🩸🤡🎈🩸🤡
Want to be pulled into the tag list? Drop a “TAG ME” below… I promise it won’t bite. Probably.
Summary: Pennywise has been alone for a very long time, and that’s exactly how it should be. It’s easy to forget the cage when the prey is abundant. Which is why you moving in, with your too-loud vibration and your insatiable appetite pisses Pennywise off. Big time.
Sacrament Is You
Summary: Ducking into the sewer is never a great idea in Derry, but there’s a gang of nasty boys hot on your heels and you decide to take your chances. Running into the monstrous entity that haunts the town is less than ideal, until you discover it’s thirst for flesh mirrors your lust for revenge. If only you can keep it’s appetite from swallowing you whole.
Can I request Pennywise dating hcs where his partner/reader is a dark magic witch with a catch familiar?
I'm not a huge fan of basic witch types (eg. pointy hats and Halloween vibes) if thats what you mean, or the typical TVD-based witches, but I do adore ancient, horror type sorceress with familiars for sure if thats okay with you!
THIS IS A DRAFT I NEVER POSTED AND I DONT FEEL LIME FINISHING OT EDITING IT SO ENJOY
Pennywise X reader
I stood at my Bathroom sink taking in my appearance, I ruffled my hair a bit and pulled at my face a little, a small frown pulled at my lips.
'𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑐𝑎𝑛'𝑡 𝐼 𝑏𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑦?'
I did everything I could to make myself look better, makeup, eating right that turned into eating less, different clothes, hell I've even planned for some kind of cosmetic surgeries. My need to be accepted to be beautiful, to be like those girls who could pull any guy or girl, turning into an obsession. I watch my expressionless face scrunch a small bit as a tear leaves my eye.
Suddenly a white gloved hand sneaks its way from behind around my neck, a soft jingling of bells tinkled as It stepped closer towering over me.
𝑃𝑒𝑛𝑛𝑦𝑤𝑖𝑠𝑒..
His hand moved to the underside of my chin, its index finger catching my tear letting it soak into the glove. In the mirror I could only see its lower torso and waist behind me clothed in white and gray ruffles fabric of a clown suit.
My breath catches and my heart lurches, he'd come to me before many times but not always to show me my worst fear but sometimes to just be there, it was... Strange, unsettling, but it was somehow calm.
Another hand snakes around my waist pressing into my tummy. My hand shoots out to stop him, but he doesn't budge it's nose prods at my head of hair breathing in deeply, a soft chuckle leaves him.
"𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒔𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒍𝒖𝒔𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔"
Pennywise states into the top of your head. The hand on my neck tightens ever so slightly pushing gently and guiding my head to look upwards at him.
His eyes found mine, its pupils were dark and blown out slightly to the point that his yellow rings were mere slivers around his dark orbs, his mouth was slightly agape two front teeth showing while drool slipped down his red painted lip.
"𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚"
He purred, making you pause you blinked up at him for a long moment, your brows pulling together and you open your mouth
"𝑊ℎ𝑎-"
"𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚"
it interjects and states more clearly. Now I was really confused, I pulled away to turn and face you. Something must be wrong, he must have some kind of weird plan to use me or worse. Pennywise seems to notice my hesitant and suspicious expression.
"𝑰 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒕"
It whispered deathly low, but somehow I believe him, maybe it's because he's usually very mocking and giggily when speaking, but there is no trace of that in his voice
hi!! my idea for the pennywise fic is where the reader is essentially derry’s #1 scapegoat and thus gets targeted frequently by bullies. one day while running away from the bullies, she rubs into pennnywise, but convinces him not to eat her by promising to bring him more targets (her bullies). as she concocts plans to lure them to pennywise, he gets to have some fun by teasing and frightening her for her amusement, and over time gets more and more fond and attracted to her. eventually, after all the reader’s bullies have been eaten, they’re essentially lovers, but one day while pennywise is a little more aggressive with his affections, he underestimates his strength and kills her on accident. to remember her and kinda “honor” her in his own way, he ditches the clown form to take her image and continues to rule derry using her face. please feel free to ignore this if you’re not interested, and if you are, please feel free to change anything you want!
