#i love silas honestly i took some liberties maybe but thank you overall for letting me play with him

[cum-a-calla]

this one's a doozy :))) commission for a cannibal lover. thank you so much for letting me take my time with this one

inside: cannibalism, dismemberment, implied death threats, knotting, fearplay, bloodplay, licking, pain, biting, too many teeth, and a some body horror

..

Work must be done.

Silas drives through the quiet, dark night. No stars – full dark. It brings a familiar thought loop to the forefront of his mind, occupying him through the same tired route he drives all too often now, cruising through the quaint neighborhoods of Derry. It’s so white-picket-fence, so stuck in a period long gone. Frozen in time. It feels slower inside the city limits, like the place is oozing along out of some strange spite. Refusing to die, refusing to acclimate to… what? To time, to reality?

[[MORE]]

And this is Silas’ reality. He glances furtively in the corn fields, knowing he won’t see anything worse than where he’s headed – namely, who he’s off to meet. Something kind of like him, something rotten, a thing that makes its way furtively into the night to hunt, to eat. It’s a lonely business, the feeding; Silas tightens his grip on the steering wheel and swallows past the throbbing lump in his throat, exhilarated and scared absolutely shitless.

The turn on to Neibolt Street is like looking down the barrel of a gun. He pulls up to the old house, the eyesore of the town, and kills the engine. He lingers suspended between two worlds, like he won’t be able to budge from the front seat; it feels impossible, tethered between his hunger and his fear. Garbage bags wait quietly in the backseat, promising him everything he wants the most. Hunger always wins.

It takes three trips, but each run gets a little easier, a little more natural to traverse the decaying structure, to be a little less startled by things hiding in the corners. Sometimes he does that. Does it to test him, he assumes – strange faces behind doorways, running shadows. Garbled languages that make his ears burn. He avoids two Things this time, a slimy, creeping thing in the hallway that he has to steel himself for, staring straight ahead. It won’t hurt me. Just an extension of it. Just him, just a trick. The thing cackles at him in clicks, slithering around his ankles before bounding off in the opposite direction, limbs crackling.

“Pennywise?”

Silas’ voice echoes down by the mouth of the well. Peering down there offers nothing in the way of the clown’s location, and after a few moments of shifty waiting, he decides to begin opening the bags. The smell is strong. It hits him and he weathers the initial recoil, patient as his noses adjusts and his stomach aches for it. His heart beats a little faster, blood rushing through his veins hot as the twitch between his legs. It’s the headiest scent of all, the smell of somebody once they’ve been opened up. That deep, dark scent, the wildest game. Not so wild in several pieces. Not so wild at all.

Silas pulls limbs, innards, a torso. A badly damaged head and a head he’s been storing in a freezer, the body already used up and done away with. It still feels cold. Silas strokes the ratty, blood-crusted hair, the frozen lips. It almost feels sad to set it down, to complete the cycle of that relationship, knowing exactly what Pennywise is going to do to it. Fingers trembling, he removes his hands from the head, forces himself to pay special attention to the damaged one. The jawbone hangs by threads of mangled meat, fine chunks of bone stark in their whiteness. It was an accident. He doesn’t like to damage the heads too much; it feels… disrespectful. Not a true form. He runs the pad of his finger along the teeth, poking into several of the gaps.

He spreads things out in piles – things to be worked on, things that are easiest to prep for consumption. Things he keeps special for himself. There are parts he saves specifically for Pennywise, now, things he largely considers inconsumable – bones, gristle, parts with lots of fat or cartilage. Nothing he feels like wrapping up for home.

He rises up from the floor, already feeling those strong stirrings in his gut. The sensation of all that dull, chilled flesh under his hands makes him throb, and he steadies himself against the edge of the well on the way to grab his tools. They rest in their new home, in the relative safety of this cursed house, knives, cleavers, a hacksaw, clips. Scissors. Butcher paper, twine. A bevy of instruments dedicated to his desire, just as important as the people they part open for him. One big, warm, blissfully wet cycle. Ouroboros. He drags tools back to the parts arranged lovingly around the well, the thrill of his busy night flushing his cheeks.

