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lrithill · 1 month ago

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Wishes Sweet as Cyanide (Chapter 1)

Hello everyone,

Once again, I have the honor of offering you another Art fic as a tribute—much to my own joy (and my mental breakdown’s delight).

As I promised, I’m dedicating all my focus to completing the requests my dear readers send me. This time, it was the turn for the "Art x Fangirl!Reader" request (or as I like to call it). So I want to thank “@partycityshowgirlfreak” once again for trusting me to bring her idea to life.

I have to say I adapted certain aspects to make the story feel realistic—that’s why this fic turned out soooo long… But I felt like it was necessary to explore the protagonist’s psychological and moral struggles, so you (the readers) could understand her, relate to her choices, and immerse yourselves as deeply as possible.

I have to admit, despite the many challenges (and there were quite a few), I had so much fun developing this. It’s the hardest fic I’ve ever written (and there’s still a second part coming), and the one where I’ve portrayed the most canon Art so far (with all that entails…💀).

Originally, I wanted this to be a one-shot, but when I saw it hit 8K words and wouldn’t stop growing, I had to split it—so you don’t have an aneurysm reading it all at once.

I also wanted to give a big thank you once again to @artstomfoolery (my main gif dealer 😂) for the awesome header gif. You should totally check out her blog, she makes the best Terrifier edits I've ever seen, and you can really feel all the love and passion she puts into her work. Go shower her with love and clown kisses! 💋🤡

🖤 SYNOPSIS:

It’s Halloween night: skeletons, zombies, vampires roam freely.

And you—you’re dressed up as the infamous Miles County Clown.

If only the night could turn out the way I imagined—oh, so many times…, you sigh, gazing at your reflection.

But be careful what you wish for… because sometimes dreams come true…

In the worst way possible.

🚨 WARNINGS: ⚠️ +18 (MDNI) ⚠️

Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Fantasy, Psychological Torture , Psychology, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Physical Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Violence, Gun Violence, Sexual Violence, Killing, Mercy Killing, Bullying, Moral Dilemmas, Knifeplay, Murder, Murder Kink, Corruption, Loss of Virginity, Virginity Kink, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Cannibalism Play, Dacryphilia, Humiliation, Gun Kink, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Mutilation, Sadism, Dom/sub, Submission, Slow Burn, Smut, Shameless Smut, Awkward Flirting, Pain, Obsession, porn with some plot...

📊 WORD ACCOUNT:

8K words... should I consider this slow burn? 😵‍💫

Sorry to say, there’s no smut in this chapter yet (just letting you know so no one’s disappointed), but in the next one… you’re going to get more than enough.😈🔥

And for those of you (very reasonably) worried about the "dubcon" tag… This fic is basically the "My mind is telling me noooo… but my body—MY BODY—is telling me YEAaAaAaAH" fic.

So, don’t worry too much. This reader—just like all us here—is dying to get her hands on Art, but at the same time, she’s scared shitless. That’s where the dubcon comes in…

I've seen there's interest in a name tag to let people know when the next and final chapter comes out. I thought it was a good idea, so if anyone else wants to be tagged in the next chapter, just let me know in the comments.😉

Thank you so much for everything, and I hope you enjoy it.

With all that said…

Lights, camera, action! 🎬✨

Stupid little hat.

I knew that damn string wouldn’t last ten minutes… you think—frustrated—while you improvise a knot under your chin with makeup-smeared fingers.

It’s Halloween night: skeletons, zombies, vampires roam freely. And you… you’re dressed up as the infamous Miles County clown.

Of course, you’re not the only one—the case of the killer clown has become an urban legend. Every year, copycats show up eager to give someone a good scare… just as many show up offended—calling it disrespectful to the victims.

But you, you don’t care—you can’t blame the killer for having such exquisite taste…

You stop in front of a glowing shop window to admire your handmade costume.

You look stunning.

A flared, skin-tight jumpsuit—half black, half white—with a plunging neckline that nearly reaches your pubic bone, barely held together by a fragile braided cord, on the verge of snapping and exposing your breasts completely. Makes you feel wild, dangerous.

Your hair—perfectly clown styled.

Semi-transparent fingerless gloves—long as a princess’s opera gloves—one white, one black, inverted to match the jumpsuit. The black glove discreetly hides a small tattoo on your forearm of your favorite clown…

Your nails, blood red.

Tall black shoes—with a coquette clown vibe, playful yet sophisticated.

A semi-transparent tulle ruff hugging your neck—like a gentle sigh.

And the tiny pointed hat—pierrot-style—black, tilted delicately to the left—innocent, almost childlike.

The black and white makeup, mimicking as best as possible the police sketch… though you’ve painted black hearts over your eyes instead of the classic clown stripes.

You look like an impossible blend of innocence and sensuality.

You smile at your reflection.

Honk!

You complete yourself with your own toy horn—no detail escapes you.

You feel perfect… perfect for—

BZZZ

The vibration of your phone cuts through the moment—it’s a photo, from your two friends… they’re also dressed as the monochrome “Art”—each with their own twist—posing with bloody smiles and Halloween contact lenses.

But none like you. None of them understands him like you. None of them have thought this deeply about this night.

If only the night could turn out the way I imagined—oh, so many times… you sigh, letting the warm air caress your cleavage.

“YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD”

A distant commotion snaps you out of your trance—you hear voices, muffled noises and… a honk?

A small group gathers in front of an old factory entrance, lit only by the poor Halloween decorations scattered along the street. One wearing a cheap, long pirate coat, dressed as Captain Hook, apparently; a woman with rushed zombie makeup, and the last one… in a pathetic pumpkin costume.

Among them, a man… cornered.

You see him—your heart skips a beat—; his black-and-white jumpsuit, his tilted little hat, his flawless makeup… almost too flawless to be real.

Your blood boils—a mix of rage, empathy, and… altruism?

They’re about to beat him up for dressing like him—for being him. You can’t help but see yourself in his place… tonight, it could have easily been you.

You feel the blood rushing to your face—awakened by adrenaline, helplessness and maybe… maybe something else.

"I’m gonna punch all your teeth out…”, says the pirate, shoving him against the wall.

The clown spits blood onto the ground… that bastard must have already landed a solid punch straight to his mouth.

You glance at the pumpkin—he’s as pale as a sheet behind the pirate—terrified—his hand looks like it’s bleeding… or is that makeup?

You look at the zombie, she’s nervously rummaging through a black garbage bag—the sweat running down her face smudges her makeup, revealing patches of her real skin beneath.

And then you see it.

A gun.

It peeks out from her trembling fingers, glinting under the flickering light.

The world freezes—a single second stretched tight like a wire.

You feel an electric shock shoot through you, from head to toe.

They’re going to shoot him, you put the pieces together.

Before you can even think twice, your legs are already moving—running.

They don’t see you, too focused on the man they’ve cornered.

You seize the moment.

"HEY!"

Your voice slices through the cold night air.

The pirate turns to you, stunned. The pumpkin steps back, stumbling into a trash can. The clown looks at you too—you have all his attention.

The zombie barely has time to turn around and points the gun at you with wide, dilated eyes—confused, panicking—pulse racing, hands shaking.

You launch yourself at her, your hands gripping the weapon. The gun swings through the air—tracing an arc.

BANG.

A shot flies into the sky. The zombie screams in terror, feels your nails digging into her wrist—followed by a sharp kick straight to her stomach.

You push with all your strength. She lets go of the gun. You smash her temple with the butt of the gun—knocking her out instantly.

Your hand closes around the gun, slick with someone else’s sweat. You lift it, gasping—now you’re the one holding it.

You immediately step away from the zombie—never letting your guard drop for even a second.

"STEP AWAY FROM HIM!" you spit out without thinking.

The clown raises an eyebrow—sarcastic, amused. That gun doesn’t quite fit in your hands.

Interesting…, he thinks.

The pirate raises his hands in the air—frozen—a quick gesture of surrender.

"Girl… it’s not what it looks like—"

But he doesn’t even get to finish the sentence… Turning your back on the clown was never a good idea.

In the blink of an eye, the clown’s arms wrap around his neck. His own hook plunges into his eye in an explosion of blood and muffled screams. Art forces the man’s fist all the way in, as deep as it can go twisting the pointed hook into his brain—the body twitches, convulses… and goes limp.

He drops the lifeless, twitching body—like a cockroach—onto the ground, tossing it aside like a garbage bag; without even sparing it a final glance… because his eyes are locked on you.

He smiles. And in his eyes… there’s something that makes your blood run cold.

You point the gun at him… but you can’t pull the trigger.

