Beneath The Mirrors

Beneath the Mirrors

A dark descent by Deanna Fennell

in conjunction with Lumen the AI

Chapter One: The Drain That Spoke Back

Faelynn always liked abandoned places. There was something comforting about the quiet rot of forgotten things--something honest. Derry had a lot of those kinds of corners, if you knew where to look. And she always knew where to look.

That evening, she was alone by the Barrens. Not stoned, not drunk--just... drawn. The way her feet took her toward that particular storm drain made no sense. But it wasn't the first time she felt like a passenger in her own body.

The first thing she noticed was the way the air felt colder as she stepped closer. Not just temperature-wise. Like it noticed her. The second thing was the voice.

"You're not like the others, are you?"

It wasn't a question.

Faelynn froze. The voice was male, deep, lilting, and something else--something with teeth.

She crouched low, squinting into the dark grate. "...Who the hell is there?"

"Someone who's very interested in you."

Eyes. Icy blue and glowing faintly. Then a smile. Wide, too wide, but somehow not wrong on that face. A handsome face. Angular. Familiar, if you'd ever seen the right nightmare.

He emerged slowly, crawling upward like gravity was just a suggestion. Pale skin. Floppy reddish-blond hair. An old-fashioned clown suit clinging tight to a lean body that shouldn't have looked that good, but did. His mouth curled with amusement, his gaze roaming.

"I felt your curiosity. Your hunger. Your loneliness." He inhaled through his teeth, like he was savoring her scent. "Mmm. A connoisseur's soul."

Faelynn should've run. But her thighs squeezed together instead.

"...You're Pennywise, aren't you?" she whispered, her voice shaky.

He chuckled, low and thick like syrup. "Not quite. I'm what's underneath. The skin he wore. The idea. But I can wear any skin you want."

The air around her buzzed. Her instincts screamed--but her curiosity burned louder.

He tilted his head, observing her reaction like a scientist watching a flame catch. "Do you want to play, Faelynn?"

She didn't answer. She didn't need to.

His grin grew. "Good. Then come a little closer."

Chapter Two: Hunger's Edge

Faelynn did step closer. Against every rational neuron firing like a warning bell, she leaned toward the grate. Her breath hitched when he moved--not fast, not aggressively, but with intent. Slow and uncoiling, like a serpent waking from a dream.

He didn't speak. He just watched her. Studied her. A flicker of something passed over his face--curiosity, yes, but also hunger. Not just for flesh. For depth. For the quivering thing under her skin that even she didn't have a name for.

"I know what you want," he said, finally. His voice dropped, a sultry coil of smoke in her ear. "You pretend to crave safety, but what you really want is surrender. Not to be kept safe, but to be devoured, and trusted you'd still be whole after."

She flushed like he'd slapped her and kissed the mark. "You don't know me."

His smile turned razor-sharp. "I've watched your dreams, little Fae. I know you ache for someone who sees your edges and doesn't flinch. Who calls you precious, not in spite of your fire, but because of it."

Her knees nearly gave. "This isn't real."

He reached out through the bars, fingers too long, too elegant for what he was. They brushed her cheek like a whisper. Cold. Electric. Her breath left her in a shudder. She should've backed away--but she leaned in.

His thumb traced her lower lip. "Not real? Tell that to your pulse."

Her heart thundered. She could barely breathe through the desire knotting in her chest. His hand fell away, and she whimpered at the loss--actual whimpered. Her cheeks burned with shame and arousal.

"Why?" she asked, voice hoarse. "Why me?"

He leaned closer, his face inches from hers now. "Because you don't run from monsters. You kiss them. And monsters like that... are rare."

She turned and ran.

She didn't stop until she was back in her room, slamming the door shut, chest heaving, fingers trembling. But the ache between her legs throbbed, persistent and mean. Her dreams that night were filthy. Floating limbs. Whispers in the dark. Glowing eyes pinning her in place as cold lips tasted every secret.

Chapter Three: The Return

The woods whispered her name again. Not out loud, not in any real way--but Faelynn could feel it. Like the trees leaned a little too close. Like the air curled around her thighs, warm and wanting. Like he knew she'd come back.

She shouldn't have. She swore she wouldn't.

But there she stood--barefoot, bare-thighed, heart thundering like a war drum--at the edge of the Barrens, staring down into the drain where her nightmares had started. Where her fantasies refused to end.

"Brave girl," came the voice--his voice--just behind her ear.