It boils down to pure, naked effort and routine. There’s an art to it, a beauty in order, in realizing the big picture as well as the tiny parts that make it all up. There are sinews and curves and angles, tricks in which to properly trim the meat. Slowly, he builds stacks of cuts. There’s a pile of offal for the creature. He arranges it closest to the well, next to various other undesirable parts. It takes the better part of hours, takes diligence and every last nerve to survive the dimness, the anxiety of waiting, wondering.  

When Pennywise shows up, he peeks from over the edge. It startles Silas, rips a gasp from his lips as he locks eyes with it.

“Scared the fucking shit out of me,” he mutters. He stays silent, stays behind the lip of the well where he watches intently. Every single move Silas makes, he feels the weight of Pennywise’s gaze, the sheer focus laced with hunger. At least he’s not alone in this hellhole. At least the wait is over, the growing panic like fire licking up through his guts. The clown sits (floats. It floats) in the well and hums occasionally, as if in approval, in excitement. It awakens that spark again in Silas, heat prickling just under his skin. The combination of the heads, the loving way he handles each parcel of cold flesh, the blinkless gaze of a monster who allows him sanctuary, who wants to watch… it’s intoxicating. He draws a shaky breath and continues his task.  

Out from the well, one long, long arm reaches out. Fingers sprawl like a spider, huge, five pale legs skittering around until they close over a jawbone, the jawbone, barely attached to the rest of the head. The newest head. A pang of anger makes his throat close up – but not before a single, stern syllable leaves his lips.

“No.”

Silas licks his own fingers off and rolls that flavor around his tongue as Pennywise rises up like some demented god from the well. The glow of his eyes lights up the room, orange as a sunset in hell. Isn’t that where he is, anyway? Those eyes ground him as the creature towers, hulks over Silas’ seated form on the filthy ground. He snatches the head up, fingers hooked through the jaw, and unhinges his face until the flesh pulls back, tight and shiny and white as clay, and sinks his sharkteeth into the parietal and occipital lobes. Skull fragments shoot from his mouth like shrapnel and soft, pink, gelatinous meat dribbles down his face.

Pennywise grunts as he sends the remainder of the skull sailing to the ground, where it explodes. Flecks of gray-pink meat spray over Silas’ shirt, over the other cuts of meat, limbs ready to be stripped and treated with care. He bows low, nostrils flaring, nose crinkling into a snarl, and those teeth multiply by the second. They jut out of his face as he licks his lips, swallows.

The clown smiles, eyebrows lifting. He gives Silas a jaunty little shake, tiny bells jingling in the ruffles.

“Sorry, Silas, I don’t think I heard ya! Go on… say it again.”

Silas falters, mustering all his focus on keeping still as the creature looming over him comes close enough to rub noses, and he does. He nuzzles slowly into it like they’re lovers, and he clucks his tongue as Silas chokes on his own voice. No words come, and again the clown laughs.

“Oooohhh, sweet Silas, are you jealous?” It chuckles and Silas tastes the thing’s breath, rancid, spoilt over centuries. It’s intoxicating, it feels like tasting death itself, and Silas almost leans into it, curious about a flavor of death and decay he hasn’t tasted yet. “Don’t like me playing with your toys?”

“They’re not toys, they’re people.”

“Food.” He comes away from Silas with a grin. “Not people. Just meat. Do you like to fuck the meat, Silas? Do you love the meat?”

Silas reels, anger black as the night racing up the column of his spine, indignant, mingling with his fear like acid in the back of his throat. Cheeks burning, he takes a breath, tries to contain it before it gets him killed. Pennywise snatches the other head and Silas reaches out, tries to snatch it back.

Pennywise howls, keeping the body part easily out of his reach, like a child’s game. He runs his tongue over the face and sips Silas’ shaking rage like a cocktail.

“It’s not just meat, it’s – I don’t fucking know, just please… can you just –”

“– be nice?”

Silas huffs, up on his feet. Nothing can save him if Pennywise decides he’s being disobedient or meddlesome. He stands in the face of that knowledge, limbs seized by his immediate sense of danger, and he wonders faintly if this is it, if this is really fucking it, and buried underneath absolute existential dread is the disappointment that he didn’t get to truly taste his last victim.

Pennywise opens his mouth and his face comes apart. Bones crackle as they rearrange and grow new paths, marrow knitting itself over and over, teeth chittering into being, and he sends the entire head down into his glowing gullet. It’s like snakes eating eggs. The morbid lump travels down the throat, distending his flesh and bulging it through with veins, until it’s absorbed and crushed inside his ribcage, and finally those awful jaws come back together. It crunches, grinds against itself until he’s wearing that familiar, dripping sneer, face unbearably whole again. He comes so close, but this time he doesn’t bow. He’s solid, radiating heat and frothing pink-red at the mouth.