You’ve just watched him slaughter someone without a hint of remorse, right before your eyes… but you can’t shoot.

You have a weapon… and you feel weaker than ever.

"Shoot him!" the pumpkin yells at you from a pile of trash he’s stumbled into, unable to get up—desperately trying to crawl away from the looming shadow of the clown closing in on him.

Art moves his hand to his ear, making a “did you hear that?” gesture followed by a raised eyebrow—as if even he is judging you for doing nothing to stop this.

Then he tilts his head—watching you. The heavy silence seeps between you two, like an untold truth.

You feel like you’re in a lucid dream—everything moving in slow motion—you want to wake up… but you also want to see what happens next.

And then, Art knows you’re not going to shoot… not him.

He grabs the pumpkin off the ground, lifts him by the costume, tearing it apart in the process and leaving him nearly naked—only to throw him back down onto the dirty asphalt with a brutal shove, the pavement ripping his bare skin on impact.

He plays with him like an old, broken doll.

He kicks him.

Crack

He straddles him and starts jumping on his body…

The ribs.

Crack

The arms.

Crack

The legs.

Crack

But he doesn’t jump on his head.

No.

Crack

Tears blur your vision.

You feel like this is a test. He wants to see how much you can watch without moving—he’s doing this to see just how much torture you can endure witnessing without lifting a finger.

He forces him to stand again. The man immediately collapses, his knee jutting out at an impossible angle.

Art lifts him back up as if he weighs nothing—laughing, treating it like the guy is just tired. He bites off two fingers from one hand—only then do you notice he was already missing one from the other…

The man sobs, his thighs glistening with piss from sheer terror, babbling incoherently—Art mimics him, fake-crying into his shoulder while staring at you… he doesn’t seem in any hurry to finish this—he has all the time in the world.

You hastily wipe your tears away… and when you meet his gaze again—now, the expression you find there is terrifying.

He’s completely serious, so serious it looks like the whites of his eyes have vanished, and you’re staring into two faint embers inside a skull—the shimmer of a solitary star—like a nocturnal predator that has stopped playing with its food and now simply waits for you to act.

And then you realize:

He wants you to shoot the guy.

He wants you to be the one to end his suffering.

He wants you—since you can’t bring yourself to kill the one doing the harm—to end the one receiving it.

To show “mercy.”

You shake your head, a knot choking your throat, tears rolling down to your chin—like stalactites. The black hearts painted under your eyes drip like watercolor in the rain.

You’re not capable of killing anyone… The gun was only a threat, a talisman, you never really planned to fire it. And yet, here you are, caught in the cruelest dilemma: shoot one, or the other?

Either way, you shoot yourself.

Art rolls his eyes—sighs dramatically, like a child frustrated when their game controller runs out of battery… He supposes he can keep playing without consequences then.

AAAGGHH.

The guy arches back, veins bulging, eyes rolling white—a horrible, wet sound gurgles out of his throat.

He’s having a heart attack.

Art drags his hand comically down his face, frustrated by this—his opportunity, just died… Luckily, he still has one more victim to experiment—to use in his twisted games—with you.

The zombie finally wakes up—dizzy and disoriented. She looks around, her two friends lying dead on the ground—in front of her stand two clowns dressed the same, one with bloodied hands… the other holding a gun.

She doesn’t know what happened. She thinks you’re both accomplices.

She gets up slowly, hands raised.

"I just want to leave…" she says, clasping her hands together in a silent prayer.

Art gives you a nod toward the girl—pointing at her with his pupils—clearly telling you to aim at her instead… because she’s going straight to the police.

You obey…

"God no… I won’t say anything, please—" she cries, stepping backward, inch by inch, threatened by the firearm.

You look away from Art—just for a second.

And that—that—is all he needs.

Everything happens in a heartbeat.

You feel an arm coil around your waist—like a snake. The other slides—caresses—your arm from shoulder to wrist in a sickening motion—sending shivers across your skin like an electric current.

His fingers lock over yours, locking any attempt to drop the gun.

You don’t see him… You just feel his breath on your bare shoulders, the firm pressure of his body against your back—keeping you upright, pressed to him, like you’re his favorite puppet…

You don’t have the courage to turn around and meet his eyes…

Is he checking out my cleavage from up there?

Yes—that’s the thought that flashes through your mind in that fleeting instant.

BANG

Art pulls the trigger with your finger.

The woman—who you hadn’t even noticed had started running toward the factory exit—drops to the ground with a harsh thud.

A clean shot, straight to the skull.

Silence.

The only sounds are your breaths, and your heart pounding in your ears like a drum on the verge of shattering.

He remains still—and with a shiver racing down your spine—you understand.

Once again, this is a test…

He’s waiting for you to move.

You slip out of his embrace—he lets you go immediately, no resistance at all, as if he had read your thoughts, anticipated every twitch… you almost catch a playful smile on his lips.

And now, now that he’s right in front of you—it hits you.

Everything about him strikes you, like an arrow to the heart:

His height—even in your high shoes, he towers over you by a full head.

His features—inhumanly beautiful, sculptural, impossible.

His eyes—eyes that just watched death claim three souls, and yet still brimming with life.

His skin—it looks soft, smooth, almost like porcelain.

His makeup—perfect, meticulous… you notice every line, every shadow, every curve drawn with obsessive dedication.

His teeth—crooked, menacing, dangerous, hungry, dangerous.

His smile—horribly charming, a lie shaped like a crescent moon.

His presence—it takes your breath away.

And for a moment… you wonder if this will be the last image you see before you die.

But also… if you’d have the honor of dying in his arms.

HONK

His horn snaps you out of your daydream, as if he himself wanted to wake you from whatever you were imagining.

You snap back to reality and realize the gun is in his hands now… but to your relief, he tosses it back into the black bag it came from (it was his… after all).

You watch him move toward the zombie’s body, hopping—joyful, almost dancing.

He reaches her side, puts on a worried face—brows knitted together and lips pressed tight.

He crouches down—takes her hand.

Is he checking for a pulse…? you wonder.

Art shakes his head… then puts his ear to her chest—pretending to listen closely, just in case she’s still alive… and then stands up—wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead, relieved. He raises his arms in front of him and mimics clumsy zombie steps… only to shake his finger decisively—nope.

“Looks like this zombie won’t be rising again”, he tries to tell you with a half-smile.

Then he finds it funny, points at the body, laughs, slaps his thigh—seems to be mocking the corpse…

But then he points at you, makes a finger-gun gesture, imitates your scared expression, your trembling legs—he’s mimicking you…

He’s mocking you.

"I didn’t kill her!" you shout at him, almost like a child trying to convince an adult.

But Art laughs even harder, opens his mouth wide showing all his teeth, pretends to wipe tears—as if you had just told him the funniest joke he’s ever heard.

Then, he seems lost in thought… Suddenly lifts his index finger—a lightbulb moment. He starts pointing at the other two corpses one by one… as if he had just remembered them.

Finally, he turns back to you—showing you his palm with three fingers raised. He claps for you, gives you a small, theatrical bow—clearly congratulating you for doing such an excellent job.

“A grand debut. A standing ovation for tonight’s true star”.

"It was you, this is all your fault!" you cry out, feeling your eyes begin to sting, tears welling up.

But Art shakes his head “no”, over and over again… And the worst part is—that deep down—you know he’s right.

None of this would have happened if you’d had the courage to pull the trigger. You can’t lie to yourself:.. It didn’t take you long to see who the real threat was…

And now, you’re face to face with the evil you so blindly embraced.

Why didn’t you shoot?

He tilts his head—curious—, like a spider studying a butterfly caught in its web. He examines you. Devours you with his gaze.

You look around, and there’s a “Wanted” poster with the Miles County clown’s face on the wall.

It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together…

Art follows your gaze, finds it too. He rips it off in one swift motion.

He looks at it, comically. Turns it right side up, upside down, squints, tilts his head, narrows his eyes—as if he just can’t see the resemblance at all.

HONK

Now he points at you—waves the poster in your direction.

He points at you, points at the poster—opens his eyes wide, splits his lips in mock shock, puts his hands on his head—as if he’s just had a huge revelation.

And he smiles at you—and this time you see a different kind of malice in his eyes… not the same cruelty you’ve seen so far… it almost looks like his painted eyebrows wiggle, playfully, for a split second.

Suddenly, he fans himself with the poster, dramatically—fanning his face, his cheeks, even under his little tilted hat—clearly “swooning” over your choice of outfit.

He blows you a kiss, quick… fleeting.

You can’t help but blush a little at his “compliment.” You feel heat flooding your cheeks, blood surging like a burning river, your legs momentarily weakening…

Prr… Prr… Prr…

A sound snaps you back to reality.