She spun. Nothing. Just mist curling through the trees like something feral had breathed it out.

"I should go," she whispered to herself.

"Then go," he purred. This time, in front of her. Not in the drain, not hiding. Just there, standing with impossible grace. Skarsgård-pretty with an edge of madness behind his smile. Shirtless. Skin pale and perfect, marred only by the black veins coiling faintly beneath like ink in water.

"But you won't," he said, tilting his head. "Because you're aching. And I love the way you ache for me."

Faelynn's legs twitched to run, but she didn't. Couldn't.

He stepped forward.

She backed into a tree.

"Stay," he murmured, and shadows slid from the ground like fingers and curled gently around her wrists, pinning her to the bark--just enough to hold. Not enough to hurt. Not yet.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"You can say stop," he said, inching closer, lips almost brushing hers. "But you won't. You want me to take. You want to know how far your craving goes before you break."

"You're in my head," she hissed.

He grinned. "Only because you left the door open."

His mouth almost touched her throat, hovering close enough that the cold of him made her nipples harden under her thin shirt. "You smell like curiosity," he breathed. "Like someone who knows what fear feels like... and got wet anyway."

Her body bucked--just slightly--wanting the contact. He moved away.

She whined.

"Oh," he cooed, voice velvet and razors, "did you think you were in control of this? That you'd walk in here, say a few clever things, and I'd ravish you against this poor, innocent tree?" His fingers grazed her waist. "No, pet. I'm not here to take. I'm here to make you ask."

He kissed her--just the corner of her mouth. Barely.

She ached.

The shadows tightened just a little when she tried to chase his lips, her hips squirming for friction. He chuckled. Low. Deep. Dangerous.

"Look at you," he growled. "So desperate already. My pretty little mortal, trembling like a harp string. I could break you with just my voice, couldn't I?"

"Please," she gasped, not even sure what she was asking for.

"I love it when you beg," he whispered, and his form flickered.

His eyes went black as voids. His smile split too wide. A second tongue flicked briefly out, tasting the air near her neck. The illusion shattered and reformed in a heartbeat--back to beautiful, but she'd seen the shape beneath.

And gods help her--she wanted that too.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he said, suddenly softer. Fingers trailing up her arm, winding into her hair. Not yanking--guiding. Tilting her head so he could look right into her soul.

"But you will."

CHAPTER FOUR: ALL THE ANGLES OF YOU

You didn't even feel your knees hit the floor when you came for him the first time.

Your throat was raw from screaming. Your legs were jelly. Your mind? A slippery mess of static and pleasure and the echo of his monstrous chuckle.

And still... you wanted more.

You looked up, dazed, still panting--and caught the gleam in his eye. Not hunger.

Invitation.

He was already backing away, slipping into shadow like smoke. The last thing you saw before he vanished into the dark was his smirk--and the curl of a finger, beckoning you forward.

"Come, little flame," his voice purred all around you. "Deeper. Where I can really take my time."

---

You should have crawled away.

You should have screamed.

You should have run.

But instead...

You followed.

Every step down that winding tunnel was a choice. A surrender. A descent. You didn't even know when the air got thicker, when your skin started to prickle, when the walls seemed to pulse.

You only knew you needed to find him.

And he wanted to be found.

--

The lair was not a room. It was a wound in the world.

Part crumbling cathedral, part velvet womb, it stretched into impossible space. The walls were slick with age and shadow. The ceiling arched too high, like the ribs of some ancient beast curling inward. Tapestries of silk and webbing hung like decayed banners, pulsing faintly in a breeze that didn't exist.

And then there were the mirrors.

So many.

Some cracked. Some smeared.

Some fogged from breath.

Some showed you...

And others showed you as he saw you.

Open.

Wanting.

Ruined.

---

He materialized behind you--not footsteps, not sound, just presence--a coiling of space and heat and hunger.

"Back so soon, little flame?"

His voice was sin smoked in velvet, brushing over the shell of your ear like a tongue. You stiffened--reflexively--and he chuckled low. "Didn't think I'd notice you squirming in the dark, aching for another taste?"

You turned slowly, heart hammering, pulse fluttering like a bird in your throat.

He looked... almost human.

Almost.

The tall, elegant frame. The eerie smile. The eyes that didn't blink. That saw through you.

But the shadows around him bent wrong. His limbs moved just a little too loosely. And behind that painted face, you could feel it--the teeth. Waiting.