I did this one! Linked below :)
Sacrament Is You (Pennywise x Reader)
Summary: Ducking into the sewer is never a great idea in Derry, but there’s a gang of nasty boys hot on your heels and you decide to take your chances. Running into the monstrous entity that haunts the town is less than ideal, until you discover it’s thirst for flesh mirrors your lust for revenge. If only you can keep it’s appetite from swallowing you whole.
Summary: Ducking into the sewer is never a great idea in Derry, but there’s a gang of nasty boys hot on your heels and you decide to take your chances. Running into the monstrous entity that haunts the town is less than ideal, until you discover it’s thirst for flesh mirrors your lust for revenge. If only you can keep it’s appetite from swallowing you whole.
Words: 5332
Warnings: NSFW, lots of gore, dub-con, vaginal fingering, loss of virginity, oral sex f!receiving, PiV sex but Pennywise doesn’t have a cock, exactly… you know what this is.
A/N: OKAY so this was a request, but the request gave the whole plot so I’m giving the fic its own post and will answer the ask with a link. Hope you like it!
MDNI, fic under the cut
Your head snaps forward at the feeling of a dense clod of earth ricocheting off your skull. You blink through the blinding pain, not daring to turn your head for fear that the next clod would blind you. You swipe a hand over the back of your head, your fingers coming away wet and crimson. Rocks. There are rocks in the earth. Those bastards are trying to kill you this time.
“Here, little freak!” Someone shouts. You think you recognise the voice, the nasally, mean quality of it. Maxwell St James, which means-
“You think you can outrun us?” Theo Mitchell, and Zachary Benton will be right behind them. Max and his boys had been tormenting you for almost a year now. It had started with names hissed at you in the school corridors. Freak. Loser. Loner. You’d ignored them all, held your head high like your momma taught you and pretended not to hear. It’s not like they were the only ones who’d decided you were less-than, anyway. Since your arrival in Derry, a target had been painted on your back by the unmistakable quality of otherness that followed strangers in a small town.
When the whispering hadn’t worked, the names had changed. Bitch. Cunt. Whore. An interesting development, considering you’d never even been kissed and nobody in Derry seemed open to changing that.
You’d ignored them still, kept your nose in a book and your head in the clouds. This had enraged Maxwell and his cronies, sent them spiralling into a feral tantrum that had resulted in your first ever broken bone. Because he’d split from the group, followed you home. He’d pinned you against a wall and bent your arm back so far the bones in your wrist had splintered. You hadn’t cried. Hadn’t made so much as a sound, but the moment he released your wrist you ran, and ran, and ran.
After that, the names changed again. Slut. Psycho. Murderer. Because a five year old girl on your street had disappeared, and the only thing new in Derry was you. Dumb, scared people don’t need much to put two and two together to get five. With this new branding, you’d become a pariah. A punching bag. A scapegoat for every shitty thing that happened in Derry. And a lot of shitty things happened in Derry.
Kids went missing all the time. All through the fall, disappearing from playgrounds and street corners. Snatched in the Barrens. Seen climbing into storm drains and then never seen again. You kept your wrist cradled to your body and your head down after that.
But the pain now radiating through your skull is something different. There’s blood pouring down your back, soaking into the fabric of your shirt, and you hear a voice that is yours and not yours whisper into your head. They are going to kill you. They’re going to kill you if you don’t get underground.
There’s a culvert up ahead, the bars buckled outward from years of rust and neglect, and you don’t let yourself think about it too much before you pull the bars apart. They give with a little creak, widening the gap just enough for you to squeeze through. You scramble inside, trying not to feel the soak of the sewer on your knees as you crawl into the rotten open maw.
“Where the fuck did she go?” Theo yells, stopping just inches from the bars.
“You lost her?” Maxwell hisses. You can hear the labored pants of his breathing, and you press your lips together to stifle a whimper.
