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lrithill · 2 days ago

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Nightmare on Clown Street (Pt. 3: Happily Settled)

Hi everyone!

This is the third and final installment of Nightmare on Clown Street.

I want to thank everyone who’s followed the story, left likes or comments — it makes me really happy to know that, at the very least, I managed to make someone smile with this paranoid little fever dream.

This shit gets really wild. It’s definitely been an emotional ride, and I’m super proud of how it all ends.

(Though... a bonus track might be coming, considering how the episode wraps up — wink wink — it’s way too juicy to just leave it there. Hehehe.)

Hope you enjoy the chapter — and requests are always open for me!

Word count: 11,000 words (but it reads fast — it's pure action)

Warnings: Violence, mentions of sexual assault and rape, blood, fights, mild sexual content, sexual humor, butt slapping, involuntary boner, humiliation, religious symbolism, weapons, unconventional weapons, zombies, mutilation, distress, despair, funny food.

Here you got the 2 other chapters.

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/776929905368825856/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt1-the-prospective?source=share (Part 1)

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/777377407333171200/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt2-the-real-state?source=share (Part 2)

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*Inside the Church, before the disaster*

A bandaged-handed James, a barefoot Trujilda, and a serene Marian speak with the nun who was on duty at the church that fateful day.

—Sister Beatrice, please… You have to help us! —James pleads, hands clasped together as if hoping for a miracle—. By divine power, we are lost!

James lamented, utterly at the mercy of evil, and really, at the mercy of everything. Powerlessness had been his loyal companion all day long.

Trujilda was holding Marian in her arms, still with her face painted—neither Marian nor James had dared to touch her for fear of angering the demon, or whatever that dark entity was.

—Sister Beatrice. —Trujilda insists—. What can we do? Or what can you do? No one is better than you at handling this kind of calamity… no one but you can exorcise our daughter!!! —she is just short of pulling her own hair—. You have the divine power, the gift that God granted you… NO INFERNAL CREATURE IS STRONGER THAN THAT!!!

CLANG

The sister silences them with her bell, not even sparing them a glance.

—Shhh—she finally breaks her silence.

She was deeply serious, her wise eyes moving over the miserable souls in front of her.

Her perfectly pristine black habit fluttered solemnly in the breeze.

A long, heavy, and voluminous rosary adorned her waist like a belt.

She decides to ignore James and Trujilda’s desperate pleas and walks straight toward Marian—the bearer of the curse.

Trujilda lets her down so the nun can attend to her.

Sister Beatrice looms over the child, gazing at her with an almost sorrowful expression.

—Oh… Daughter… —she said with compassion.

—WHAT—Trujilda shouts.

CLANG

Sister Beatrice silences her again with a strike of her bell.

—Child… —she continues—. You had the dream, didn’t you? —she explains—. You carried the power of fire. And you emerged from the frozen waters.

“James, are you understanding a damn thing this woman is saying? The only thing I want to burn is myself,” Trujilda whispers in his ear.

“Seems like there’s not a single normal person in this place, damn it” he mutters back.

—Listen, Sister—James gets serious—. The coldest bath my daughter’s ever taken is at the beach. —he chuckles at his own joke—. We’re here because just a few hours ago, a man… well, a sorcerer of the dark arts, marked her as part of his cult.

—Exactly—Trujilda confirms—. So if you could do us the favor of helping, we’d be VERY grateful, and we’d be VERY happy to leave as soon as possible. —Trujilda smiles like the Cheshire cat from Alice and nods.

—A man did this to her? —She pulls away, Sister Beatrice’s expression softens.

She studies Marian’s face, grabs her chin, and drags her finger across her cheek, smearing the paint in the process.

—Well, would you look at that? The paint job turned out pretty nice, kid —she says like a granny.

—See, Dad? She likes it too! —Marian sticks out her tongue, mocking him.

James slaps a hand over his face in frustration.

—Alright, I’ve had enough of being mocked for today… Are you messing with us, Sister?! —he glares at her, defiant.

In response, the nun rolls up the sleeves of her habit, revealing some impressively toned arms.

Her expression, serious as an inquisitor.

James doesn’t even want to imagine what it would feel like to take a bell strike to the head from this woman—she looks more than capable. He immediately backs down.

