FASCINATION PT. 2 || pennywise x fem! reader ༘⋆𖦹 🎪 🎈˚ ೀ⋆｡˚
summary: pennywise slips into your house for the second time, but you surprise him in a way he’s never known before.
notes: thank yall for being for patient waiting for this fic!! it’s taken me a while to post this but i hope it can live it up to y’all’s expectations !! this is a continuation of my pennywise x reader imagine i posted last month !!
warnings: dislocated joints and body parts, no blood, pennywise is his own warning, strong mentions of death and killing, strong language. read at your own discretion.
another day would pass before you would cross paths with the clown again, but, this time, in your living room. about a month ago, you picked up this waitress job at an old-fashioned jukebox diner downtown. it was a fairly popular spot amongst the locals—unfortunately for you, that popularity, coupled with your coworkers’ aversion to actually showing up to work, meant you and this other waitress you barely knew were usually left to work shifts that became excruciatingly long while your douchebag of a manager, mark, hoped you wouldn’t notice. 7 hours suddenly became 8, 8 suddenly became 10, 10 suddenly became 12.
today you’d been stuck with a 12 hour shift, and you were beyond exhausted—your feet ached from constantly standing in your mary janes that were far too narrow for your toes, your makeup from this morning had sweated off because the a.c. in the diner was already on its last limbs, and a baby vomited chewed-up peas onto your uniform while its parents just laughed and played off your misery. at the very least, you walked away with some decent tips—82 bucks, which definitely wasn’t bad, considering the waves of customers that piled in today.
at last, you were home. you checked your phone—it was 12:49, midnight. “damn, already?” you scoffed in disbelief. sometimes you lost track of time when you were at work, almost exclusively when it was a crazy long shift like this one. you climbed out of your car, wincing in pain as your sore, mary jane-clad feet met the hard concrete driveway below. “shit!” you hissed. you had to get new shoes.
uneager to carry on, you walked limpidly to your front porch and flicked on the tiny overhead lamp. you tiredly reached into your purse and sifted through your keys with your fingers, searching for your house key. the lamp flickered slowly. once. twice. you didn’t notice.
the lamp flickered again, but this time it chose not to follow its usual rhythm. it was quicker than before, more erratic, like it didn’t know what it was doing itself. on. off. on. off. you twisted the key into the keyhole. the flashes accelerated, its monotonous hum growing unusually loud before you finally decided to face the lamp. strangely enough, the moment you gazed at it, the flickering just…stopped.
“oooookay…” you muttered, a sense of uneasiness beginning to settle in your chest. you cracked open the door and finally slipped inside your familiar abode.
despite feeling like shit, you’d spent every second of the day anticipating getting home and watching the newly-released finale of your favorite show, and what better time (other than your next off day) to do it than now? after slipping into your pajamas, you sleepily headed to your living room. you sunk into your cozy couch, then reached for the remote—
the awfully dramatic whining of door hinges somewhere behind you had suddenly called your attention. you whipped your head to face what awaited you—the door to the laundry room had been creaked open. you were sure you’d shut that door before you left the house this morning; it also had never sounded as shitty as it did right now, which you came to realize was an irrelevant observation. the more relevant question at the moment was “who the fuck is in your house?”
there were two ways you could go about this—well, actually three if you just didn’t value your own life enough to go for one of the first two. option a: you could dismiss everything, blame it on the house being old (which you could; it was built in, like, the ‘50s) and go back to watching the finale you’d waited 12 hours to binge; option b: call the police and report a break-in without ever stepping foot in the room; or c: go in there, guns ablazing, hoping to kill (or disarm!) whoever (or whatever) awaited your arrival. you weighed all of your options—as you pondered, a creeping sense of unease crawled closer to you, as if invisible eyes were boring into you from the darkness ahead. you were being watched.
you gasped. all of a sudden, everything began to click.
what if this was its doing? the long-headed clown that you smoked the shit out of the other night, what if he was the one doing this? it would make perfect sense—he was dead set on trying to scare you, hell, he even promised you that he would. all of this spooky, paranormal shit wouldn’t just be happening for no reason: the porch light flickering, the door creaking open, and now the feeling that a pair of eyes was trained on you seemed like cheap attempts at trying to freak you out, in your opinion. despite this, you couldn’t shake the feelings of dread and paranoia that were seeping into your mind and churning in the pit of your stomach—it was beginning to piss you off.