“I think she went in there.” Theo says, tapping the rusted bar with his knuckles.
“We goin in after her, Max?” Zachary asks.
Max huffs. “No. If she’s gone in there she’s a good as dead. It’ll get her.”
You swallow thickly, a chill running down your spine.
“Yeah,” Theo chuckles darkly. “It’ll eat her right up.”
“Nasty little whore.” Zachary adds.
You listen to the retreating of their footsteps and feel your heartrate slow with every passing second.
“Nasty little whore,” the darkness whispers behind you.
You yelp, your heart leaping into your throat as you lurch towards the bars. You wrap your fingers around the rusted iron, yanking hard, but the give that had existed moments before is gone now. The iron holds as firm as if it were brand new, and you tug uselessly, desperately as the darkness closes in behind you.
“Nasty little whore,” it whispers again, the words a caress against the back of your neck. “Nasty little boys.” You feel phantom fingers in your hair, and you whimper. “Yesssss,” the darkness hisses, and the phantom touch solidifies, wrapping in your hair and pulling you back into the shadows.
You scream then, a high-pitched, awful sound ripping from your throat. Your mouth is filled with cotton, wriggling, thick fabric pressing against your tongue and down your throat, and you’re spun and pinned to the filthy sewer wall. The wound on your head jars against the brick, momentarily dazing you, and you blink up at the impossible figure of a seven-foot clown. You should be scared. You know that, as you look at Its inhuman yellow eyes and Its too-wide mouth. But your brain can’t catch up with what you’re seeing, and the fear doesn’t come.
“Clown.” You mumble.
The clown tilts Its head to the side. “Whore.”
You shake your head, the bloody pulp of your hair matting against the wall. “I’m not a whore.”
The clown grins, lips splitting into a grotesque mockery of a smile. “And I am not a clown.”
“You’re going to kill me.” The words come out a little muffled, like you’re listening to your own voice through water.
“I’m going to eat you.” It whispers, leaning close. You can smell it on Its breath – decay, death and the rust of blood.
“Alright, then.”
The clown blinks. “Alright, then,” It repeats. “Aren’t you scared?”
You hum, eyes drooping. You feel warm all over, and you barely notice the gloved hand slipping around your throat and tipping your head forward. You do feel the sharp, bright pain as It prods Its fingers against the wound on your skull. You cry out, and the clown does it again, dragging Its long finger against the break in your flesh. “Oho,” It chuckles. “Close to dead. No fun. Nasty little boys.”
“Maxwell St James,” you hiss between gritted teeth. “Theo Mitchell, Zachary Benton. The nasty little boys.” The fingers caressing your head wound drop away, and you lift your head to watch the clown suck the bloodstained tips into Its mouth.
“Names. Power in names.” It licks over his lips.
“They hate me.” You swallow, forcing yourself to meet Its unsettling stare. One of Its eyes seems to drift to the side, like It can’t remember It’s supposed to be pretending to be human, and you shiver. “If you’re still… hungry. After you kill me.”
The clown dips Its head, coming so close you can feel Its breath on your mouth. “Oho,” It says again, softly. “They don’t hate you. They fear you, little whore.”
Pennywise has never been so interested in a person before. The defiant set of your jaw, the scent of your fear. The way you look at It, right at It, even as you shake with fear. Drool spills openly from the corners of Its mouth, pooling on the floor between you. Oh, to taste. To savor. To devour all that delicious fear. But the names ring out, tasting all the sweeter for the vitriol with which you utter them. The only thing tastier than fear. The conscious act of hatred.
“I want them all dead.”
Pennywise tilts Its inhuman head to the side, face bobbing on a neck like an enormous grotesque spring. “Would you kill them? Reap them?”
You swallow, raking your eyes over every awful inch of It. “No. But I would bring them to you. Offer them to you.”
“If Pennywise lets you live,” It rasps.
“Pennywise.” You repeat the name, and the clown smiles. It likes the sound of it in your mouth. Likes the roll of the syllables on your tongue. “If you let me live, I’ll bring them to you. All of them. The boys. The others.”