—Y-you’re v-very strong, Sister… —he stammers, attempting to flatter the horseman of the apocalypse.

—It’s all from prayer: 3x15 reps of Hail Marys in the morning; and, Our Father, to failure. —she finishes with a bicep flex.

“If my hand wasn’t bandaged, I swear…” James grumbles under his breath.

—Do you think I’m deaf, you insolent? —inhales deeply.

—No… no… Sorry Sister… —James excuses himself pathetically.

She raises the bell aggressively above her head in a movement that surpasses the speed of light.

James clenches his teeth, closing his eyes… The worst part? He doesn’t even try to dodge the fake blow. It’s like he’s already accepted his fate.

Sister Beatrice chuckles.

—Even Jesus would bully with this misguided soul. —the nun laughs confidently.

Then, she takes a deep breath, regaining her composure.

—Your daughter was not chosen, fortunately. —she explains.

—Thank God… Wait, what does that mean? —Trujilda asks, nervous.

—The devil painted in white likes to play, yes… but he wouldn’t have let you escape so easily if she were an angel.

—THE DEVIL PAINTED IN WHITE?! —James and Trujilda scream in unison.

They cling to each other, and Trujilda blows her nose into James’ shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.

—What have we done to deserve this? —James cries—. Our poor daughter…

—I’m fine, Dad.

—NO!

Trujilda now turns to Sister Beatrice.

—Do you think I might be cursed too, Sister? —Trujilda blurts out, showing her fingers—. He licked my fingers, I still feel like my body’s been violated… he even held me in his arms. Do I have leprosy? LOOK! —her eye twitches… both eyes, actually.

—Pfff, child, worse things happened to me at the abbey’s summer camp. And here I am, almost 90 years old. —she dismisses it.

—Sister, for someone who’s almost 90, you’re as well-preserved as a can of tomato soup. —Trujilda remarks, astonished.

—That’s what going to mass does to you. Stand - kneel - amen - stand - kneel - amen... 1,2,3…1,2,3…1,2,3…

Trujilda crosses herself —Amen—.

—Oh please, you’re the one complaining? —James snaps back—. The white-painted devil dug his claws into my hand, I even had to bandage it, for God’s sake!!! —he shows his wrapped hand to Sister Beatrice—. It feels like the bones in my fingers are turning into knives, cutting me from the inside out. —his expression is one of sheer terror.

The Sister examines him.

—Mmmmm… That’s arthritis, son. —she rolls her eyes so hard they almost reach Christ himself.

CLANG

—Now I’m the painted devil girl, Daddy, hahaha— Marian grins.

—You have to do something, Sister Beatrice— James drops to his knees.

—The truth is… I feel his presence within you. In fact… I feel it drawing near and near.—her voice echoes through the church walls—. It’s almost upon us… —she finishes.

—-------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, Bruna, Art, and you on the road:

—AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH

HONK HONK HONK HONK —Art's mouth puffed up like dogs hanging out the car window.

—-------------------------------------------

—HOLY MOTHER OF GOD! —Trujilda nearly faints. James catches her in his arms.

—You will protect us, don’t you, Sister Beatrice? —James begs, while holding his wife.

—The devil was once God’s greatest angel... If the fallen angel rises, who am I to stand on his way? I AM NOTHING BUT THE BELL THAT RINGS IN HIS NAME…

CLANG

—If you wish to be saved—she announces—. Then God must test your worth.

CLANG

Sister Beatrice walks steadily toward the church doors with the confidence of someone who’s personally headbutted the devil. She gestures for the miserable family to follow.

They do—barely able to keep up.

—God gave me these legs to defeat evil, and I’ll run up the damn walls if I have to. MOVE, THE BEAST IS RIGHT BEHIND US!

James and Trujilda whisper to each other, breathless.

—Holy crap, this lady’s on turbo! —James pants—. She’s got the divine power stored in her calves!

—I don’t know if I should join a gym or a convent— Trujilda wheezes, trying to keep up.

Sister Beatrice comes to an abrupt halt at the church entrance. She looks over her shoulder with a confident smile, then blows a kiss to the sky dramatically, like claiming the very gods.

The sky darkens instantly. The sun is swallowed by clouds.