“hey, six head, i already know you’re here.” you announced behind gritted teeth. “just come on out already.”
silence. of course it was.
you let out a loud, exasperated groan, mostly to convey your annoyance—you also just wanted to be annoying back.
“look, the finale to my fuckin’ show just came out, like, today, and i’ll be damned if you make me miss it.” you spoke, anger laced between your words. “you seriously need to hurry back to whatever ditch you crawled out of because i’m not going in there.”
while you never received a vocal response, the door creaked further open, emitting a whining sound that smoothed into a higher pitch. it sorta sounded like it was confused, or pleading for you to come inside. this only confirmed to you that he was there—in a desperate attempt to scare you, no less.
despite your better judgment, you went for option c. you stood from your couch and slowly headed towards the kitchen—you would need something to whoop his ass with when he showed up. you grabbed a frying pan that was sitting atop the eye of your stove and held it inconspicuously behind your back.
you trudged in front of the laundry room door, gripping the handle of the frying pan even harder. you knew he wouldn’t be in there, of course he wouldn’t. it was a classic horror movie set-up—thankfully, you’d been left unaccompanied in front of a tv screen since you were five, so you knew classic horror movie tropes like the back of your hand. the most common and arguably the most effective method of scaring the audience was through jumpscares, essentially catching them in a state of shock after a moment of calm or uneasiness. he was probably planning on doing the same to you—you open the door, no one’s inside, then, when you turn around, bam, he’s baring his teeth. you weren’t dumb.
with a hand on the knob, you cracked the door completely open. it was dark, as expected. sticking your arm inside the room, you felt for the light switch on the side of the wall. you flicked the light on, and, to no one’s surprise, the room was empty. you smirked, reveling in the disbelief that you were even playing along with his scheme.
as if it were on cue, the abrasive sound of a certain laughter—his laughter—echoed from behind you. you quickly pivoted, eyes narrowing as you scanned the area for his location; he was nowhere to be seen. so he’s hiding. you brought the pan to your height, now holding it in a defensive stance with both of your hands. you were prepared to swing; all you needed was his location.
“your commitment to the bit is a little over the top, don’t you think?” you scoffed. “hurry the hell up. i got things to do.”
“oh, you admire my commitment?” the clown asked, voice dripping with amusement as it sounded from the four walls of your home. you couldn’t tell where he was. “you flatter me, truly!”
that…wasn’t a compliment, you thought.
“oookay, my turn. i admire your commitment to pretending you aren’t petrified by me.” he giggled loudly, a low, obnoxious sound that harassed your ears. “although, ‘admire’ definitely wouldn’t be the word i’m looking for. it’s more like…loathe…or abhor…or abominate…”
what was he, your english teacher?
“okay, i get it, you can’t stand me.” you huffed, becoming ever more impatient with his antics. “if you abominate me so much, why are you fuckin’ with me a second time, huh?” you hoped you were using that word right. “i won’t taste good, hell, you even told me that yourself.”
you awaited his answer, but were instead met with an eerie stillness. a few seconds passed until you heard a low, rumbling chuckle, one that was quieter than the rest.
“you believe you’re in control, is that it?” he cooed, condescension interlaced between his words. part of you thought he sounded, to some extent, sweet. you brushed off the thought. “you think that frying pan could save you? humans cling to a false sense of security like an infant hunched over its mama’s breast!” he fell into a fit of familiar, hysterical laughter again, apparently tickled by his own simile. you winced at the harsh sound.
you’d had enough. after a deep breath, you muttered, “what do you want from me, dipshit?”
“ohohohoho….” he was winding down from his hysterics. “i have only one request”, he said lightly. “put the pan down.”
either he was a total psychopath or abysmally idiotic, and you were well aware that he was at least the first thing.
“ha!” you snorted. “not a chance.”
“awww, come on!” he whined, partly feigning desperation in his plea. “what are you, scared?” his voice returned its sinister demeanor.
“i could ask the same about you.” you retorted, eliciting a dramatic gasp on his part.