“Others.” It hisses.
“As many as you’d like.” You say softly. And then you lift your hand, a calculated, stupid decision. Your palm makes contact with the side of the clown’s face, the powdery greasepaint masquerading as skin flaking off in your hand. You don’t wince, don’t pull away. And when the clown doesn’t immediately bite your hand off, you lift your other hand to mirror the first, holding Its face steady. “You are feared, and so am I. Let me help you give them something to really be scared of.”
Pennywise does not need help hunting Its prey. Never has, not in a million years. But there is something so appealing, something so other about you. Pennywise wants to see what it looks like, to have you serve It. To have a creature worship It, to offer sacrifice in reverence of Its power. “You will bring the children to me.” It whispers, turning Its head to lick a salty stripe from your palm. “And you will watch as I consume them.”
You swallow, feeling a strange heat kindling low in your stomach at the wet press of Its tongue. “You want me to watch?”
Pennywise hums, rising to Its full height and pulling easily out of your grasp. “You must, you must.” It says softly, bloodstained, gloved fingers caressing over your nose and lips in a careless gesture. “Pennywise will see your insides. See how deep the rot goes, little whore.”
*
The funny thing about boys who pick on girls and call them whores is that they’re usually all too willing to follow them down dark alleyways if they think they’re gunna get their cocks sucked. Zachary Benton breathes heavily at your back, his hand wandering down to brush against your ass as you lead him deeper into the crack between two buildings on main.
“You better not fucking tell anyone about this.” He spits, even as his fingers push up under your skirt to press your underwear into the crack of your ass.
“Our secret.” You lean against the wall, crooking a finger at him, and Zachary steps closer, tongue licking over his lips as he rakes his eyes down your body. The uniform of seduction – a tight, white tee-shirt and a little black skirt with knee-high socks. Disarming. Cute.
“Dirty little secret,” comes a hiss from the darkness, and Zachary spins in time to see the clown materialize from the shadows, stepping into the light with monstrous height and spindly arms like an enormous spider. One gloved hand, the cotton pristine and white, wraps around the boy’s throat. His eyes bulge before rolling towards you, like you might help. Like you might scream, or run, or do something other than standing there watching the clown as It opens a too-wide mouth on a thousand needle teeth and latches onto Zachary’s face with a meaty squelch.
“Oh,” you mumble, blinking through a fine mist of blood as the boys features disappear into the saw-toothed tunnel where the clown-face used to be. You didn’t expect to feel bad about it, but you certainly didn’t expect to feel good, either. But the rush of adrenaline spiking through your system manifests in a low, deep throbbing, your core pulsing as your clit swells, and you press your thighs together.
Pennywise shoves the corpse of the boy into the darkness, squirrelling it away for later consumption as It turns Its attention to you. “How did he taste?” Your voice doesn’t shake, and Pennywise smiles a slow, lazy grin that’s too wide at the corners.
“Fear.” It says softly. “And more.”
You press your thighs together more firmly, squeezing your clit under the hard pressure. “More?”
Pennywise steps closer, too tall, movements jerky as It sinks low. Not kneeling, just… sinking. “He wanted you. Wanted to put his nasty little cock inside you.”
You feel blood heat your face, and Pennywise drops his wandering eyes to your skirt. “Wanted to push his way in. In there.”
You don’t know why you do it. Why your fingers curl around the hem of your skirt and lift it. Why you let the monster with a million teeth press Its face against the soaked front of your underwear and inhale. Why your clit throbs and you soak fresh arousal at the feeling of Its slippery, wet tongue lapping over the fabric.
Pennywise makes a sound, a low, rumbling creak from deep inside Its chest. “Another, little one. Bring me another one, and we will see how you taste.”