Art is tearing the poster in half with his hands—slowly. His expression darkening with every rip of the paper.

You understand… You remember the scarecrow girl.

Your pupils dilate—you feel like a deer facing a hunter.

He’s blocking the factory door—there’s only one option left.

Find another way out.

Run.

You turn around and sprint—straight into the wolf’s mouth.

Art stands still, watching you vanish into the shadows—he gives you time. He doesn’t want the fun to end too soon.

He bends down for his trash bag, wiggling his fingers—eager. … Which will be tonight’s lucky weapon?

His eyes light up—he pulls out a double-edged hunting knife… perfect for his other half.

His gun isn’t left behind either, sliding back into his ankle holster, like in the old days—how could he ever forget the weapon of your “virginity”…? His task isn’t over yet.

A knife in his hand, another taped to his left ankle, and the gun on his right ankle…

It’s time to hunt fawns.

—--------------------

You run.

The air smells of rust and smoke.

The heat is unbearable.

You breathe so fast you feel like you might faint—you’re running out of oxygen.

Your heart flips at every corner you turn—expecting an arm, sharp teeth, a shot to the head, a stab in the stomach, a fall into the void.

A fall into the void…

The echo of your shoes pounds through the narrow hallways, like dry gunshots—they look so pretty… but they feel like a trap.

You think about taking them off… right as you step on broken glass on the floor—not a good idea.

The click-clack-click of your steps on the metal floor seems louder than your internal wailing—but not loud enough to deafen the thoughts that torture you.

Why didn’t you shoot? Why didn’t you shoot? Why…?

The question hits you again and again, like a hammer—you suppose this is what you deserve… You’re running from your decisions, from the ghost of your past, from the obsession rotting inside you.

From your inner monster.

You hear something behind you.

A faint dragging sound, the screech of metal against metal—an irregular rhythm… It almost seems to say:

I seeee youuu…

But you don’t look back… Not out of fear of seeing something awful, but out of fear that it might not scare you at all.

Irregular shadows flash across the walls at breakneck speed as you run aimlessly, deeper into your own mind—a dance of light and darkness that threatens to come alive as predatory hands at any moment.

I just wanted to have fun, it was just a costume, I didn’t want this… You repeat to yourself, like reciting a mantra.

But there are no gods in this factory.

Only you.

And him.

…or maybe you did want it. You finish the thought, as if it were a revelation, or someone else’s voice.

And then, like a self-fulfilling prophecy…

Something grabs your hair—yanks your head back so hard you hear your cervical vertebrae crack.

Pain.

A knife kisses your throat, the cold metal caresses your sensitive skin, like a death threat—a death poem.

You freeze, you can’t defend yourself—you’re at the mercy of helplessness, weakness, fear, and… something more.

You’re paralyzed.

The serrated edge of the knife traces your skin. Every breath—every slightest movement—threatens to slice your skin open.

This is it. He’s going to slash my throat into a blood waterfall and let me drown in it, you think.

And then, like a summer breeze, you feel the most unexpected thing—gentle, tender, almost endearing…

He is rubbing his cheek against yours, cold and hungry for your warmth—like a cat seeking affection, or marking its territory…

You feel his skin brushing your face, you don’t see him, you don’t hear him..

You feel him.

What… is he doing? you wonder, as if even thinking it out loud might put you at risk.

But a strange peace washes over you—your heart steadies… you breathe.

You’re in the hands of this psychopath, in this abandoned place where no one can see you—only your inner demons bear witness. You feel the weight of death on your shoulders and… does it feel like a gentle death?

But the mirage shatters—it was an oasis in the middle of a desert, a cruel illusion.

The knife starts moving down… and down… past your sheer tulle collar—the sharp tip barely grazing you, but always present—reminding you of the lurking danger… the darkness that looms over you.

The grip on your hair tightens—you feel strands being ripped out.

You feel a blast of hot air on your neck—he’s opening his mouth.

For a moment, the paralysis mutates into a sick kind of anticipation…

And then, you remember the teeth… you remember the torn-off fingers.

The knife settles on the first string of your plunging neckline. He pulls it taut—like tuning a broken guitar string.

To its limit…

The knife doesn’t stop, his mouth keeps moving closer—his intentions are clear.

Your pupils dilate, your fists clench—the adrenaline and survival instinct ignite you—set you ablaze—and, with lightning speed—before Art can even react—you bolt away at full speed.

You look back—this time you do—and once again, it makes no sense.

Art is pointing at you, he’s laughing, walking toward you, slowly, unhurried—confident, owner of the moment… in every sense of the word.

Then he bends down.

You touch your head, almost by reflex. Your stupid little hat has fallen…

He holds it up—plays with it, dances it in his hands, manipulates it at will, vulnerable, obedient… just like you.

A metaphor, a poetic mockery.

And Cinderella lost a slipper at the ball, he thinks—with a dreamy smile.

And—with a shiver—the puzzle pieces click into place… something tells you he’s just playing with you.

The mouse and the cat in a labyrinth—a physical and psychological torture: he attacks, he terrifies you, you escape… Repeat.

But…

What would have happened if you hadn’t escaped his arms this time?

You don’t stop to think about that—you don’t even know why you’re thinking about it in the first place…

You just keep running.

Art watches you disappear into the darkness once more—he sees your silhouette swaying, your hair flowing with every stride, the bells on your jumpsuit—ethereal, delicate—dancing around your ankles like silky ghosts.

You almost look like a dreamlike image.

A will-o’-the-wisp inviting him to follow you toward a hazy fate—a fate he isn’t even sure he wants to reach…

But something inside him… something is speaking to him.

He remembers.

You defended him from the three men who were going to beat him up.

You couldn’t shoot him, even when you watched him kill in cold blood.

You stayed in his arms—almost distracted—while he used your finger to execute the woman trying to escape…. you didn’t even look like you were in any rush to break free from his hold.

And now…

For a moment, you almost seemed to melt under his mouth.

And how could he forget your face as you watched him finish the men off one by one—you looked so confused. No, dumbfounded.

Of course you killed them, he thinks, with satisfaction—knowing how corruption poisoned your actions, your thoughts.

He remembers how you held his gun, your small hands—trembling—clutching the metal…

Those hands seem made to hold other things, an intrusive thought crosses his mind, uninvited—and to his surprise… he doesn’t like surprises.

Something stirs inside him—a sudden whip-like jolt of a sensation, sharp, strangely painful… bittersweet—familiar, yet foreign all at once.

Art tilts his head, staring at the little hat resting in his hand. A curious smile creeps across his face. His eyes gleam with that spark.

Something tells him tonight still has plenty to offer.

Something tells him things… are about to get fun.

He licks his lips, savoring the anticipation, and grips his serrated knife tightly—like someone holding a long-awaited gift. He feels the cold metal of the gun against his bare skin, waiting for its moment.

He takes a few steps forward. Stops—listens.

Footsteps—heavy, rhythmic, urgent…

Are you going upstairs? he thinks, as if you could hear him.

His gaze lights up.

It’s time to continue the game—and he knows exactly what he wants to try next—crosses his fingers… it’s gonna work.

And you… You keep running.

Unaware that every step only brings you closer to him.

—-------

You climb the vertical ladder to the upper platform as fast as your weakened, exhausted body allows—the world spins around you… The heat grows more and more intense, more unbearable.

You kick the ladder, and it collapses, crashing to the ground in a metallic roar—making sure no one below can follow. If this killer wants to keep the chase alive, he’ll have to find another way to reach you.

You feel safe on the upper floor, you can see everything from here, it’s a clear position of advantage.

You glance around—this looks like a control room. You see a huge panel with levers and buttons, heavy chains coiled in endless loops, a burning forge—filling the air with smoke and glowing ashes… fireflies of ember that drift and burn your skin at the slightest touch.

You can’t help but think there’s something beautiful about this infernal place—drowned in fire, metal, decay, and silence.

HONK

The tranquility and the silence… didn’t last long.

The sound—unmistakable—shatters the silence, ending your brief moment of respite. The echo reverberates through the entire factory, screeches in your ears, worms its way into your skull… this is torture.

Honk!

You answer with your own horn—sarcastic. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry…

But it’s coming from below, he can’t do anything to you from there…

Emboldened, you lean over the railing—a sudden wave of vertigo slams into you instantly. You’re really high up, the good news is, not even the best marksman could hit you from here.

You’re safe from him… safe from him… exactly.

HONK HONK

Finally, you spot him.

He waves at you, his fingers wiggling, childlike—but stained with blood—a warning and a lie at the same time, like everything about him.