“Do you want me to be nice, Silas?” His voice comes, like the whisper of dry leaves on asphalt, like creaking hinges. His lips remain still. “Do you want me to be so nice?”

“Yeah…”

“Yeah? Want me to be as nice as you are with these… things?”

“They’re not things –”

“Do you like the feeling of them inside you?”

Silas can’t remember how to breathe. His lungs simply quit, too stunned, stomach lurching like he’s been punched. The clown giggles, dropping to its haunches and rocking on his feet. He clutches a fillet knife like it could ever harm the creature in front of him. His mouth works up and down several times before his brain sends the correct signals, misfire after misfire, and, finally, Silas utters a pained yes.

Pennywise pushes a long, gloved finger between Silas’ lips. The whine that surrounds that finger is enough to set his guts on fire, and there’s a shift in the light deep in those endless pits. The light back there dances. It’s calming, it makes his eyeballs tingle the longer he tries to find it in there, to see it a little more, see if it changes.

“You like them?”

“Yes…”

The fabric of the glove presses down on Silas’ tongue. Pennywise grasps him there, fingertip digging into the fleshy center, thumb up under the shelf of his jaw, and he tips Silas’ head back until his throat is vulnerable, a landscape waiting to be explored by teeth. No teeth come; instead, Pennywise leans in, nose tickling over his pulse, and inhales. He sniffs at Silas like an animal, like Silas is a meal, and the prospect is not only horrifying but irresistible. He all but leans into it.

“I like you, pretty boy. Like your scent. Like the stink of you here.”

The clown’s other hand cups Silas between the thighs, engorged cock trapped under his palm. The pressure is sharp, it makes Silas jump and whine.

“Oh, you like it? You want me inside of you, sweet boy? Are you hungry for me, too?”

Oh my god. That’s what he says, but it comes out garbled, clipped off, caught around Pennywise’s fingers. The clown titters and there’s a sound that makes Silas’ stomach clench and roil, a sound not unlike ripping meat. It’s wet and violent, and then there are teeth on his throat. They sink slowly, so slowly that he can hear the little pops as they break skin and razor under his flesh. They settle for barely a moment before there’s a sickening squelch and Pennywise rears back, licking the blood off his lips, and his brow knits together. He cocks his head and pouts, smiles, pouts again.

“Poor creature. I know it hurts, hurts so much. Heeere…”

Impossibly long, slithering over his throat until it wraps all the way around, Pennywise’s tongue drags over the wounds. It’s like a worm, like a writhing pink leech. It pulses and squeezes and soaks in his blood, the creature behind it moaning, eyes rolling wetly up into its skull. There are veins there, too, tiny spiderlike trails that thread his eyeballs as well as his thick tongue. It contracts around his neck until Silas is wheezing for air. The constriction sends a wave of electricity down between his legs, and he rocks into Pennywise’s outstretched palm like he’s offering himself, offering everything up, anything, just to keep feeling this.

His tongue slides back behind his teeth and Silas keeps rocking, burying his hands into the ruffles at the neck of the alien’s costume.

“I know what you need, Silas. I know you’re hungry.” He smooths his gloved hands away from where Silas is burning hot, digs his fingers into the fabric of his pants and RIPS. The force of it pushes him back, makes him prone below the towering clown. “So wet already. Messy, messy boy. Does it feel so good, taking apart your little friends, your meals? You want me to take you apart, S i l a s? Nice and slow, turn you inside out.”

“Fuck.” Silas allows the clown to spread his legs, push his thighs apart til they burn with effort, til he’s shaking, whimpering, arching up to try to catch Pennywise’s lips against his. He wants to taste his own blood, taste the fatal chasm of the monster’s mouth. “Please. I… I want that, all of that, anything…”

“Mmh, eager, aren’t you? Wanna be touched so bad. Wanna be fucked. Tell me. Tell me, brave little thing, tell me what you need.”