*
It isn’t lust that motivates you, obviously. Not lust for the strange entity with the clown face. It’s a desire for revenge, when you’re yanked from the school halls by your hair and dragged kicking into the bathroom. When your head is forced into a shit-stained toilet, and you choke and gag on the putrid water as Katherine Masters and Matilda Lowther hold you down, shrieking with laughter. “This is for Zacky, you little freak!” Sarah Clarkson, the ringleader of the bitchiest clique in school hisses into your ear as you lay on the porcelain, shivering and retching putrid water. “Everybody knows you killed him.” You don’t bother to correct her. You just stare, mapping their faces into your mind and adding their names to your list.
Pennywise likes the girls. There’s more fear. Sarah pisses herself, hot liquid running down the inside of her leg as Pennywise sucks her fingers into Its mouth and bites down. It drops her, legs folding like she’s made of rubber, and turns Its attention to you. “I can smell you,” It sings, blood oozing from Its parted lips. Sarah moves then, crawling forward with her remaining hand, nails splintering against the concrete as she tries to drag herself towards the exit. But there’s nobody around, it’s long past midnight in the parking garage and the people of Derry know better than to go poking around in the dark. Even if they don’t know that they know.
You lift your foot and stamp it down on her hand, sending her sprawling as she wails in anguish. “I am a freak,” you whisper, crunching the delicate bones of her fingers under the sole of your boot. “But I have a friend.”
Pennywise feels a strange, wriggling heat in Its core, and It bristles. “Friend.” It spits, wrapping a gloved hand in your hair and pushing you to your knees. You yelp as you’re forced onto your knees and then lower, belly pressed to the concrete beside the offering you’d brought It. “No friend.”
It rips your underwear aside, pushing two rough, cotton-clad fingers into you, and your spine arches at the awful sensation of it. Pennywise feels the rip, the tearing of something soft and fleshy inside you as It pushes deeper, and the warmth in Its core throbs. “Oho,” it chortles softly. “Oh, how you bend for Pennywise. How you…” It twists, stretching Its fingers wide, “Break.”
You can do little more than press your face against the floor to stifle a scream as It fucks you roughly on Its fingers. Your blood stains Its glove, and It scents the air low and close to you. “Please,” you gasp, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as it curls and twists and rips you open.
You meet Sarah’s eyes, the awful realization that your position is hardly better than hers. Pennywise might not kill you today, but It could. It could anytime. “All for Pennywise,” It purrs, dropping over you and pressing Its massless weight against your back. You feel the rough drag of Its tongue over the side of your face, and you clench hard around Its fingers. “Nasty little whore,” It coos. Your body shudders through the mimic of an orgasm, clit pulsing without any real pleasure as the rough stimulation inside you comes to an end.
You drop boneless to the ground, cheek pressed to the cool concrete as Pennywise climbs over you and sets upon Its prey, breaking the girl into pieces as she screams and screams.
You bring It another girl next. Your insides hurt, and there’s blood when you pee. You don’t want to upset It again, if that’s what you did. So you bring It another girl, luring her into the sewer directly on the promise of a clue.
“You sure you saw her down here?” Katherine asks, eyes scanning the filthy walls.
“For sure. She looked… panicked. Like maybe she fell in? I don’t know. She ran from me, but she’ll probably come out for you.”
“Sarah?” Katherine calls, her voice betraying her fear. “You down here, honey?”
Her voice comes from somewhere deep, deep in the shadows. “Oh, honey.”
You can hear the edge to it, the edge of It, and you shiver as you follow the girl into the darkness.
“You’ve been gone days,” Katherine says. “Can’t believe this freak found you after-“
You shove her. You watch your hands do it, watch her go sprawling in the filthy water. She thrashes, turning over to stare at you with wide, disbelieving eyes. “What the fuck are you doing? Sarah she’s nuts, she-“
You drop to your knees, straddling the girl’s hips as you push her down. Her face disappears beneath the murky water, air bubbling up with a gurgle as she struggles against your hold.
“Oho,” Sarah’s voice slips out of the gloom. “Oho, little one has found her teeth.”
You don’t spare It a glance as you hold her down. “Can I?”
Pennywise giggles, a sound like tinkling bells. “No, no. Mine to take. All for Pennywise.”