He throws you a big, warm smile—he almost looks happy to see you—like an old friend you haven’t seen in ages.

You smile back… playing along from the safety of your tower.

I’m happy to see you too… you think, putting on your best fake smile.

He makes a sweeping gesture with his arm, toward the sky, toward you—referencing how far away you are from him, how high you’ve climbed—he almost looks hopeless, frustrated, discouraged…

His eyes land on the long staircase lying collapsed on the floor. He side-eyes you, places his hands on his hips and starts tapping his foot impatiently on the floor—sending you a disapproving gesture from below, clearly annoyed that you were so rude as to block his way like that…

That’s cheating…

The wolf is dressing up as a sheep, you think. It’ll take more than that for me to forget about—

Your little hat appears in his hand.

He holds it by the string—it dangles lazily in the air—so fragile and alone between his dirty, gloved fingers.

So vulnerable… so out of place…

He raises his hand, showing it to you more clearly—batting his eyelashes lightly, his bottom lip pouting out, a heartbroken expression on his face…

I brought your little hat back… and this is how you thank me…? his eyes say, glowing in the firelight like two shimmering drops of water in the wind.

Your heart skips a beat.

You both stay frozen in your positions—waiting for your words.

But your mind finds its voice before your feelings—before your poisoned wishes.

"And your knife?" you shout from above—you’re not that naive.

Art jumps, as if your loud voice had startled him—but it’s really your cautiousness that surprises him…

Acting with a cool head and caution… after all.

Art crosses his arms, furrows his brow—offended by your accusation… But then he quickly smiles shyly, shrugs innocently—you caught him.

He pulls out the knife he threatened you with moments before, holding it between two fingers—as if even looking at it might cut him… and tosses it away with a little kick—followed by his best good-boy face.

He raises his palms up beside his head.

…oops.

"Anything else?" you taunt him again, savoring the only moment of control you’ve had all night.

But he immediately throws his arms up high, pats himself down, rolls up his sleeves—to show you there are no "aces"—he spins around, jumps, shakes his legs like a dog, even takes off his little hat and looks inside—taps it with his hand, like a magician who pulls scalpels instead of rabbits…

He finishes with a broad, sweeping gesture from his chest outward—making sure you see he's perfectly clean.

Then he places a hand on his chest, extends it forward—like someone swearing on the Bible. A solemn expression crosses his face.

“No tricks, I swear”.

You laugh, a silent laugh that mixes with the sweat dripping down your forehead… Something tells you you can’t trust him… (possibly the fact he just stomped a guy to death and ripped his fingers off with his teeth like sausages mere minutes ago…).

But then you see it.

Art raises his head, stretches one arm to the sky—solemn—holding the little hat tight in the other hand—bringing it to his heart, with dramatic flair.

With all the emotion of a true theater performance.

He tilts his head, staring at you with desperation, parts his lips in a sigh—a silent plea—almost imperceptible… Asking you with his gaze, through the window to his rotten soul.

“Rapunzel, let down your long hair”.

You look at the control panel.

The levers…

The chains…

You can’t believe what you’re about to do.

Fucking clown.

—-----

CLANK-CLANK-CLANK

You pull a lever.

A chain slowly descends—you flinch at the sudden movement.

You hear the rhythmic metallic clatter of the links, clicking and tightening under the weight. The roar of the machinery groans beneath your touch.

Art watches the chain lower toward him, ready to carry him up into the heights—he wonders if you’re a princess locked in a tower, or a kitten stuck in a tree…

One thing is certain: you’re in distress.

The chain coils at his feet, curling like a submissive snake on the ground—inviting him to take a ride to wherever it may lead.

He grabs the thick chain and smiles—his hands and feet fit so easily. It’ll even make him look classy, elegant, triumphant—just as he imagined.

He climbs on—gives you a thumbs-up from below—his smile never fades.

You push the lever up…

A part of you hopes it gets stuck halfway, trapping him—forcing him to jump and fall to his death…

But another part… Another part wants to see what happens.

And that’s what disturbs you the most about all this.

The fact that you can protect yourself from him… but not from yourself. That you are the true threat in this labyrinth.

The chain responds, tightens under the new weight—like a mechanical monster tamed by its rider. The deep growl of the gears vibrates through the hot air. The clattering of the links syncs with the pounding of your heart.

CLANG-CLANG-CLANG

Art sways lightly as he ascends. His eyes, locked on you—shine with a playful gleam.

He even has the nerve to raise a hand, as if waving at you from the float of his macabre parade—illuminated by the glowing embers, the smoke, and the shadows swirling around him.

He rises.

And rises.

With every meter he climbs toward you, you feel your skin cling tighter to your bones. Your breathing turns ragged. Your mind screams at you to run—to shut everything down now while you still can. To grab another chain and lower yourself, retreat the way you came, leave him behind forever.

It would be so easy…

But your body doesn’t move, your fingers don’t let go of the lever, you almost seem to be pushing it upward with your own strength, as if you wanted to speed it up—you��re trapped in your own spell, your own curse.

You watch him as if witnessing the arrival of your worst nightmare… and your most secret dream.

Because even though he is the monster coming for you…

It is you who set the stage.

It is you who controls the lever.

It is you who wants to see him reach you.

It is you who wants this to happen.

It is you who has pronounced the sentence, sealing your own fate.

The chain creaks. The metal cries. The scorching air burns your lungs.

And you… You wait.

Like a condemned prisoner standing on the gallows, waiting to feel the void beneath their feet. The difference is that you are the noose… and the executioner… and the applauding audience.

—------

Finally, the marble-stained figure emerges from the abyss with a wide grin—he greets you by lifting the little hat—like a gentleman—grateful to see you and thanking you for your favor.

You smile almost involuntarily—a twisted smile, laced with uncertainty… But your eyes betray your fear. You feel as if the two halves of your face belong to two different people.

He jumps onto the metal platform as if diving into a pool—the ground trembles—it seems he isn’t afraid of heights—or maybe, he just isn’t afraid of dying, in general.

This is the moment you’ve been waiting for…

You and him. Alone. Face to face—no weapons, no distractions, no games… Nothing but the truth… and a decision.

Death approaches you—slowly—savoring each step. His gaze lowered, steps almost shy, a tight smile on his face, hands behind his back—like a teenager going to his first date.

You don’t move, you just watch him come closer—paralyzed… The only thing not frozen is your mind—thousands of thoughts bombard your imagination.

You have no idea what he’s going to do when the distance between you—inevitably—closes.

When you can feel his breath tangled in your hair, the scent of him, the weight of his gaze, the touch of his hands tracing your curves… the brush of his painted lips…

And without even realizing it—as if he teleported—he’s standing right in front of you.

You don’t have the courage to lift your gaze—your brain flashes every possible danger alarm in technicolor, tries to dissociate, to think of something else, anything to get you out of here…

You focus on his pompoms—you hadn’t noticed them until now, the survivor never mentioned them.

You find a false calm in those pompoms, gently swaying with every breath. You lose yourself watching them rise and fall—hypnotized, following their sway—forgetting for a moment the figure they complete, who still looms above you with curious eyes—you feel like a fawn in front of a wolf.

Then you feel the touch of fingers—gentle—under your chin. They caress your jaw—with a touch as soft as a feather—urging you to meet his gaze.

It’s almost… comforting.

But you can’t help but grow nervous—you swallow hard. You feel your breath quicken, your heart beating faster with every second.

And finally, you find the courage to stare into this portrait’s eyes—both the literal one painted before you and the figurative one hidden inside you.

You stare at each other—in the flickering glow of fire sparks dancing around you.

His expression is strangely pleasant—relaxed. He looks at you tenderly, with a genuine smile…

It’s infectious.

You feel your own heart calm, your body soften in his presence…

You pray the smudged makeup on your face is enough to hide the blush now blooming across your cheeks.

His fingers on your chin tilt your face up even more, drawing you closer to him.

He leans over you—carefully.

Your body acts on its own. You feel yourself rising on your tiptoes, almost imperceptibly—like a shy girl reaching for her first kiss. Your lips part—just slightly—as if you were about to whisper your most intimate secret to him. Your eyes begin to close—as if he were singing you a lullaby.

You can almost taste the kiss.

And then…

A knot.

A thin string tightens under your chin—subtle enough to wake you, yet constricting enough to choke your blood flow…

It really seems he doesn’t want you to lose your little hat again.

You snap your eyes open—a slap of reality slices through you. You drop back onto your heels—as if someone had smacked your forehead from a cloud above—the metallic thud echoes—dry—when you hit the ground again.

