From the Archives

Different

 That day, he was angry. It was true, it didn't take much to invoke the ire of the eldritch clown, but today was different. He had picked the perfect victim, had salted them up with such tantalizing fear; he was so mouth-wateringly close to making his kill, and the child had gotten away. He huffs in petulant frustration as he lurks beneath Derry's muck-infested tunnelways, plotting and pondering his next logical step. He had to eat; it was a nagging, persistent, aching feeling that ate at his insides and gnawed at his otherworldly psyche. He was much a creature driven by raw and primal need, be that his urge to feed or his vicious predilections when it came to you. You were... Something of an anomaly to Pennywise. An outlier; a toy, a trinket of sorts. Truth be told, it was the only way he would allow your continued existence at all. Pennywise was a beast of merciless temper, with a very ingrained perception of the plane in which he existed. Humans were nothing more than fodder for his ancient palate, fruit from an endless tree in which he could pluck at his own indolent leisure. But despite such unforgiving sentiment, you were different. As long as you served your purpose, distinct and unique from the rest of them, he was content to leave you be.

Sometimes he would get angry with you too. Those days were the most terrifying. You were all too aware of the potential of him, of a monster whose primary driving force was hunger. You knew what deadly promises lie in wait behind sweet, loving words or thinly veiled threats delivered with the most saccharine of smiles. Pennywise was a master of using anticipation to his advantage; harnessing those critical moments of cold terror right before rearing his head back and taking his prize as he had done so many times before. And he used it on you too. It was his favorite way to make you squirm, stalking you like prey and backing you into a corner before taking you as he always did. And the taste of your fear mingled so deliciously with your pleasure; it was a taste so incomparable and so different that he would be a fool simply to deny it.

Despite his rough treatment, however, you never failed to come crawling back for more. As morbid as it sounded when spoken aloud, you couldn't deny that belonging to such a powerful creature invoked a sense of purpose in you. And as time went on, as the visits continued, as Pennywise regularly stole you away to the sewers below for nights of perversion and debauchery, you became attached to him too. You started to develop feelings for him. It had started with an infatuation of sorts and slowly developed into something more real. Now you had simply adored him, could find no faults in him no matter how you tried. This was mostly fed by Pennywise himself, who could sense within you the potential for loyalty the likes of which no other human could ever hope to fulfill.

He could be positively sweet with you. There were nights, even some in regular succession, in which he wasn't rough with you at all. He would get in moods, or he could sense yours; could sense how you longed to be held and favored with gentle, soothing touches. He could sense the yearning in your heart for something of more substance, something that you hoped desperately that he would fulfill, for he was the lone recipient of your unflagging love and adoration. And he was all too glad to entertain that longing, knowing that it would only draw you in to his influence that much more.

Those nights were the ones you looked forward to most, when he would sweep you into his embrace with strong and capable arms and carry you back into the cistern with him. As he hefted you effortlessly through the intricate labyrinth of tunnels below the town you would become fixated on the way his eyes, golden and piercing, would glint so strikingly in the dark, like stars lightyears away that you were following to some fabled promised land beyond the horizon. You would find yourself warming from his touch alone, the sensation of his silken suit pressed flush against the color of your cheeks serving to further stoke a roaring fire of lust and passion within you. From there he would deposit you gently on the plush nest of pillows and other soft things he'd collected for you in his stagebox before positioning himself behind you and dwarfing your body with his hulking frame. He would hold you, would stroke your body with delicate, gloved hands, would whisper in your ear just how much you meant to him; how important and irreplaceable you were. He would pet your hair and admire your body in all its flaws and imperfections; because of them rather than in spite. He would make you giggle and laugh with his jokes, and then he would praise the sound of your voice. Oh yes, Pennywise could be sweet with his pet. After all, what kind of owner would he be if he didn't reward such good behavior?