You release your hands, climbing off the girl as her face resurfaces with a hacking gasp. “You absolute cunt!” She shrieks. “We’ll fucking kill you for this, you-“
Katherine cuts herself off, eyes travelling up the impossibly long legs in the silvery clown pants beside you. “Oh God. Oh my God.”
Pennywise leers, reaching for her. “Not your God. Hers.”
Katherine doesn’t scream. She doesn’t get the chance to scream, as Pennywise opens Its mouth wide, wide, wider. His face parts, rows of teeth shuddering open to reveal a flickering mass of light within. You’d never imagined that the inside of this creature could be beautiful, but it is. The girl goes limp in Its arms, eyes glazing over like a corpse, and Pennywise drops her to the ground like a ragdoll.
“She’s dead?”
Its face snaps back into place as It turns to look at you. “No,” Pennywise hums. “She is for later.”
You frown, swallowing around a sudden unpleasant churning of nausea. “You’re not hungry?”
Pennywise chuckles, the sound low and full of gravel. “Oho. Pennywise is hungry. Oh, yes.”
It reaches for you and you go, letting yourself be lifted easily into Its arms as It pins your back to the slick wall and tears your jeans and panties from you with a flick of Its wrist. You gasp at the dank, frigid air against your core, the sound morphing into a sob as Pennywise licks a long, slow trail from your hole up to your clit and back down again. “Oh, God.”
Pennywise laughs lightly, the sound vibrating against you as It grazes Its teeth against your clit. “Yesssss, little one. Your God. You give it to Pennywise. You give everything.”
You groan, legs shaking as It devours your core. You keep tensing, expecting the bite, the end of this game, but it doesn’t come. Pennywise eats you messily, spit sliding down your thighs and dripping into the stagnant sewer water where Katherine’s body still floats. “I’ll bring you more,” you whine. “Every last one of them.”
Pennywise dips lower, Its tongue thickening to push into your hole and writhe against the still-healing contusions on your cervix. Your clit throbs against Its nose, the sharp, red stained nub of it grazing deliciously against the sensitive bud, and your eyes roll back. “So many names. So many pieces of… shitttt,” you whine as you cum, thighs quivering around Its face as your hands fly to the tufty orange hair on Its head and tug.
Pennywise likes that, the taste of you filling Its mouth whilst your fingers pry a tiny jolt of sensation from It. Not enough to hurt, no. Impossible that you’d even consider it. But to be rough, to be possessive. That was worship. That was devotion. Pennywise laps every last drop of your release from you, tongue curling around your clit and squeezing hard enough to make you cry out before It withdraws, lowering you to the ground as gently as It can.
“You want to hurt them.” It says quietly, yellow eyes scanning you as you struggle for breath.
“Yes.”
Pennywise leans in, lips brushing yours in an almost-kiss. “Bring me a boy. Bring me one of the nasty little boys.”
Theo is smarter than Zachary had been. He isn’t interested in fucking you, and somebody had apparently seen you leading Katherine out to the barrens, so he’s not going to follow you anywhere. You have to follow him, stalking him through the streets of Derry until he finally turns to cut through the park. That’s where you get to him, throwing a rock hard enough to knock him to the ground and then hitting him again, smashing the stone into his temple until his eyes unfocus and close.
You can’t drag him out of sight, he’s got a hundred pounds on you at least. So you dip your fingers into the blood soaking his hair, smearing it into the earth and praying It will sense you.
“Bad night to be out,” a man says from behind you, and you shriek as you scuttle away from the body.
“He fell.”
The man chuckles, the sound disconcertingly familiar as he steps forward. He is It, and he is not. There’s no makeup painting his face, but the features remain the same. Too wide mouth, wandering eyes. Sharp, otherworldly features and a forehead that extends too far.
“You couldn’t wait? Eager, greedy little thing.” There’s a strange twang to his voice, an accent you can’t place.
“Who are you?”
The man cocks his head to the side.