For a moment, it even looks like the moon tries to eclipse the sun—moved by nothing but Sister Beatrice’s unshakeable faith.

—At the convent, we pray hard… and hit harder. —She cracked her knuckles into a fist.

CLANG

Without another word, the nun slams the doors open.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Judgment has begun.

Right beside the entrance, sitting on the ground, there’s a homeless man.

Wrapped in rags, with silver hair so long it looks like a pigeon condo, his sun-worn skin and glassy eyes tell a thousand stories of life on the street.

In his lap rests a cardboard sign that reads: “Help me.”

—Feed the man— Sister Beatrice commands.

CLANG

—Let’s get to it. —the vagabond spits, not even pretending to care.

James, Trujilda, and Marian exchange glances.

Sister Beatrice slams her bell against the ground like a monkey.

CLANG.

—God is testing you. —she declares firmly.

Silence.

James rummages through his pockets and pulls out... an empty gum wrapper.

—Does this count? —he asks and wrinkles his nose

CLANG.

—Are you seriously trying to bribe God with trash? —Sister Beatrice glares at him.

—For God's sake, James! —Trujilda shoves him—. Don’t you have anything else?

James digs deeper quickly.

—I’ve got… a penny, an expired movie ticket, and… half a broken ibuprofen. —His mouth curls sideways, revealing his lower teeth…awkward.

—Why don’t you just hand me your toupee while you’re at it, genius? —the vagabond raises an eyebrow—. Brother, this is an insult even to a stray dog…

Trujilda, panicking, looks inside her purse and pulls out… her broken high heels, a used lipstick, and a half-bitten stocking (she chews them to relieve stress).

—TAKE THIS OFFERING. —she offers it like a sacrifice.

The vagabong dumps her offering onto the ground.

—The alley cats will be forever grateful to you, sister. —he smiles sarcastically.

Sister Beatrice covers her eyes with one hand, in absolute disappointment, as if she had just witnessed Christ himself stumble under the weight of the cross.

—But mom… —Marian tugs on her blouse—. You’ve got some chocolate bars back there.

—WHAT? NO, NO, NO. —Trujilda backs up against the wall, trying to cover her butt—. These kids… always clowning around, hahaha… —laughs nervously.

—You’re not fooling anyone, woman. Just a bite, come on… —the vagabond says with scorn.

—Those bars were bought for you, Marian! —she says, indignant—. And with our own money! —Trujilda nods frantically—. If they’d been a gift, that’d be different!

—Even Judas wasn’t this stingy. —the vagabond rolls his eyes.

—You’re beyond salvation— Sister Beatrice looks at them like she’s staring at Pontius Pilate himself.

—And you, child? —the vagabond asks Marian, without expectations.

Marian pulls a notebook out of her backpack.

—I can make you a paper plane… —she says sweetly, and folds one—. Look.

She throws it. It crashes immediately onto the floor.

—It flies like a pigeon throwing itself off a third-floor balcony, dear. —the vagabond mutters, deadpan.

Sister Beatrice sighs with the weight of a thousand disappointments.

—I expected nothing… and I’m still disappointed. —he says, rolling his eyes.

James crosses his arms.

—Look, sir… we’ve just moved houses, fled for our lives, I don’t even know if I’m gonna make it… I need a doctor —he shows his poorly bandaged hand to his face—. When exactly do you think we had time to stop and buy a sandwich?

Then James remembers… there’s a sandwich in his pocket (he saved it for later). Slowly, he slips his hand into his jacket and feels it.

“Maybe just a tiny bite…” he thinks.

But then he notices the bread’s already a bit stale… and instead of giving it to the poor man, he decides not to share it because “he’s not going to enjoy it enough”

—We are literally being chased by the white-painted demon! —James blurts out before his intrusive thoughts win, and he unconsciously pulls out the sandwich.

The vagabond raises his eyebrows in surprise.

—Oh!! So you’ve met my boy—he says with genuine joy—. How’s he doing? Still not brushing his teeth? We’ve got a bet going on who can last the longest without brushing. —He grins, revealing a set of teeth that look like he just devoured three packs of Oreos and a bowl of lentils.

Trujilda bends over, gagging into his ripped stocking before throwing up. She throws it near a trash pile, and a cat nearby also vomits.

