#fnsksjfbw i cant stop thinking about his ruined fucking face

[cum-a-calla]

Prompt for 2017 pennywise in the rain? Pretty please?

(the prompt sort of took me on an adventure, thank you, thank you so much darlin.)

In the steady downpour, the midway is a treat. There are barely lines, and most of them are for the thrill rides, the rollercoasters. In the interesting little booths, with sly people wearing sly smiles as you walk past, you feel the most excitement. The air is thick with grease and sweet, damp straw, cotton candy and cigarette smoke. It filters through the rain and makes you dizzy, a scent transcending time. 

It's a carnival, and a big one. Tents are set up beyond the games and stands, showcasing all manner of treats and salves and costume jewelry, toys and curio. A woman goes by on a unicycle, baton in hand, and winks at you as you pass. A few men on horseback smile, having seen the exchange, and tip their hats at you as a gesture of luck, should you pursue. The nip of the breeze gives you an excuse for the flush on your cheeks, up your throat.

"Flowers for you, pretty thing."

Before there's a face to the voice, there are long, graceful fingers wrapped around a small assortment of wildflowers. The man holding them to you is long, towering over you with a polite smile. He has eyes bright as the summer sky, clear but for the barest glint of mischief. Full lips perk into a smile and he runs a hand through soaked, dark hair, glossy in the rainwater.

"Thank you!"

"Would you mind?" He steps back and, in a flourish, a small deck of cards is produced from his sleeve, spilling into the cage of his fingers smooth as silk. He shuffles them a few times, taps the top of the deck with his knuckle. 

You pull the top card and laugh at his wild-eyed expression at the reveal, his showmanship charming, disarming. 

"The fool," he intones with a wink. "You make us all fools with a face like that, tiny thing, now, don't you?"

The rain pours over the both of you and soaks his thin shirt, beads over his knuckles and drips off the tip of his nose. His bottom lip catches between his teeth, just for a moment, and they're sharp. 

"I... thank you," you breathe.

"Could eat you right up," he continues, voice wavering a little as he steps even closer. The midway is quiet. The bustling sounds around you seem distant, they seem gone, as if every carnival-goer and every employee has hushed into silence for the two of you. "I could. I could swallow you, and I bet... oh, I bet you taste as good as you look."

The rain tracks over his face, and it... drips. The color melts away, stains into the dirty white of his shirt. He wipes at his forehead and underneath, the skin cracks and pales. The flowers in your hand are brittle, dried and long past dead. They crumble as your fingers shake. 

"You're makin' me a fool," he giggles. That giggle drags on, deep, resonating in your ribcage as it bubbles up his throat. “Can I taste you? Will you let an old fool taste you?”

No.

“Yes, please.” The words come and so do his hands, huge on your hips. They pull you into a tent, a huge, empty tent that seems bigger on the inside than it really is from the outside. In the center, there’s a stage. It’s scuffed and stained, red so ingrained into the surface that it makes you afraid, unease pulsing through your head until it’s hard to hear past the blood rushing in your ears.

His ruined face grins up at you with cannibal teeth, with tufts of his slick, dark hair bursting orange. He barely looks human. His eyes roll back and they’re red, they’re glassy and bleeding and while you stare into those sunbursts of delicate veins and capillaries, he rips your jeans down your hips. He doesn’t bother with the button, opting instead to yank like an animal until they’re flung across the floor.

Empty risers stare down at you, seats without bodies, no audience but the firm tap of rain hitting the circus tent, and this man, this thing, spreads your legs open on the edge of the stage.

“Soft. Always so soft, pink and plush and wet.” He stares so intently at you that you have to look away, stare up at the makeshift ceiling. He kisses you at the apex of your cunt, open-mouthed, so tenderly that it steals a moan from your throat. He hums and laughs so low that you can feel it inside of your body more than you can hear it.