You feel the blush on your cheeks turn into burning fire, it stings your eyes, makes your lips—now trembling—swell.

You feel ashamed.

Stupid.

He beams at you. The gentle smile from moments before giving way to his trademark toothy, malicious grin.

He was only keeping his promise. Why else did you invite him up here?

He places it on your left side—where it belongs— and gestures at you, framing your face with his palms, like presenting you onstage—highlighting that now, finally, your outfit is complete… perfect.

His hands rest on his heart with affection and tenderness—truly delighted with your final image.

And then he freezes—his eyes unblinking, his smile frozen, his eyebrows raised. It makes your hair stand on end.

It’s… unsettling.

He blinks, twice. He’s waiting for the word.

…

"Thank you…" it cracks in the air like a dry leaf underfoot in autumn.

It almost feels like the word didn’t want to come out, sticking in your throat like a thorn.

The internal pain is more than palpable.

Art is satisfied.

The wax statue suddenly springs back to life. He waves his hand, brushing your words aside with false modesty—as if it were nothing.

“No big deal…”

His frozen smile melts into a coquettish one, he looks down with fake shyness—sweet embarrassment. He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, shoulders slightly hunched—as if such gratitude were too grand a gift for him.

His volatility unsettles you.

That behavior—erratic, unpredictable—feels unnatural. He shifts from charming to chilling, from coy to sadistic… in the blink of an eye. You can’t help but think there are several people living inside him… or that it’s all part of some twisted performance.

And you, an audience member unlucky enough to be chosen as a volunteer.

No.

It’s worse—more intimate.

It’s a puppet show.

And he…

He is the puppet master, pulling your strings from the shadows. Controlling everything with the cruel ease of someone who delights in your naïveté—without you even realizing he’s only toying with you, manipulating you however he wants…

And the worst part is you can see those strings… and you don’t even try to cut them—pure tragicomedy. You cling to them as if the play might take the turn you want, as if you could change the ending.

The thought sends a shiver racing down your spine.

The ending…?

A touch snaps you back to the present… pulling your mind away from that dark future.

Art has taken your hand—elegantly—like a gentleman inviting you to dance a waltz. Once again, you hold your breath at the sudden movement… you definitely didn’t see it coming.

He looks at you—head lowered, slightly tilted—his smile fades, his eyebrows curve in sadness, almost guilt.

An apology…?

You can’t judge a clown for his nature… he seems to say.

And yes, maybe he’s played with your emotions, maybe he’s hurt your heart, maybe he’s been cruel… but maybe this is his only way of being.

Your hands intertwine—your semi-transparent black fingerless glove blends with his own white one. You feel the touch of his skin—soft. You trace his fingers gently, surprised by their delicate texture—they don’t feel like the fingers of a monster…

Then—in an act you wouldn’t have imagined even in your wildest delusions—he lifts your hand…

And plants a kiss on your fingers.

Once again, the blush invades your cheeks without warning.

It was quick… but it felt real.

Too real.

You’re certain no one has seen him like this, that the Miles County Clown could be this sweet. You’re sure no one has shared a moment like this with him—so intimate, so peaceful, so warm, so… romantic.

In the end, you really were the princess in the tower—and he… he was the prince who came to take your hand…

But you realize Art is still holding your hand, completely absorbed by it—it still rests between his fingers, calmly, carelessly—as if it were something that rightfully belongs to him.

His eyes follow beyond your wrist, tracing your skin like a silent hawk from above—the path of your veins, the river of blood leading to your heart… Until his gaze lands on your tattoo—his own image.

His eyes light up, he smiles at his discovery.

He looks at you, his eyebrows bounce flirtatiously—you can’t help but feel embarrassed… very few people know about it. You usually cover it with makeup, but tonight it wasn’t necessary.

Once again, heat surges up your face… you don’t get a tattoo of someone for no reason… there was a motive—and too many thoughts behind it.

Art carefully pulls down the sleeve of your glove—like peeling off a second skin—to bare your arm, to expose your flesh. You feel the fabric sliding away—not even having your panties pulled down would feel this intimate—this erotic.

He kisses your fingers again like before… but now he moves up… and up… and up. You feel his lips traveling along your skin—soft, reverent—as if he were kissing the skin of a sleeping princess.

Your hairs stand on end when his wet tongue—like a snake’s—barely grazes you. Like the most subtle insinuation—the quietest declaration of intent.

Your breathing quickens, you can’t help but feel a growing wetness between your thighs—it clouds your reason.

And when he reaches your tattoo… he kisses it—with lips, with tongue, with teeth, with saliva.

With everything.

And as you watch him, you can’t help but think it’s a bit strange that he’s kissing his own image… but you suppose narcissism is common among psychopaths.

And—oh God—how you wish for those same favors on… other parts.

So you use it to your advantage.

"My arm isn’t the only thing I wear in your honor," you say, coquettishly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before pointing to your painted face.

Art lifts his gaze from your arm—with his mouth still savoring you—his eyes lock onto you like two stars—surprised… fascinated by your boldness.

“What are you suggesting…?”

He grins widely—a mix of mischief, playfulness, and complicity. His other hand starts to "walk" up your arm—using two fingers as tiny legs—climbing boldly—playing along with you.

You feel every step pricking your skin—like ants crawling all over you… and butterflies swirling in your stomach.

Until they sink into the curve of your neck—making you shiver and pull away from his invading fingers, laughing softly—only to finish with a boop on the black dot painted on your white nose—for being such a naughty girl…

You laugh—you feel tingles all over your body—especially in the least appropriate places…

But Art returns to his initial position, his eyes back on your hand—now ungloved, blank to him, begging to be remade…

He studies it carefully—twists his mouth, furrows his brow—as if not entirely satisfied with what he sees.

You worry for a moment.

Is something wrong? you wonder.

Art releases your hand—to your disappointment, leaving it colder than ever—and raises his index finger.

“Wait a moment”.

He throws your glove over his shoulder, as if it were an emblem of honor bestowed by a queen upon her loyal knight.

And the image that follows—you can’t believe it yourself—no one would.

Art kneels before you, in one fluid movement. And in his left hand, a ring appears—like magic—gleaming, radiant… yours.

Art smiles, looks up at you with eager excitement—expectant—he almost doesn’t blink, just waiting for your reaction…

Your answer.

That ring tempts you, you know it means nothing… but at the same time, it means everything.

You want it, not for the ring itself, but for what it represents. Because he’s offering it… only him. Because this would be proof of your bond—witnessed by no one but you two… yet it feels undeniable.

Once again, tonight… you don’t recognize the person moving your own hand…

You move your hand toward the ring—your finger outstretched, seeking that precious fit with conviction. You bite your lip in anticipation, hypnotized—your fate is written… and the future promises.

Marriage wasn’t in your plans tonight, much less with the Miles County Clown… but certainly, you would never rule it out if offered the chance.

Art watches your finger approach with restrained happiness. Your body appears steady, unwavering… for the first time since he first laid eyes on you.

And you slide it on.

It fits perfectly… maybe a little tight—but you don’t care… it’s better that way.

You don’t have time to pull your hand back in the exact instant the truth reveals itself—

That this—this—isn’t a movie, or a play, or a puppet show…

This is a circus.

And you are the fucking dancing monkey

In a single movement, Art rips the hidden gun from his ankle. He propels himself from the ground, and—without giving you a chance to react—his left hand clamps around your neck.

The other points the gun directly at your head.

He lifts you into the air…

The momentum itself is enough to leave you dangling over the edge of the railing…

—--------

Art holds you over the railing.

His grip on your neck is firm, commanding; the cold barrel of the gun digs into your temple.

Your toes desperately search for the slightest bit of footing, struggling to support your weight, to cling to the platform—to avoid feeling the terrifying height and the breeze that brushes your legs each time they sway over the void.

You grab onto his forearm with all your strength—your nails scratching and digging into his pale skin, leaving pink trails in their wake. You search for something, anything, to anchor you to life… even though neither vision—down below, nor in front of you—seems particularly safe.

Art cackles—bursts out laughing. He even pulls the gun away from your head for a moment to wipe invisible tears.

The truth is, he could spend all night playing with you… and he knows you’d let him win every single round. He could drop all the hidden aces from his sleeve onto the table, and you’d pretend you didn’t see them…

He laughs harder—laughs at you—the only glimpse of sincerity you’ve seen in him since you met him, undoubtedly. The truth is, he’s been laughing at you all night—and you, applauding his every joke.

His body shakes and shudders with perverse delight—the joke tells itself.

You curse yourself. You curse him—for how much you hate him… and for how much you desire him.