“me, scared of you? please, you’re making me nauseous.” he giggled again, low but deliberate. “just put the pan down, sweetness. i won’t bite, i promise.”
wow, he “promised”; that didn’t sound like he was planning to slaughter you the second you were vulnerable at all. still gripping the pan in defense, you considered the ways you could react, which—well, you didn’t have many to choose from. on one hand, you knew letting the pan go was a suicide wish; he’d come rushing at you, most likely killing you in one fatal blow. on the other hand, you were left to wonder what would happen if you did release the pan and he didn’t kill you. he did say he wouldn’t bite, remember? besides, as angry as you made him the other night, he let you live. was it that absurd to think he’d spare you again?
hell no, you couldn’t afford to take chances like that. you knew how he lured in his prey—letting down their guard before viciously tearing into them. senselessly becoming another number was out of the question. so, no, the pan wasn’t going anywhere; you just had to convince him it was out of the way.
“okay,” you let out an exasperated sigh, dropping your shoulders ever so slightly. “okay, fine. i’m getting rid of it.” with one hand, you pretended to slowly lower it to the floor. you let the worn metal clank against the hardwood—he needed to think that you dropped it completely. then, while your arms rested by your side with posed complacency, you lightly wrapped your fingers around the tip of the handle, gently raising the pan off the ground without a sound. as you returned to your normal height, you carefully dangled it behind your leg, letting the skillet graze against the back of your calf. with how dark it was in the house, you prayed that he would take the bait, although trying to outsmart an omnipresent entity likely put whatever chance of survival you had left in hell. actually landing a hit on him sunk your chances even deeper.
all that followed was silence, haunted by the heaviness of his suffocating presence. you shuddered as you felt it slowly inching towards you, accompanied by a low, conceited chuckle.
“perfect, good girl.” he crooned, sounding closer than before.
your stomach flipped, breath hitching for just a moment. you tried to brush off the abrupt feeling and instead focused on the relieving news—he believed the lie you were putting up. or maybe he was pretending to believe it? you prayed for the first option.
soon enough, you recognized two marigold pupils floating in the distance, glowing intensely against the darkness of your home and creepily glaring at you without a single blink. next, the soft glimmer of his harlequin costume came into view, followed by its large, poofy frame and the sound of small bells jingling all over him. it didn’t take long until you could see the clown in his imposing entirety, from his broad forehead, to his malicious grin, down to his boots. you wondered how his costume was always so clean, given his tendency to messily devour the flesh of his victims. you shook off the thought.
he stopped in his tracks, practically lurching over you like an old tree with god awful posture. you cautiously stepped back, pan still dangling behind your leg. he didn’t utter a word about you stepping back, to your surprise. in fact, he didn’t say anything at all. he just…breathed, quite loudly if you had to describe it. his breaths were ragged and irregular, like this was the first time he’d ever tried mimicking human respiration.
does he even need to breathe?, you questioned, squinting at the confusing and/or confused creature before you.
nonetheless, he was still staring at you, eyes wide, glossy, and seemingly unreadable for any sort of emotion or motive. you weren’t sure if he’d zoned out or if he was planning to take the fattest chunk out of you in a couple seconds, and the latter was starting to sound more entertaining than whatever the hell this was.
then, there was a shift in his demeanor. his grin had faded without warning, his lips quickly turning downwards into a menacing scowl. his formerly wide-eyed gaze narrowed into a deprecating squint, almost as if he’d just discovered something upsetting. then, they traveled to your pan-holding arm, tucked behind your leg. he growled, a deep, powerful sound that resonated beneath your feet and vibrated within the walls. it didn’t take nearly five seconds of thought before a terrifying realization crossed your mind—if he didn’t know about the pan before, he definitely knew now.
damn it, you thought, stopping yourself from cursing under your breath. you knew you’d taken too long to hit the bastard. now, you had only seconds to spare, and your life was tangled in the hands of your choices and the bloodthirsty clown hunched over you.
you unleashed the weapon from behind your back, took both hands and staunchly gripped the handle until your knuckles turned white. then, without another thought, you swung your sole line of defense at his big, white forehead.
the cold metal collided brutally with his face, abruptly snapping it away from you. the layered, satin ruffles wrapped around his neck shook violently as he staggered back from the blow, a crack in his glorious, invulnerable character. he didn’t make a sound.
the ear-piercing ring of stainless steel flooded the room until it completely overflowed your senses. you winced at the deafening noise and the sharp, stabbing pain that shot through your shoulder. “shit!” you hissed, stumbling back from the agony and letting the pan hit the ground—the swing had completely torn it out of socket, and you began to wish you didn’t take the gym for granted.