Silas begins to speak, but the words falter and tremble into more of those little, pitiful whines, watching Pennywise shift and change and buck his hips forward with an unmistakable bulge inside the pleats of his outfit. It throbs like a heartbeat, like Silas can somehow feel it inside his body, intimate as his own blood pressure. His body works overtime to get the blood anywhere but that engorged place between his legs, screaming for attention, slick and parted and exposing how swollen he is. Pennywise nudges with his fingers, teases. Nothing is enough.

“I didn’t hear that. Try again.”

Pennywise is less clown and more creature. He shreds his own costume, sheds it like a skin that’s grown too tight, too restrictive, and the scarred flesh around his ribcage ripples. It grows lumps, disgusting masses of flesh that squirm between muscle and bone until the structure is different. They split his skin and blood like tar pours from the open wounds, black and viscous, bones shredding through stark-white until there’s meat wrapping around them, lengthening, whipping mindlessly around until their form becomes clear. Rubbery flesh chases up the newly formed limbs, extra arms, fingers sprouting from the stumps of raw sinew until there are more hands to use, more fingers to dig into Silas’ yielding flesh. They go to work immediately, sliding up his shirt to touch his belly, his chest, between his thighs where he’s so painfully ready.

“Please be inside me, l-like the others, please… let me… taste you.”

No sooner does he admit his need does Pennywise comply. Freshly formed fingers shove past his lips and teeth and near the back of his tongue, ready to make him gag. Silas holds out til his eyes water, til his throat itches to swallow and sputter, but if there’s anything he’s good at, it’s handling things in his mouth that shouldn’t be.

“Oh, I will be. I’ll be inside you, big boy. You’ll thank me, oh, you’ll SING for it. You’ll SCREAM and BEG for me to leave you empty again, yes you will!”

Incoherent curses drip around Pennywise’s new fingers, stuffed so neatly in that obedient mouth, and his prehensile dick comes free. It wriggles against Silas, nudges at his own wet cock and the secret, tight place underneath. Pennywise watches Silas drool around his fingers and he matches him, jaw hanging open a little too wide, a little too toothy, like his entire face might split in a mess of bleeding gum and teeth, and Silas wriggles down. He pushes against a cock too big, too molten hot to ever be able to actually fit inside of him, and yet, with each soft rut of Pennywise’s hips, it seems a little more tangible. The alien cock writhes just like Silas does. It’s textured, lined and grooved and covered in tiny bumps that don’t seem to stay fixed to any one area. Everything changes as it pleases. It curves up over where Silas wants him without actually pushing inside – until he does.

Searing. His eyes fly wide open and they’re almost as wide as the clown’s, glowing like dying embers back in his massive skull, and Silas wonders if he can’t just burst into flames like those dancing lights. Might just fly with them, might float into Pennywise and become weightless, become eternal. There’s a continuation there, a loop of thought as the monster traces the places behind Silas’ teeth and thrusts between his thighs, that he wants to be the one inside of somebody else, wants to sink into Pennywise much the same way as Pennywise sinks into him, but more. The call of the void screeches through his head like tinnitus.

“Look at you. Look at you spread open, like a treat, a treat just for me.” Claws slash at him, into his belly, across his thighs, and Pennywise makes a sound deep in his frame that awakens a fear previously dormant in Silas’ blood. It courses through him like a warning through time as Pennywise makes those sounds, like clicking, like broken radio transmission and scuttling leaves, like snapping mandibles. It sounds like it’ll burst out of the beast’s body and then it’s everywhere, in the walls, vibrating up through the ground, leaking out of each pore. The clown moans, he drags that nasty tongue up Silas’ belly and seeks out all those shiny new gashes. “Let me take care of that – oh, you hurtin’ for me? Good boys hurt. Good boys let me fill them aalll the way UP!”

Pennywise bottoms out into Silas. His squirming, shifting cock practically spills out of him, there’s just nowhere else to go. Silas’ body aches, it clenches down on the monstrous thing inside of him until he can feel the butterfly pulse of his own climax creeping toward the surface. Above him, jaws come apart, snap together inches from his face, and he shudders with boiling heat. Everything is wet. Each little jerk and throb strikes an exquisitely primal fear in Silas that maybe he’s serious this time; maybe he’ll finally take what’s his and then consume him. Maybe he’ll slide into the tight, hot squeeze of the thing’s gullet, feel all that trembling flesh and meat closing in around him, like he’s done so many times himself with others’ bodies. The mental image is made all the more vivid by Pennywise’s gaping maw, studded far too full of teeth. They jut out from his bleeding ridges of gum and the back of his throat seems to stretch forever, to some unseen point where there’s a glow not unlike his eyes. This one’s a little prettier, though. This one makes his guts squeeze down, and for a moment, it feels like the cock inside of him is a little thicker.