—Is he your friend? —Marian’s eyes light up.

—IS HE HIS FRIEND?! —James whips around to Sister Beatrice, demanding answers.

—I simply tolerate him… unlike you. —the vagabond scoffed, with disdain.

Sister Beatrice massaged his forehead with her fingers, on the verge of snapping

—If none of you have anything to offer God’s servant… I will be forced to pass judgment. —Sister Beatrice declares.

The vagabond nods, supporting Sister Beatrice’s words.

—SIR! OUR DAUGHTER IS POSSESSED! —Trujilda shrieks.

—The only one possessed here is you, lady. —and then he looks at James—. Are you sure you're running from the right demon? —he sideyes his wife.

Trujilda is so offended that, if she could, her head would be doing full 360º head spins.

—Look, I get it… —he continues—. The demon, the possession, blah blah blah… but damn, you people are miserable. —He drops his head in his fist, radiating apathy.

Sister Beatrice sighs and shakes her head.

CLANG

—You have failed the test.

James and Trujilda stare at each other, utterly dumbfounded.

—WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE FAILED?!

The nun turns away indignantly.

—Didn’t you just beg for God’s mercy a few minutes ago? How do you expect mercy if you don’t even have a shred of compassion? —she points to the lying homeless man.

—Unforgivable. —the vagabond says, shaking his head in disapproval.

James stammers, unable to come up with a response.

He turns to his wife, desperate.

—Honey, how do we fix this?!

—I mean… maybe we can get him something later… —she replies.

The vagabond lets out a laugh of sheer disbelief.

—Oh, sure. Either you pay for my retirement, or don’t bother. —He brushed the words away with a flick of his hand

Sister Beatrice sighs, rubbing her temple.

—There’s nothing more to say. You are condemned.

—WHAT!?

—I said, you are condemned.

—Isn’t there, like… a Plan B? —James tries to negotiate.

—Plan B was feeding the man.

Trujilda presses her hands against her face.

—God, I want to set myself on fire RIGHT NOW.

James inflates his chest like a pigeon.

—Trujilda, listen to me… This is bullshit! —James shouts, completely furious—. There is no God, there is no Devil, and these two scammers are just messing with us. You enjoy our suffering, huh? —he says, referring to them—. Well, guess what? You’re both gonna burn in hell! —James lets out a deranged laugh—. Trujilda, Marian, we’re getting in the car and we’re leaving. YES, YES, YES… AND IF THE DEVIL REALLY EXISTS, LET HIM STOP ME FROM GETTING INTO THAT CAR!

BOOOOOOMM

He doesn’t get to finish before James' beloved vanilla-colored Beetle, suddenly, bursts into a massive fireball.

A towering tongue of fire rose into the cloudy sky—just like the tongues of flame that hovered over the apostles’ heads on Pentecost.

A blazing, red-hot flare –like a dying poenix–, that, to the family’s terrified eyes, definitely had a clown face.

James dropped to his knees—so hard—that he probably ripped his pants… in the back.

Prrrrrrc…

He clutched his head with both hands.

—MY CAAAAAAR!!! —he screamed to the heavens, just in case God was listening.

He stood up and ran, Trujilda and Marian following close behind toward their fiery destiny.

The vagabond watched them run off. Then, with a shrug, he reached under his mane of hair and pulled out… a sandwich bigger than his own head.

He bit into it with pure satisfaction.

—Bunch of idiots.

He proceeded to pull a bottle of wine from his coat and raised it in a toast to the empty air.

—God bless these morons.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chaos reigned.

A thick cloud of smoke and dust blanketed the landscape, making it nearly impossible to see anything. Glowing embers floated in the air—beautifully and deadly—burning the lungs and skin on contact.

James, Trujilda, and Marian held hands to avoid getting separated, slowly pushing forward through the choking haze, waiting for it to clear.

—I see something! —Trujilda announced—. A figure!

—Careful, it could be anything —James replied, fearing the worst.

The silhouette comes running toward them.

James assumes a defensive stance—the majestic “bald eagle with hippo on crack variation” pose.

The smoke clears just enough to reveal the mysterious figure and it’s…

—Bruna?! —Trujilda can’t believe her eyes—. What are you doing here?!