A soft kiss turns into more, and the sounds his tongue make as he laps at your cunt are obscene. It fills the entire stand, makes you squirm against his grip, but he is immovable. He’s ravenous. He eats your pussy and moans as though he’s never had the pleasure, like he can’t get enough of the taste of your flesh, and for a delirious moment in the throbbing fog of your mind, you wonder if he might not eat you whole after all. Unhinge his jaws, that ruined face splitting down the sides of his generous cheekbones, lips stretched thin and taut and ripping apart to allow him to yank you into the tight confines of his throat. The sensation crawls up your legs and thighs as though your thoughts bleed into the atmosphere, the feeling of slippery, clenching muscle taking you deeper and deeper and deeper –

Back to whatever layer of reality your current situation is, the clown’s teeth elongate, brushing the tender little folds of flesh. It’s not wholly unwelcome; the little nips, the little hint of sting and sharpness is a welcome rush of adrenaline to match your morbid fantasy of being half-swallowed by It. It.

Release comes swiftly, a knot that comes undone with such violence that you have to bite the fleshy pad of your thumb to silence yourself. Long fingers pump into your cunt, spurred by your bucking and writhing and whimpering, your teeth digging into your own flesh until you can feel tendon straining underneath the skin. The clown laughs breathlessly as he works at you, tongue and lips and fingertips, buried between your thighs, and all you can do is knot your fingers into the coarse orange hair that has no trace of brown, rooted in flesh that isn’t a real color. It’s beyond white, it’s a bright void in which the shade just won’t settle in your vision. Nonflesh.

Lying back on the stage, you watch him rise at the edge of your field of vision. He wipes his mouth and you’re too afraid to look. What if he’s still melting, your cum shining on his chin along with his own skin, his blood and tears and sweat, what if those ragged gashes are still decorating what’s left of his face? What if he’s ghoulish and rotten?

He leans over to offer his hand, crisp white and cleanly gloved.

Brown hair, full lips, a scar on his cheek so light it may be imagined. His cheeks are flushed underneath bright blue eyes, only a hint of the form you saw before. He smirks and winks as he pulls you up, helping you to grab your pants and turning politely away so you can redress.

He escorts you to a flap in the tent with his hand on the low of your back, towering over you, and before you can wander away, he takes your shoulder. His grip is iron, and then… it isn’t. He’s soft, sweet, handsome. Underneath, something screams at you to leave, that you got lucky, that he may not keep a mind to let you go so easy.

“Hey,” he whispers, opening your palm as if to read it. With his other hand, he reaches behind your head and snaps his fingers. The sound is like a gunshot, and the way you jump makes him laugh. From behind your hair, he pulls around a white ribbon with a bright red balloon at the end. He presses the ribbon into your palm and closes your fingers around it. When he winks at you again, one of his eyes strays, pulsing that horrible gold-orange, and you take a few steps back. “Come on back to the circus, now, you hear?”

“’Scuse me?" Somebody behind you startles you again, yanking your attention away from the balloon and the man so you're circling around to face somebody new. "Hey – hey, you’re not allowed to be around here, we’re closing up. How’d we miss ya back here?”

A man in a cheap uniform approaches you, looking a little confused, umbrella in hand.

“Oh… oh, I must’ve… lost track of time. The clown, and all,” you mutter, waving your hand behind you. “Got a little turned around, he took me into the tent for a… a magic trick.”

“Yeah, don’t know about that. No clowns for years; it’s bad for business. Nobody likes clowns much these days. This tent’s under construction, it’s a hazard – see the signs? The tape? You best follow me outta here, it's not safe back here."

It’s almost tempting to take his words at face value and blindly follow him as he turns around to guide you, speaking into a walkie and waving across the fields at a couple other employees doing the rounds. Almost.

Behind you, the tent is damaged. Tape surrounds the perimeter and closes off the entrances, huge, gaping holes in the top causing much of the structure to collapse and leak and mold. 

The man – the clown – is gone.