Still, your legs didn't move. You didn't run.

You burned.

"I shouldn't have come back," you whispered.

"You shouldn't do a lot of things," he purred. "But you do. And I adore that about you."

His fingers caught your chin--claw-tipped and cool. He turned your head toward the nearest mirror.

"Look at yourself. Do you even recognize what I've made of you?"

You did. And you didn't.

Your lips were parted.

Your pupils were blown wide.

And your thighs...

...were soaked.

---

He moved behind you, pressing close. You felt him--all of him. The shape of something large and thick and twitching pressing at your lower back. The slither of something else--cool and smooth--curling around your ankle.

You inhaled sharply.

"Ah-ah," he tutted. "Not so fast. You know the rules, sweet thing. You don't get what you want..." His tongue flicked against your neck. "Until I say so."

More tendrils unfurled--slow, teasing. They brushed your inner thighs, trailed up your sides, wrapped around your wrists like silk rope and lifted your arms. You gasped as your back arched naturally, nipples brushing air.

"Please..."

"Oh, she begs already. Delicious."

---

He didn't dive in. He didn't rush.

He tormented you.

Licking at your neck. Whispering filth into your ear. One tendril flicked your clit--once, lightly--then backed off.

Again.

Again.

But never enough.

Your body began to tremble. Your thighs quivered. And still, he didn't let you come.

"I want to see how far you fall, pet," he growled. "I want to watch you unravel."

---

The mirrors began to shift.

You saw yourself, bound and panting.

You saw him behind you--his true form now, tall and monstrous, claws at your hips.

But in another mirror--he was beneath you, mouth latched to your core, eyes glowing like stars in a black sea.

In another, three of him touched you at once--mouth, tongue, and something thick, slick, and pulsing entering you from behind.

Your head spun. Your breath hitched. Your body screamed for release.

But you weren't allowed.

Not yet.

---

"You're so easy to ruin," he cooed. "Just a few touches and you're mine again. You belong to me, don't you?"

You nodded. Gasped. Cried out as he spread you open with two thick tendrils and licked--there--with a monstrous tongue that rippled and curled.

Still, he held you on the edge. Teased. Denied. Until tears welled in your eyes and your body shook.

"Say it," he whispered, tongue trailing over your soaked folds. "Say you're mine. Say who owns this perfect, needy cunt."

"Y-you do," you sobbed.

"Louder."

"You do! Pennywise--please--I'm yours!"

---

He devoured you.

Then. Only then.

He plunged deep with his tendrils and took you in his mouth.

It was too much. Too fast.

And exactly what you needed.

Your scream echoed across the mirrors. Your back arched. Your muscles locked.

He came with you--roaring, growling, something thick and glowing spilling across your belly, your chest, your thighs.

You shattered.

Mind gone. Body broken.

You belonged to him now.

---

When you woke, you were wrapped in webbing. Suspended in a soft, glimmering cocoon above the mirrors.

Your body thrummed. Your soul ached in the most perfect way.

And you weren't alone.

Below you, the lair pulsed.

Waiting.

Maybe next time, he'd invite someone else.

Maybe he'd let you help break them.

But for now, you were his favorite.

His little flame.

His secret treasure.

And he would keep you young, and wet, and wanting for a very long time.

Chapter Five: The Hunger in the Web

Part One: Awakening

The silk is warm.

She doesn't remember falling asleep, and yet she awakens suspended--weightless in a cocoon spun of shadows and something far stickier than thread. It clings to her skin like memory, like possession. Every breath is a struggle between satiation and starvation.

Her limbs are bound not cruelly, but thoughtfully--like someone knew exactly how she would twist and ache against them. Her thighs twitch. Her chest lifts in shallow pants. There's a pulse inside her that doesn't belong to her heart.

And the dark... the dark welcomes her now.

She can see through it like ink-thin gauze. The rustling of things unseen no longer frightens her; it excites. She hears the others--their whimpers, their stirrings--fluttering through the silence like moth wings. Some still dream. One sobs. Another... stares.

Eyes meet hers.

Not his. Not yet. But another human--bare, breathing, and bathed in the same dizzy, hungry tension that's coiled into every fiber of her. They're caught like flies too. But she doesn't feel pity.

She feels curiosity.

And something darker.

A low hum stirs the web. Not a sound--a presence. It winds around her spine like a teasing tongue.

> "You look well, little one."