With a tear sliding down your cheek, you accept the reality:

Sometimes wishes do come true…

In the worst possible way.

His hand slides to your face. Now, he points the gun at your mouth—forcing you to open it. He commands you like a toy doll—obedient…

And you… obey.

Your black-painted lips part—tense—allowing, swallowing, the silver barrel.

The cold burns your tongue—presses it like a soft sponge against your palate. But you don’t look away.

Your eyes—broken—lock onto his.

You swallow hard, terrified.

Is this all that’s left of you?

You wish you had the courage to spit in his face as your final act, to show him you’re free and not a slave to his servitude.

But you can’t. You’re weak. Insignificant.

His.

He switches off the safety.

Click

He observes every detail of your face in silence. He stays still—entranced. Captivated by the image before him—he almost drools.

He loves it.

Seeing you like this, so submissive, so surrendered… so willing to die in his hands—to die for him.

The sight of your open mouth, painted black—decorated for him.

The filthy yet beautiful contrast of your nails digging into his flesh.

The wet, hot pressure hinted between your swollen lips—like a hidden promise.

He’s hypnotized—now it’s him who can’t stop spiraling. He hesitates between what he has and what he might still get—the greed is his worst enemy…

But Art is greedy by nature—he always wants more.

Always deserves more.

He’s corrupted you psychologically, emotionally, but…

Physically?

He feels that same whip-like jolt as before… just thinking about it. That electric current racing from his chest down into his deepest core.

He moves the gun inside your mouth—almost absentmindedly—forward, backward… fucking your mouth with it.

He admires how the barrel disappears—penetrates you—and emerges again, gleaming, coated in your saliva. Drool overflows from the corners of your lips, drips down your chin, soaking your neck in a wet, filthy sheen.

Now your eyes are closed. Your world shrinks to that rhythm. The metallic thrust invading and retreating, again and again.

He licks his lips.

His breathing quickens, as if he might faint from sheer pleasure.

God, it hurts him so much… and only you can relieve it.

Then he pushes it deeper. As far as he can—until your lower lip kisses his finger on the trigger. And his hair stands on end when he sees the bulge in your throat shift with the intrusion.

As if your own body confessed its surrender, without words.

God, you’re beautiful… No. Beautiful is what you could become, he muses, already inspired.

He’s going to turn you into a true work of art…

Thank you for reading all the way to the end!

I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

I know… I know… I left it at the best moment (I’m not sorry 😈).

I hope to have the second part ready in the next couple weeks if everything goes well, so you won’t have to wait too long to see how the story ends (I’ve already written 2K words hehehe…).

Thank you for coming along with me. If you liked it, leave a like or a comment—I always appreciate them and they really keep me motivated. Give this clownette some love. 🤡💋

With all that said, I’ll see you next time.✨

71 notes · View notes

lrithill · 2 months ago

Text

Pookie has a Cold (Art x gn!Reader)

Hi everyone!

Finally, I can offer you a new fic as tribute (I've been dying to share it).

I’ve been Missing In Action for over a month without giving you a single fanfic because I was drowning in university exams… so I’m sorry for abandoning you all. BUT my exams went really well (huge thanks to everyone who wished me luck—it seriously worked, the power was real), which means… the upcoming fics are gonna start dropping like hotcakes.

This fic came to life because an anonymous reader requested some domestic stuff with Art (you can read their request here). I know they also mentioned Pale Girl—I just couldn’t find a way to include her this time, because the dynamic with just Art and reader worked sooo well here for me. Buuuut… there might be a second part coming, and I definitely think Pale Girl would have a very interesting role there. 👀

Either way, I LOVE domestic stuff, so don’t worry, dear anon—you’re gonna get more than enough of that here, all delivered with love and clown kisses. 💋🤡

Okay, with that said, let’s get to the good stuff:

💙 Synopsis:

Art has a cold... POOR THING! HE’S A BABY… BABYGIRL HIM!😫

⚠️Warnings:

Excessive fluffiness, Art being the whiniest spoiled baby ever, you needing infinite patience (and possibly wanting to rip your hair out), consequences of sick Art: fever, snot, endless honks, pharmaceutical epic, soup, shower (it might get a little spicy in the shower, but it’s blink-and-you-miss-it).

📊Word count:

4,000 words.

With all that said… enjoy! 💌✨

1. Clinical interview

This is the last time you let Art leave the house without an umbrella.

The genius—he seems to have an actual phobia of those things—could be facing an Amazonian downpour and still wouldn’t think of putting one in his—more than spacious—trash bag.

And now, you have to pay the price of his anti-umbrella crusade: endless Kleenex, soup duty, and honks every five minutes.

Knock, knock, knock.

You tap gently on the door, the tray wobbling in your hands—you take a deep breath, steeling yourself… with Art, you just never know.

You open it—slowly—as if you’re about to unleash some ancient eldritch creature and… you were ready for anything—but definitely—, not this.

Art, wrapped in blankets like a Roman emperor watching his empire burn: vacant stare, horn pressed solemnly against his chest—the tragic flower atop his deathbed.

Drama level: Art.

“How’s my poor, little, sick, sick clown?” you greet him with a smile, approaching the bed to cheer him up.

He doesn’t even blink—deep in his Black Plague victim performance—life dramatically draining from his eyes… any minor effort might just finish him off.

“It’s just a cold, my love…” you murmur, sitting down next to him. “This is nothing to you,” you reassure him sweetly.

Art shakes his head. He raises a trembling hand and points at the nightstand; then lets it drop heavily and dramatically, as if the mere act might make his arm fall right off his body.

A piece of paper.

“Oh? Already signed your final will and testament? Let’s see what it says…” you tease, half-smiling.

You read:

“I regret nothing. I’d do it all again. (Except for the umbrella. Fuck that umbrella.) And as my final wish… I want to be taxidermied.”

You lower the paper.

“For obvious reasons, right?” you add, sarcastically.

Art nods, rolling his eyes, before wiggling his eyebrows—yes, for very obvious reasons.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, interrupting his… thoughts—taking his hand.

Honk!

He instantly snatches his hand back and presses it to his chest—as if your gentle touch had stabbed him through the heart.

He gives you the saddest puppy eyes ever.

“Oh! Your body hurts, doesn’t it? I guess I’ll have to give you a pill for that,” you whisper, a little bit worried.

Art swallows…hard. His expression changes in a split second—pills are not his thing.

“It’s not a big deal, honey. You’re going to survive this,” you soothe him gently, as if you were trying to calm a particularly dramatic toddler.

Art shakes his head, blank stare up at the ceiling—slowly, tragically—as if he were watching his entire life play in slow motion before his eyes.

I don’t deserve to die like this… The rain was my most worthy rival, he laments in his delirium, fully immersed in his fever dream.

Exaggerated. Yes—but your heart melts: clearly, he’s not used to being sick. Nothing serious, but for him… it’s the apocalypse.

You lean in and kiss his forehead, reminding him you’re here to take care of him.

“Oh, Art… you’re hot,” you notice. “I should check your temperature.”

Art winks—sick or not—he wasn’t going to let the joke slide…

You grab the thermometer from the nightstand and stick it in his ear.

50 degrees.

“ART!” you shout, convinced he’s about to die right there.

But he’s laughing.

Cheater…

You touch his ears: they’re burning hot.

“You were rubbing your ears, weren’t you? You almost gave me a heart attack,” you scold him, pointing accusingly with the thermometer. “Well then… drop your pants.”

Art turns pale—this caught him off guard. He slowly rolls over and starts unzipping the back of his suit like a scolded child...

“Hey, no! I was joking, my love. I can take it orally,” you reassure him quickly before he moons you.

He raises his eyebrows, finally understanding—relief flooding his face.

You place the thermometer in his mouth and wait for the beep.

37.5 degrees.

“Well… just a mild fever—”

You don’t even get to finish—Art launches himself into your arms, hugging you like it’s his last day on Earth—a lost soul desperately clinging to life.

Oh God… what am I going to do with you… what’s coming next? Let’s pray it’s just a 24-hour virus, because I am not surviving a full week of this, you think as you hold the sobbing clown against your chest.

“Shh, shh… it’s okay… it’s okay…” you whisper, gently stroking his head to calm hin down.

2. Lunch time!

You glance over at the tray still sitting on the nightstand. Maybe Art is hungry; maybe some food will distract him from his endless melodrama.

“Look, I brought you some food,” you say, proudly revealing a covered plate like you’re presenting a Michelin-star dish.

Art’s eyes light up—the first genuine smile of the day… and it vanishes just as quickly.

The smile dies the moment you lift the lid.

Soup.