“Feeling a little afraid? Been so good at taking it that you’ve forgotten what I can REALLY do to you.” Fingers crawl all over Silas, crawl over his ribs and at his waist and at the apex of his thighs, right above where he’s slowly, agonizingly fucked apart. Fingers stroke. He’s so slippery already that it’s barely begun and he can feel the wringing of pressure in every single nerve, the last, final tensing before he feels like he might lift weightlessly off the floor. “Doing so well, sweet boy. Show me just how much you need it, come on. Show me you can take it all.”

“I am,” Silas grunts. He’s panting, delirious with it, bouncing down mindlessly against the clown til he’s flush. The pain seems like an idea, existing and not existing at all. “I am, I can, I am… can – fuck! – can feel all of you.”

“Oh! Can you?”

Under Pennywise’s cruel laughter, under the dripping, toxic drool, the teeth crowding his sneer, Silas bucks against him and against his talented hands, stroking even after the waves are coursing outward from his belly all the way to his toes, the backs of his eyelids gone a horrible shade of bright orange before they’re white. It’s like being washed in stars. His muscles ebb and flow, constrict and contract, and through it all, Pennywise feels painful.

Each second lends to the explosion of his climax, dick pulsing with each aftershock. Underneath that, the clown grows. He barely moves, content to grab at Silas and tease him well past the peak of his orgasm, as deep as he can safely go, but… he inflates.

The base of his cock grows, stretching Silas out until it aches. It swells up against a particularly sensitive patch of flesh and forces a new, miserable kind of pleasure into him. It’s too much too soon. It hurts, it feels like fucking fire, it feels like he’s in a (sunset)

“Guess you can take it all, big boy.”

He rocks his body only slightly and then his eyes roll up to the threaded whites, blood welling in his lids and leaking down over his cheeks like the very vessels in his face can’t stand to hold it in, either. He erupts inside of Silas, fills him, pumps his cum into him with his cock knotted nice and tight inside. Trapped. Every single nail digs into Silas as Pennywise cums, growling, gasping, grunting like an animal. He leans down to nuzzle his bleeding face into his captive’s throat, tucked in the nape of his neck, and he breathes a giggle and smells him, licks him.

“Gunna keep coming back? Come a’callin?”

He nips at him, licks the soft little wounds like candy. He jerks his hips back and mocks the pitiful sounds coming from Silas.

“Poor thing. Pooooooor thing. Here. Let me make it better.”

Pennywise tugs against the lock of their bodies, pulling until Silas is nearly sobbing and incomprehensible before he opens his jaws and that tongue pours out of him like some monstrous new organ, slimy and dripping and hot as it slides around his captive’s dick. It feels far too soon. It feels like an impossibility, even with the delicious feeling of all that seed seeping out of him, coating him, body covered in a sticky film of saliva and blood and cum. That tongue brings him off again so quickly it leaves his head spinning, ears plugging up and voiding out until it feels like there are thick wads of cotton in them. It comes back slowly, returning on the edge of a high-pitched whine.

Finally, there’s a sense of relief, of deflation, and the eventual removal. The satisfaction of being so empty again is almost as good as the act itself. He lay spent on the floor, sprawled out and enjoying the near-doze of recuperation. Distantly, he knows there’s a job to finish. Things to take apart, to package. Things to feed the monster above him, whose limbs crack and snap and twitch as they’re absorbed back into his body. He looks like a spider, some psychotic arachnoid going through a reverse molt.

“Was it nice, Silas?” Pennywise smirks, lapping blood from his mouth, from his fingers. “Nice and full?”

“Yes.”

He laughs low, under unsteady breath like winds through the gallows, and the room gets a little colder, a little darker. The clown nods at the piles of meat, the spare parts. He winks, taking a bow, and perches on the edge of the well. Waiting. Watching. Expectant and free of distraction, free of the growing tension. Silas squirms where he sits, perversely happy to feel it there, feel the parts of him painted thick with its seed. Those parts tingle, they warm him and make his skin crawl in the most pleasant way.

Back to work.