—Guys, for the love of God, you have no idea what I’ve been through… —she says, panting.

—Oh please, tell us? —James laughs—. I guarantee whatever happened to you doesn’t beat our nightmare.

—I literally almost died. —she begins—. I have driven downhill at over 180 km/h—

—I’m the hero of this story. —James cuts her off, silencing her mouth with his finger—. Stop trying to steal the spotlight.

—YOU?! Allow me to list all the heroic things I’ve done that you haven’t: I tried to rescue a hostage… I drove with a psychopath hanging off my car, I—

—A PSYCHOPATH HANGIN OFF YOUR CAR?! —James and Trujilda shout in unison, horrified.

—The clown you told me about over the phone. —she replies—. I only got here because you told me about him.

—Is he here? —Marian asks, a little too excited, a smile creeping onto her face.

—TELL ME YOU KILLED HIM! TELL ME YOU BLEW HIM TO HELL! —James screams.

—Blew him up? Yeah. But that bastard landed just fine. —she clenches her fist in frustration—. That dude’s good… way better than me.

—NO… NO… NO… NOOOOOOO— James cries out—. THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING.

—HE’S THE DEVIL—Trujilda grabs Bruna by the shoulders—. Sister Beatrice told us so at the church…

—I don’t know that who that Beatrice is, but honestly? I don’t want to meet any more new people today… —she sighs, tired.

—She’s good, she’s gonna help us when that freak shows up —James starts hyping himself up—. There’s six of us now, against two of them… they won’t stand a chance.

—Six? Who’s the sixth? —Bruna asks.

—The homeless guy, he’s with us too… WHETHER HE LIKES IT OR NOT. —fist clenched in fury.

HONK HONK

Everyone jumps.

The fog finally clears completely, revealing the silhouettes of the really main characters in this story.

You’re leaning against his chest, safe in the shelter of his presence.

Art removes his sunglasses and pulls down his hoodie, revealing his blood-streaked face—his own blood, to everyone's surprise–. He grins from ear to ear –his three new friends have returned.

He greets them with his signature wave, fingers fluttering. Bruna had delivered him exactly where he wanted to be.

“Should I tip her for the ride?” he wondered.

You’re terrified. You don’t know how this is going to play out, you don’t know what Art’s plan is—but you do know he loves intrigue. And best of all, you know he’s going to win.

—STAY BACK —James orders.

Art pulls an exaggerated “scared” face, lifting both fists to his cheeks like a little girl. As if James had actually intimidated him.

—Oh, so you’re still laughing at me, huh… Well, just so you know, now we’ve got the cornerstone… the one who, with the power of God, is going to destroy you. —James says confidently, a smug half-smile on his face.

To this, Art raises a hand to his brow, pretending to scan the horizon like he’s looking for this so-called Goliath they’re referring to.

Then he glances at you, frowning. He strokes his chin, fingers tapping dramatically as if deep in thought.

“Who the hell is this Messiah they’re talking about?”

—Art… I really don’t like this… What if… What if it’s Sienna? What if it’s a warrior angel? —you grip his hand tightly, knowing how serious that would be.

Art feels the way you squeeze his hand, and brings it to his lips, kissing it gently. Trying to calm you down, telling you without words: “it’s going to be okay”..

He looks at you with one eyebrow raised, then flicks his eyes toward the family, and back at you —with a condescending air— as if saying:

“Do you seriously think these people are a threat?”

CLANG

Art goes on alert, waiting for the mist to reveal the source of the bell.

—HA HA HA! THERE SHE IS! —James tastes victory on his tongue—. LONG LIVE CHRIST THE KING!

CLANG

Art scans the fog, his eyes darting rapidly from side to side.

CLANG

Finally, she appears. That unmistakable cloak, that face carved from stone, those cold, her all-knowing eyes locking onto Art.

Art meets her gaze. His smile spreads, revealing bloody teeth. His pupils dilate like a predator’s.

You glance at Art with uncertainty—when suddenly… he dashes away from you at full speed.

Sister Beatrice also charges toward Art, her veil whipping behind her in the wind, the burning ashes scorching her clothes.

Bell in hand.

Everyone holds their breath.

James lowers his thumb like a Roman emperor demanding death in the coliseum.