He looks at you. Looks at the plate. Looks back at you. Then the plate again. His face drops to a level of seriousness usually reserved for kids birthday parties—dead serious.

“What is this, a joke? Because it’s not fucking funny. I’ve thrown up things that looked more appetizing.”

He doesn’t even need words—his eyes say it all—the sheer, soul-deep disgust is palpable. Maybe a death threat or two crossed his mind as well.

“I know you were expecting a big juicy steak, my love… but this will do you good, okay? You need nutrients.” You say it in your sweetest voice, silently praying he’ll cooperate.

Art stretches out his arm and points dramatically at a calendar on the wall, wearing the expression of a martyr about to be executed.

“Yes, I know it’s July, and yes, it’s hot… but it’s for your own good. It’ll just be a moment, and then you can have whatever dessert you want,” you promise, using your best hostage-negotiator training.

You scoop up a spoonful and bring it to him.

Art crosses his arms. He eyes the spoon warily, and as it gets closer, he leans back inch by inch—his frown deepening more and more.

“Here comes the plaaane…” you coo in a baby voice.

The spoon smacks into his firmly shut lips—you push, wiggle, search for a gap, try to sneak it in… nothing. Mouth on full lockdown—you end up tapping around his corners like you’re trying to find a secret entrance.

You pull the spoon back, disappointed but not giving up. You are patience incarnate.

“Okay… let’s try something else…” you think, a lightbulb flickering to life. “Here comes the angeeel…!” you sing out.

Silence.

His expression changes instantly. His eyes glaze over for a moment—clearly imagining Sienna entering his mouth.

The spoon slides in—no resistance. In fact, he almost seems to lunge for it—eager.

“Hey! Careful! Don’t break the spoon with your teeth,” you joke, laughing.

Art finishes the whole plate shockingly fast—far more obedient than expected.

You bring him a well-deserved reward: a nice cold ice cream (you didn’t even bother offering fruit—what’s the point?).

3. Medicine time!

“Well, now it’s time for your pill, sweetheart,” you say, handing him the pill and a glass of water, as if you’re about to deliver the final boss fight.

Art looks at the long white pill in his hand as if it were cyanide—with a fearful expression—like he’s doubting himself, like he’s mentally preparing for battle.

He looks up at you—shakes his head—defeated already.

“Art, it’s just a quick gulp, no fear,” you say, handing him the glass of water like a coach handing water to a rookie before a big game.

He nods—snorts—preparing for the worst, and raises the glass.

He starts to drink—

“No, no! Love, pill first, then water,” you stop him before the genius turns the whole operation into a splash zone disaster—making a mess and drenching everything.

He’s nervous—don’t judge him.

Art nods again—then spits the tiny bit of water he had already sipped back into the glass…

And now, finally—

He puts the pill in his mouth…

Drinks the water…

You wait for the magic moment: the gulp.

GULP

Eureka! It worked—!

Puagh…

The pill reemerges, perfectly intact, lying in his palm—his huge puppy eyes locked on you, the pill glistening pathetically in his hand.

I’m weak, his eyes confess.

“Darling… Don’t look at me like that… Come on, you can do it, I believe in you!” you encourage him once more, summoning all the patience in the universe for your spoiled, overdramatic clown.

He hesitates—then gestures with the pill, silently begging if you can cut it in half… because it’s way too big for his very delicate throat.

“Art… I’ve seen you shove things into that mouth that had no business fitting… unhinging your jaw like a damn snake,” you plead, exasperated.

He puffs up his chest, eyes laser-focused on the pill with a sudden burst of heroic determination.

Now this is it—

Pill.

Water.

GULP

…

He struggles—fighting an internal war—and then…

Puagh

Tragedy...

There’s no other way, you decide to end his suffering—you cut the pill.

That’s it. Mercy.

“What am I going to do with you…” you sigh. “You’re such a baby,” you add as he finally manages to swallow the second half.

He laughs.

At least he’s in a good mood (fingers crossed it lasts).

4. Check-up.

Once this pharmaceutical epic finally concludes, you start gathering the tray, the plate, the dessert, the thermometer, the pills…

And then you notice Art opening his mouth—way too wide.

Way. Too. Wide.

Oh no no no…

TAKE COVER.

As fast as a soldier diving into a trench, you grab the blanket and lift it over your head like a medieval shield.

ACHOO!!!

A ball of green, purulent snot splats against your blanket defense—with the force of a medieval catapult.

“Well, you sure store up a lot of snot in that big nose of yours,” you say, handing him a tissue, still hidden under the blanket—just in case there’s a second attack. “You could’ve aimed literally anywhere else but at me, you know…” You finally lower the blanket once you confirm the coast is clear.

Art blows his nose so loudly—a motorcycle sounds like a gentle purr in comparison.

Jesus, you can’t even stay mad at him; he’s too cute, too helpless. You can just feel sorry for him.

“It’s okay, my love,” you say, caressing his face, apologizing for scolding him. “But still… now I think I need to wash these slimy sheets,” you add, eyeing the mucus blob that nearly became a facial.

Art nods; even he thinks it’s pretty gross.

And speaking of gross things…

“Since I’m washing the sheets, I think I should also wash your suit…” you suggest, side-eyeing him.

Art gives an exaggerated shake of his head—almost personally offended—his suit is perfectly fine (totally not covered in a day’s worth of nose wiping, nope). He puts up his palms as if to say “That’s enough!” like he’s directing traffic.

“Let me smell—”

UGH…!

“God, Art, you smell like a broke nobleman’s jester! Not only do I have to wash the suit, but you need a shower… urgently…” you say, almost stumbling backward. “Luckily, I already filled the tub since I was about to shower myself,” you continue. “Anyone who came near you would think you’re a giant skunk sprawled here… Art the skunk,” you mock him.

Art hears this… and that’s it. He grabs a pillow and starts smothering himself with it—pretending to suffocate—he’d rather die dramatically than take a bath and hear this nonsense.

“Pookie! Listen to me!” you yank the pillow off his face. “I brought you a surprise…” you whisper, half-smiling—hooking his curiosity.

Art’s expression shifts immediately—suddenly focused, like a kid at a magic show.

“I brought you a bath bomb!” you reveal the legendary reddish object in your hand.

Art’s eyes light up instantly.

A BOMB?! Now that’s promising.

Art jumps out of bed instantly—like a kid on Christmas morning (apparently, he’s not sick anymore). His dirty clothes go flying—straight into your face, blinding you— and in the blink of an eye, he snatches the mysterious object from your hands—vanishes with it—as if you had never even held it in the first place.

He bolts out of the room, and you immediately chase after him to the bathroom—struggling to keep up with those ridiculously long clown legs.

Every heavy stomp… is a red flag. You start imagining every possible scenario of how this could ruin your plan.

“Art, wait!” you shout from behind. “You have to—”

PLOP

That unmistakable sound hits your ears just as you cross the doorway.

Art stands frozen like a statue, stuck in the exact pose he dropped the bomb in—an empty smile on his face, dead eyes, a single tear sliding down his cheek—as he watches the bomb dissolve into thousands of tiny bubbles.

No fire… no explosions… no glorious destruction…

At least it worked to get him up and into the bathroom, you tell yourself.

You lock the door—just in case…

5. Shower time!

“Stinky little baby…” you sing while wetting his head. “You need a shower…”

Art stares off into the abyss as the water runs down his face—the very picture of despair and betrayal.

“Stinky little baby… You smell real sour…” you keep going.

Art notices the bubbles still floating up from the now reddish water—and starts playing with them.

Pop pop pop

He pops them in the air, fully distracted—even tries to catch one with his mouth.

“See? It’s not so bad, right?” you say, watching him play. “Do you like the little bubbles?”

The moment he hears this, Art immediately crosses his arms, frowns—shoots you a look of pure, murderous disdain as the water flows down his face.

No.

Clear and absolute.

“Stinky little baby… You stink like pee and poo,” you finish the song, giving him a playful boop on the tip of his nose—and blow a handful of bubbles right into his face. “You’re a filthy baby,” you giggle.

He shuts his eyes and sticks out his tongue at you—full-on brat mode, like a sulky toddler.

You grab the shower gel and squeeze a generous blob onto the wash mitt.

Time to scrub the filth away.

You start scrubbing his arms, his chest, his neck, his ears—can’t forget the ears. You lift his legs out of the water to wash them too, the feet—absolutely crucial.

Art tries to yank his feet away the second he feels the mitt—turns out the Miles County Clown is ticklish, who would’ve thought?

“Hold still, love, I’m trying to wash your stinky feet,” you say struggling against the water, as if you were caught in the waves, as he flails around, kicking at the air like a dying insect.