“I mean, I know. But whose face is that?”
The man clucks his tongue. “Sharp. Smart. I stole this face a long time ago. Doesn’t matter. I can change it.”
“Don’t,” you say quickly, too quickly. “Or… I mean, I’d prefer you. The clown.”
The man’s grin splits, and he lifts his hands to claw at his face. The flesh comes away in ribbons, revealing cracked greasepaint beneath.
The man with the clown peeking through his face hauls Theo’s unconscious body over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, and your clit throbs. You walk in awkward silence, unsure where the boundaries are with this new man-version of It. You can’t possibly be expected to chat, the very notion sends a bubble of hysterical laughter to pool in your throat.
You’re saved from the dilemma the moment you step into the mouth of the sewer, and the edges of the man seem to shimmer and shake before refocusing. Pennywise is Pennywise again, taller and larger and wrapped in silver silk as he drops Theo to the ground.
“You hate him.” Pennywise whispers, lifting a gloved hand to your chin and pinching, forcing your face down to look at the body of the boy. “If we give him to you… how will you repay us? Will you kneel for Pennywise? Will you open?” You swallow thickly, reaching down to grab Theo's arm and lifting it as high as you can. “I would offer him to you. All to you.”
Pennywise feels a thrill run through Its very being. The deadlights at the center of Its universe shudder with the declaration as It dips Its head and bites clean through the boy’s fingers.
His eyes fly open, mouth opening around a scream as he thrashes in the water.
You’re not strong enough to hold him down, but Pennywise stamps harshly on his spine and there’s a gruesome pop before his limbs go slack again. Paralysed, but very much still alive. Oh, very much so. He screams, eyes wild as they fix on you.
“Please! Please, I didn’t mean it! Don’t let that thing kill me. Don’t let It-“
“I won’t,” you coo, crouching down to cup his face and rub the pads of your thumbs over his cheeks. “It won’t kill you.”
Theo moans, the pulsing heat in the stumps of his fingers burning down his arm. “No,” you coo. “It won’t kill you. It will eat you.”
The boy’s eyes go wide as you drop his face and drag his other hand up to the clown’s lips.
“You want to kill him.” Pennywise says softly, tongue licking out at the sweaty, shaking fingers against Its mouth.
“He’s yours. They’re all yours. All for you.” You mumble.
Pennywise makes a low, rumbling sound deep within Its core, and your clit throbs in response. “You would feed this boy to Pennywise. You would sacrifice every bite.”
You don’t even have to think about it. You press the fingers firmly against Its mouth, and Pennywise bites down. His yellow eyes fix on you, even as blood splashes down onto your hand and Theo screams. “Every bite of him. Every bit of me.”
The hunger, the other hunger seizes Pennywise with such a frenzy It forgets all about the dying boy. It stamps over the body and seizes you, pressing you back to the wall and pushing gloved fingers up under your skirt to graze through your slick core. “Of you.” Pennywise whispers, tongue unfurling to lick over the seam of your lips. “Oh yes. All for Pennywise.”
Being taken by Pennywise isn’t really like fucking. It doesn’t have a little pink cock, a soft length with downy hair and a salty tip. You know it could, if It wanted to. If you wanted It to. But you don’t. You want It exactly as It is. The thick, pale appendages wrap around your thighs, parting them as Its hands pin your wrists above your head. “I can smell you.” It whispers. “I can taste your fear.”
You sob, sucking in a shaking breath as It pushes inside of you. The thick, pulsing length wriggles like a living thing, caressing against your walls and finding the sensitive spongey flesh that makes your eyes roll back. “Take it. You can…” you whimper. “You can take it all.”
Pennywise chuckles, Its fingers tightening on your wrists as It leans forward to press Its painted mouth against yours. “Taste them.” It whispers against your lips. “Theo Mitchell. Nasty little boy. Taste, precious one.”
You lick your tongue against Its mouth, the iron and rust of blood coating your lips with gore, and you clench hard around the intrusion of It thrusting in and out of you.