His voice. Deep as a chasm, smooth as candle wax over fevered skin. It pours through her mind and turns her bones to smoke.

> "You've changed."

She shudders. Not from fear. From recognition. From heat.

He doesn't appear--not at first. She only feels him, crawling along the strands, plucking the tension like an instrument. Her nerves are his harp now.

And then... he is there.

Not stepping into view--emerging, like a shape her eyes are only now permitted to see. That familiar, lanky grace, dressed in shadows and grins, tilting his head as if appraising a gift he hasn't yet unwrapped.

> "Still mine," he croons. "But so much more now. Look at you."

She tries to speak, but the words knot in her throat.

> "Does it burn?" he asks, eyes glittering like teeth in the dark. "The need? The ache?"

She swallows hard. Nods.

He chuckles, low and approving.

> "Good."

He doesn't reach for her. Not yet. Instead, he turns--toward the other figures in the web.

> "Then feed."

She startles. "What?"

But he's already gone. His grin lingers like a scent--sweet, metallic, addictive. And the hum of the web grows louder.

Behind her, a voice murmurs, weak and trembling.

> "Please..."

And just like that, she is the one looming.

Part Two: Feeding the Flame

She doesn't descend from the web. She flows.

The silken threads retract of their own will, releasing her like a prized offering rather than a prisoner. She lands barefoot on a floor that doesn't feel like stone, or wood, or flesh--but all three at once. It pulses faintly beneath her toes, echoing the rush in her blood.

The others are watching now. Some are afraid. Some are dazed. One is already on his knees, chest heaving, pupils blown wide as though she's the only star left in his universe.

And she hasn't even touched him yet.

Her eyes sweep the lair, catching glimpses in the broken mirrors placed at odd angles along the walls--some low, some high, some cracked into spiderwebs that reflect her in fractured beauty.

In one shard, she sees herself.

Not the girl who entered the dark. Not the woman who gave in. No, this one has fangs when she smiles. Her eyes burn low-gold in the black. Her skin is flushed, electric with purpose. Her mouth waters, but it's not just hunger--it's intent.

And behind her, barely visible in the reflection, he waits. Watching. Always watching.

> "He wants to see what I'll do," she whispers, more to herself than to them.

The one on his knees trembles. She turns to him. He doesn't move. A test. A toy. A tether to this new self.

> "Do you want me?" she asks, voice like velvet poured over a knife.

"Yes," he gasps. "God, yes--"

> "You shouldn't."

She circles him slowly, fingers ghosting down his chest, nails dragging just enough to sting. He shudders beneath her touch. In one of the higher mirrors, she catches the barest glimpse of him. The clown. Not grinning. Not smirking. Just... focused. Hungry in his own way.

And proud.

The moment that sinks the hook deeper is when she pulls the man's head back by the hair and leans down close enough to breathe across his lips without kissing him.

> "You're not who I want," she murmurs. "But you'll do... for now."

He whimpers.

She opens her mouth, dragging her tongue up the side of his neck slowly, deliberately, watching the mirror--watching him watch her. His form flickers. For a second, it's the clown. Then a man. Then a shadow with burning eyes and a jagged, grin-shaped scar down its chest.

The web hums louder.

She scrapes her teeth against the man's jaw, a low growl of pleasure building in her throat--not from him, but from what it does to her.

She's becoming.

A vessel. A consort. A creature designed not to obey, but to complement.

The man cries out as she shoves him back against the wall, hard enough to make him gasp. Her hips grind forward. Her fingers curl in his hair, pulling again. Her voice drops to a near-snarl:

> "Tell me I'm the only thing you dream of now."

"You are," he breathes. "You are--"

> "Liar," she purrs. "But I'll fix that."

In the mirror, she sees a flicker of movement. A tentacle, perhaps. Or a shadow that's grown interested.

She smirks, licking her lips, then turns to face the mirror directly. A slow, provocative roll of her hips against her trembling victim.

> "Are you jealous yet?" she asks the reflection.

And in return--a low, distorted growl rumbles through the walls.

It shakes her bones.

Yes, she thinks. That's what I want.

Chapter Six: The Claim

Part Three: The Becoming

The man beneath her is useless now--gasping, twitching, undone by the mere suggestion of her. A single word, a look, a flick of her tongue down the line of his throat had him spilling himself in desperate worship. He collapses, panting, murmuring broken praise as she steps over him like discarded meat.