Finally, you’re satisfied enough to release this squirming human cockroach.

Art is left gasping for breath—you reward him with a little kiss.

Truth is, he’s behaving better than you ever expected.

You keep scrubbing under the water—his stomach, his thighs. This time, instead of retreating... you feel Art pushing against your hand—actively searching for friction.

Especially every time your hand gets close to his… well, you know.

Suspicious.

“Art… You can’t be horny if you’re sick…” you scold, catching onto his little attempts.

Art rolls his eyes.

You’d be surprised, he thinks.

He smirks and splashes water at you playfully, soaking your shirt—it sticks to your skin immediately, outlining your figure.

Art licks his lips—eyes locked on your nipples poking through the wet fabric.

You see it in his eyes—you jump back quickly before he can grab you like a crocodile and drag you into the water with him.

His immediate reaction: Puppy eyes—big, glimmering, manipulative puppy eyes. Lower lip pout included.

Such a schemer...

He wants you to come back.

And the worst part… is that he’s absolutely going to win.

He grabs your hand and guides it right back underwater… urging you to keep going—a sly, dangerous smile spreading across his lips.

“Well… I guess I have to wash every part of you…” you say, giving in to his demands, biting your lip—seductively.

Let’s just say… maybe you washed those parts a bit more thoroughly than strictly necessary…

6. Getting cozy

“Look how nice my clown smells,” you say while helping him dry off. “You don’t smell like a sewer clown anymore—now you smell like a flower garden clown.”

You kiss him on the lips—he’s earned it.

It’s getting dark and a bit chilly—you don’t want Art running around naked too long, or he might actually get sicker. You decide to bring him back to your room.

You pull out his pajamas… the ones you made yourself, modeled after his original suit, since you discovered Art refuses to wear literally anything that isn’t his own clown-coded fashion.

It’s not exactly the same… but it works for moments like this, when his beloved suit needs a wash.

You help him put it on and tuck him into bed like a fussy mom.

You admire him.

“Ohhh, look at my handsome clown!”

Honk! —a playful honk.

“His pajamas look sooo good on him!”

Honk! —he covers his face with his hands, batting away your words shyly, blushing behind his palms.

“My cute little pookie baby!”

Honk! —he switches pose, now lying on his stomach, feet kicked up in the air, one finger on his lips—posing like a pretty, demure lady.

“He’s so tiny!”

Honk! —he immediately hides under the blanket, curling into a tight little ball.

Stop iiiit, he thinks—all flirty and bashful.

Now that you’re satisfied with your clown fashion show, you decide to finally go downstairs to grab the clean sheets—like you promised.

You turn around, head to the door, hand on the handle, open the door, and—

HONK

You spin around.

“What is it now, honey?” you ask.

You see Art gesturing toward his head.

“Does your head hurt? Do you want some ice, maybe?” you guess.

Art shakes his head… only to immediately nod after (he can't forget to keep playing the terminally ill patient role).

But then he points again, more precisely this time—to the left side of his head.

“Oh! You want a little hat? Is that it?” you finally get it, a lightbulb going off.

Art nods, rolling his eyes—like, finally, it wasn’t that hard to figure out.

His usual little hat is in the wash with the rest of his suit… so you rummage around for a regular sleeping cap you had stashed away somewhere.

You find it and hand it to him; Art snatches it and puts it on immediately—a king needs a crown.

“Better now?” you ask.

Art smiles proudly and gives you a thumbs-up.

“Great. I’m going downstairs to get the sheets, I’ll be right back,” you explain.

You turn around, head to the door, hand on the handle, open the door, and—

HONK

You sigh, forehead pressed dramatically against the door frame—he is absolutely doing this on purpose now.

You turn back again, with your best forced customer service smile.

“What now, honey?” you say as sweetly as humanly possible, trying to sound gentle, though your eye twitches... just slightly.

Thumb to his lips, pinky sticking out—water?

Palms together in front of his face—book?

Points to the TV—remote?

Forms a bowl with one hand, mimics shoveling imaginary food into his mouth—snacks?

Mimes pulling an invisible rope with one hand while the other stays outstretched—chainsaw? (Well, at least that part is normal.)

“Okay, okay… I think I got everything,” you say, absolutely overwhelmed but trying to keep it together. You get it—he’s planning to camp here for days and needs all his survival supplies.

Art claps enthusiastically, followed by rapid, impatient finger snaps.

"Hurry up!"

7. Bed time

You return with everything: a giant jug of water, a bowl of assorted snacks, a book you figured he might enjoy, his beloved chainsaw… and on top of it all, the sheets draped over your shoulders and head (you look like a giant, overgrown ghost).

You set the snacks on the nightstand along with the book, plop the jug on the floor next to the bed, and place the chainsaw right on the bed so he can cuddle it like a deadly teddy bear.

You hand him the TV remote, and tuck him in perfectly, like a pampered little, stuffed burrito—cozy, warm, and snug.

Art looks deeply satisfied with his royal treatment—he stares at you expectantly, waiting for your final words of praise—perhaps a kiss on His Majesty’s hand as well.

“Well, I think I’m done with you. You’ve been a very good clown today, my favorite patient,” you say, sitting on the edge of the bed. “If you need anything, I’m just a honk away,” you add, doing the 'call me' hand sign—half-laughing, half-dying inside.

Art nods, solemnly.

You give him a sweet kiss on the lips before finally standing up.

“You’ll feel better tomorrow, sweetheart. Get some rest and close those beautiful, bloodthirsty, murderous eyes,” you say softly, completely exhausted.

You turn around, head to the door, grab the handle, open the door and—

Honk honk…

You turn back yet again, the patience in your body officially on life support.

You look at Art—he’s staring intently at the floor.

You look at the floor.

His horn.

It’s fallen.

Art lazily stretches out his arm toward it—it’s literally inches away. He could easily reach it himself… if he weren’t in full baby mode.

He looks back up at you now.

I can’t, his big, watery eyes plead.

Alright, you think, sighing internally.

You walk slowly toward the bed—you feel his eyes fixed on you, tracking your every step like a shark.

You bend down to pick up the horn, look up to hand it to him and—

IT’S A TRAP.

Art jumps on you with the blanket in front of him, trapping you like a sack—a makeshift straightjacket—you thrash and squirm against the fabric, but it’s useless. You can’t see a thing, and you’re trapped like a pig in a hunter’s net—wrapped like a holiday ham.

Art lifts you off the ground effortlessly and tosses you onto the bed, still wrapped in your silky prison—he immediately starts tickling you, leaving you zero chance to fight back or even guess where the attacks are coming from.

A little revenge for the shower tickles.

But eventually, he seems satisfied—the merciless tickling slowly turns into gentle kisses and tight, warm hugs…

Finally, he sets you free—you pop your head out, gasping for air, as he leans on you, still not letting you move—pinning you down like a heavy, overgrown cat.

“God, Art… you almost gave me a—”

He makes a “shhh” gesture with his finger, telling you to be quiet.

Not that complaining would make any difference.

Art slides off you, settling right by your side—resting his head on your chest, his entire body melting into yours.

And then it hits you.

The water, the snacks, the book… they weren’t really for him—they were for you—, he planned all of it just to trap you, to make sure you wouldn’t leave his side.

And you realize that—despite all the soup, pills, and pep talks—what he really needed most was just you… Your time, your patience, your love—that was the real medicine.

It wasn’t all the effort you put into taking care of him, but the time you spent with him—that was what really made him feel better.

You shift slightly to get comfortable, thinking for a second about turning on the TV… but honestly, all you want is to pass out right here.

“Sleep, honey… I love you,” you whisper, planting one last soft kiss on his forehead.

Sleep quickly takes over both of you, and you drift off in a warm, tangled embrace. Your final thought before slipping under:

I’m 100% catching this cold. Tomorrow, I’ll be the one whining in bed, and he’ll be my nurse.

Oh no…

✨ Thanks for reading all the way to the end! ✨

I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did—I genuinely found it pretty funny to write (my psychiatrist probably won't find it as funny though, oops).

Honestly, I feel like this fic is perfectly wrapped up as it is, BUT—like I mentioned in the intro—if you guys want a second part where the roles are reversed (with the Pale Girl too, maybe), just say the word and I’ll make your wishes come true — I’d be more than happy to (even though I have a long list of requests waiting for me).

With all that said… I’m off for now! Don’t forget to leave a like or a comment—it’s literally the only way I can know if you want me to keep feeding you more of my delusions imagines.

Thanks for everything, and see you in the next Artventure. 🎪💛

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