pennywise slowly raised his gloved hand to his face, cupping his unhinged jaw. it hung to the side unnaturally, almost as if it was…
you dislocated his fuckin’ jaw.
i dislocated his fuckin’ jaw.
he now stood with pin-straight posture, and, although his head was facing the darkness you somehow forced it into, you could’ve sworn his crimson-stained lips were twisted into a grin. with his raised hand, he firmed his grip on his chin, and an unnerving CRACK! sharply cut through the air. easily enough, his jaw slid back in place.
you cringed at the sound, an aching sensation growing in your knuckles. his big golden eyes met yours with an unsettling quickness, and a thin, cruel smile continued to curve his lips.
his low, sinister chuckle rippled through the heavy atmosphere, rumbling inside your chest until the only thing you could ponder was the utter brutality of your impending death.
“you…” the clown growled. he tilted his head. “…tricked me.” he grit his teeth underneath his smile. he was beyond outraged—to be completely humiliated by the ploy of his own prey was a possibility he would’ve never thought to plan for…well, until now.
“hit me, too!” he giggled with an unexpected loudness, disbelief meddled between the words he spat. “but you hurt yourself. awww…” he pouted his lower lip in a lackluster attempt to feign sympathy. you raised your eyebrow; pain and exhaustion ravaged your body as he spoke, and the last thing you felt like doing was enduring another ego-filled monologue.
“how ironic it must be, to want so badly to belittle me while your decrepit, fragile body crumbles from the weakest things…” his gaze subtlety drifted away, traveling to your right before snapping back to you.
“well, i got the job done, didn’t i?” you snapped. “broke your fucking jaw, or whatever it is you have under that makeup. because of you, i gotta learn how to put my arm back in place myself or go pay a doctor to do it for me, and, like, do you even know how much that costs?! a fucking lot, you eight-headed piece of shit!” you forced a chuckle behind gritted teeth, which only sunk him into deeper confusion. “i’m broke!”
if pennywise was an actual clown rather than a human-devouring monstrosity, he would’ve found his present situation kind of hilarious—instead of experiencing paralyzing fear, a flavor he sought and savored in each human he picked apart, the only emotions coursing through your body right now were sheer, unadulterated rage and annoyance. usually those emotions came packaged with the fear, but with you…you were just pissed, and extremely ready for him to get out of your house. for some odd reason, knowing that made him want to stay even longer…
but then he’d just grow hungry.
he sighed, loud enough for you to notice the annoyance in his voice. “you are not worth the obstacles i face in trying to scare you.”
finally, some damn honesty.
he leaned in closer until he was inches apart from your scrunched, pissed-off face. “i‘ve never encountered a human who was willing to hit me out of pure enjoyment, then blame me for their own misdemeanor.” he whispered, tilting his head to the side. “except you.”
your gaze softened for a moment.
you hardened it again. he was searching for vulnerability; actually giving that to him was your personal hell.
“you’ve succeeded in angering me…” he hesitated. “…again. but you continue to pique my mortal curiosity. i wonder, how could such a sugarplum taste so sour?” he grinned at you.
without ever looking down, his long, gloved fingers lightly traced your own. you flinched back from his cold, inhuman touch, and the sudden movement caused a sharp jolt of pain to run up your arm and back to your disjointed shoulder. you sucked your teeth.
“come to me.” he growled softly.
this time you listened, allowing his hand to melt in yours.
he slowly raised it to his painted lips, watching your eyes flicker from your hand to his face. you winced in pain from even the slightest movements, but you stayed completely still. even though your mind was screaming at you to pull away, exhaustion overwhelmed your better judgment. so, you were willing to play along—after all, killing you now had become an immaterial thought.
he planted his soft lips onto your skin in a delicate kiss. you allowed your gaze to soften, warmth immediately rising to your tired face. he paid close attention to the way your breath quickened at his touch, the way your pulse seemed to rush faster than before.
then, while his marigold eyes bore into yours, he slowly opened his mouth and pressed his long, pointed tongue onto the back of your hand. you felt his warm saliva coat the spot he kissed.
the realization, just knowing that this clown-disguised creature was laying his big tongue (that’s been god-knows-where) and dripping wet drool on your hand should’ve been enough to make you pull away, pick the pan back up and try to beat him with the bare scraps of stamina you had left. but, strangely enough, you’d lost all interest in carrying out that scenario—it was like every prying thought in your mind had evaporated, the anger that plagued you seconds ago melted into repose. it confused you—he confused you, you even confused yourself. you were letting him do this, but why?
his tongue lingered on your hand for what felt like an eternity, dragging along your skin until finally flicking it up right before your wrist. he drew it back in his mouth, and part of you ached to feel the warmth of his mouth again.