“Oho,” Pennywise chortles. “Oho, you like it. Good. Good.”
You moan, reaching out to thumb over Its jaw, and Pennywise stills for a moment.
You cry out, hand snapping back and reaching for your own wrists where It has pinned them over your head as blood runs down your arms. Pennywise withdraws the claws that have punctured your wrist, leaning up to lap the blood from your skin. “Too close,” you whisper, a reminder to yourself more than It. Pennywise couldn’t reciprocate affection, and It would punish you for reminding It so brazenly. You clench around It again in apology, rocking back and forth against the thrusting appendage pummelling against your insides.
“More?” It whispers, slipping a thin tentacle from the bell-sleeve at Its wrist to curl around your thigh, wriggling into you beside the thicker appendage. Your eyes roll back as your mouth opens on a silent scream, and Pennywise leans forward to lick Its tongue into your mouth and taste your blissed-out agony. Deeper, deeper. It bends over you, hinging at the waist and burrowing deeper into your mouth, nipping at the meat of your cheeks until your blood leaks into Its mouth and runs down your throat. Your spine curves, curves, creaks and curves as It presses you into a new shape, a shape just for It. The hand wrapped around your throat tightens, pinning you in place as It pushes Its tongue into your throat and further, further, to lick the electric thrum of your lungs. Bliss, bliss. Agony and bliss. Pennywise has never felt, It has never experienced a closeness like it. The urge to consume is replaced with the urge to combine, to become. To draw you inside of Itself, to keep you…
There is a snap. Pennywise knows the sound, has heard the sound pounding through Its fibres like a mimicry of a heartbeat since Its first taste of flesh and sinew and bone. The sharp, clear crack of bone breaking under pressure. It releases you, long fingers unfurling around the column of your neck to reveal the mottling of bruises spreading beneath your flesh like spiderwebs.
“No.” It utters the single syllable into the darkness. You’re limp and lifeless, a protrusion of bone jutting luridly against your throat. “No, no.”
It shakes you, and you rattle back and forth, that displaced bone poking into the meat of you and sliding free. Pennywise caresses the jagged edge with a finger, pushing it lightly until it buckles and slips back into your skin. “Pennywise doesn’t want to play now.”
Its voice dips an octave, the underlying growl of the Otherness weaving into Its words. “Enough, enough. Don’t make me punish you. Don’t make me bite.”
This should do it. You should open your eyes. Should pout your mouth at It, lick over the red of your lips and tell It you’re sorry. Show It you’re sorry, spreading your thighs to let It feast on you. But you don’t move. Not so much as a tremor.
“Come back, little one.” It murmurs, stained, gloved fingers brushing over your unseeing eyes. “Come back to Pennywise.”
Your eyes roll when your head is tipped forward, but you don’t look. You don’t see. And Pennywise tries to go back. Tries to slip from this place to that, from now to then. It knows that the fabric of time works differently for It than it does for you, but It calls to you anyway. Pennywise drops to Its knees, the silk of Its pants soaking in the filth of the low basin as It wraps an arm around your shoulders. Your head lolls back, loose as a ragdoll, but It feels no sense of pleasure in the pliancy of your body. You are gone. Your light is gone.
And perhaps there is no back, but It can keep you anyway. Lifted in Its lights, cradled above the rest. And when It emerges from the storm drain to take, it wears your face. Not your whole face, but your eyes or the soft line of your jaw or the mocking curve of your smirk. Just enough to keep your face in their minds, to keep your name whispered in the ghost stories around campfires each night as the teens of Derry gather to drink and fuck and pretend they’re not being hunted. But they are, oh they are.
Peter. James. Michael. Anna. Susie. Matilda. Maxwell, Maxwell, Maxwell. You whisper these names into Its head even now, even when you’re little more than bones resting in the bottom of Its nest. The cycle is almost over, it’s almost time to curl back into Its nest and hold the bones of your ribs close as It sleeps. But Pennywise will not go until It has taken every name on your list. It is the closest thing to devotion that It is capable of.