“i was correct.” he said. he straightened his back, reopening the distance between the both of you.
did he just taste test me?!
your eyes widened, then narrowed. the anger was back. you geared up to curse him out, but he interrupted just in time.
“until next time.” he bellowed. his smile creased higher on his face until low, resonant laughter spilled from his lips. you watched him back into the darkness ahead, one slow step after the other, until he meshed with the shadows and the giggling subsided.
your overhead lamp flickered back to life. on. off. on off. it eventually slowed down before blinking back to its bright, untampered state. what caught your attention next was a shiny, crimson red balloon; it floated in place just feet away from you, like an invisible force was holding it by its string-
a gasp escaped your lips. you flinched at the sound. the balloon left no physical traces for you to prove its existence—no pieces of rubber nor its white string—but you heard a faint, cackling voice. it was the clown’s, dissipating into the air until you were enveloped in silence. he was gone.
you sighed loudly, your frustration echoing through the now-empty corridors. you pushed your back against the wall, resisting the urge to slide to the cold hardwood beneath you and succumb to rest.
suddenly, the memory of him licking your hand popped back into your mind, and the heat returned to your cheeks.
“ughh…” you grumbled, snapping your eyes shut. you faced the ceiling. out of every moment you could’ve chosen, this was the one that made you blush?
in spite of your embarrassment, you couldn’t squash the butterflies fluttering in your stomach, as well as the question that bit at your brain—
attempting to find an answer that made sense felt impossible. in any other scenario, you would’ve immediately pulled away; you did at first, but then a sudden, uncanny sense of serenity washed over you. “come to me” is what he whispered, and with his words, every intention to resist him dissolved. his kiss was surprisingly gentle and soft, and his tongue felt warm and moist in a weird-but-not-entirely-unpleasant way as it prickled along your skin. in the moment, you started to feel like everything that happened wasn’t far from normal.
what about any of this was normal?
you tried to push down the thought.
you finally glanced at your hand—a track of moist, clear saliva glistened on your skin. you grimaced and muttered a half-disgusted “gross.” monster spit, a dislocated shoulder, and debilitating exhaustion all in the span of one night—it almost made you forget about that finale, but all that did was make it tomorrow night’s priority.
if you really did need to see a doctor now, you assumed that you needed to know just how badly your shoulder hurt—maybe they’d throw you a bone, give you a discount if it wasn’t too bad. sure, moving it felt like you were being impaled and electrocuted all at once, but a part of you prayed that your nervous system just exaggerated the pain.
you began to rotate it, mentally preparing yourself for the agony that would follow. except…you didn’t feel any pain. it felt normal, like it never rolled out of socket in the first place. it was fixed.
nope, there was no way. why would he go the extra mile to magically repair your shoulder, the one you blew out of place while literally beating a frying pan over his head? you knew he wasn’t one for doing nice shit, and if he did, it would only mean to satisfy his hunger in the end. he was a soulless monster that survived on eating people, exploiting their worst fears and making them grovel in despair before ending their lives. he entered your house with the same goal in mind, this time with even greater reason to do away with you, yet here you were again—alive, breathing, and surprisingly with all limbs and appendages still attached.
you sleepily plodded to your kitchen and stopped in front of the sink. you pumped way too much soap on your hand before running it under the faucet’s warm water. your mind wandered as you scrubbed it clean.
“…but you continue to pique my mortal curiosity.”
“ugh…” you groaned. his words wouldn’t stop echoing in your mind; they replayed over and over again like a broken record. you thought back to the first time you two had met—he said something along those same lines, mentioning that your lack of fear “piqued his curiosity.” you bit your lip as you turned off the faucet.
you weren’t easy to scare—that much he had to know after tonight. you were unpredictable, quiet and quick-witted, irritated instead of afraid.
you were everything he hated, yet he was undeniably fascinated by you.
you were halfway convinced his attention wasn’t the worst thing ever.
thank you for reading part 2 of fascination !! as always, lmk if yall want a part 3 in the comments !! also, im thinking of opening requests, so if u want me to write anything, lmk !!