“Something has to happen. He’s always one step ahead”, you think.

The collision between these two forces of nature is imminent.

Art’s hands are raised in attack position, ready to grab that old woman by the head and slam her skull into the ground, splattering her brains across the ground.

Sister Beatrice charged at full speed, her eyes shut, her feet moving so fast it looked like she was levitating.

Her right hand was clenched into a fist, with only her index and middle fingers raised—possibly casting some divine miracle to shield her during the fight. At the same time, she whispered a prayer.

James dropped to his knees, trembling with emotion.

—SHE IS GOD’S CHOSEN ONE! THIS IS THE END OF YOUR REIGN, CLOWN! —he shouts at the top of his lungs

Everything had been decided.

The immovable force was finally meeting the unstoppable force.

The trumpets of the apocalypse echoed.

Fire rained from the sky.

The serpent against the Lamb of God.

Two weapons of mass destruction about to collide in a supernova of light and devastation, obliterating everything within a 50-meter radius.

And…

And then…

Let there be light

CLAP

And there was light.

HIGH-FIVE.

Only the wind stirred the dust and embers around them.

Bruna blinked three times, trying to process what she had just witnessed. James stood there, mouth agape, his brain shutting down like an old Windows PC.

—WHAT. —James couldn’t comprehend—. Wh-what was that? —He quietly put away the sandwich he had been enjoying (because, honestly, what better moment to have a snack than while witnessing your enemy’s destruction?).

—Wait, wait, wait… WHAT?! —Trujilda is absolutely dumbfounded—. James… fix this! QUICK!

Art and Beatrice pull each other into a tight hug, loudly slapping each other’s backs multiple times.

HONK—Art greets her.

CLANG—Beatrice responds.

Art claps his hands together, excited.

He gestures for you to come closer. Without hesitation, you do.

—Oh! So now you’ve got a girlfriend, huh, you rascal? —Sister Beatrice pokes him playfully in the chest.

Art grins and shrugs, moving on his heels side to side—putting on his best innocent little boy face—before puckering his lips in an exaggerated kiss, as if to say: “Who could resist this face?”

You give him a kiss on the cheek.

Art immediately puts on a shocked expression, as if you’d done something inappropriate. Then, without warning, he smacks your ass.

CLAP

The sound echoes through the entire arena.

—ART!

He simply points at you with his thumb, shaking his head while rolling his eyes toward the sky.

"I can’t take her anywhere."

—What I have to deal with… —you say, though you’re obviously joking.

—I feel for you— Sister Beatrice sympathizes, but for the first time, she actually laughs.

You introduce yourselves properly.

—Art, what the hell is this?! —you ask, still shocked.

To which Art responds by raising a hand to his ear in the shape of a phone —thumb and pinky out— and wiggling it, as if saying:

“I’ve got my contacts.” He winks at you.

He then starts mimicking a phone call while staring at James, mouthing the words like he’s talking to him through an imaginary line:

“Yes, yes, hello, yep, the alliance is confirmed. Uh-huh, everything’s in order. Kisses, bye.”

And ends it with a comical hang-up gesture.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dust cloud finally clears completely, and now everyone can see each other’s faces.

The sun has been completely swallowed by the cluster of clouds summoned by Sister Beatrice. Streaks of lightning—like glowing arteries—are visible in the sky, followed by deafening thunder.

A thunderstorm is approaching.

And storms? They're good friends with black magic—harbingers of the supernatural.

The only light illuminating the combat arena now is the fire from James’ car explosion, which—unlike Bruna’s car—is still burning and only growing more monstrous by the minute.

—I’M CALLING THE POLICE! —Bruna yells, phone in hand.

—YOU SHOULD CALL THE POLICE ON YOURSELF, YOU NEARLY KIDNAPPED ME! —you shout from a distance.

Bruna starts dialing the police.

Just as she’s about to press the green call button—

WHAM

James slaps the phone out of her hand and immediately stomps on it.

—If you’re gonna call the cops, do it to report me… ‘CAUSE I’M ABOUT TO KILL THESE BASTARDS! —James beats his chest like a gorilla—. YOU CAN WALK OUT OF JAIL, BUT NOT OUT OF THE CEMETERY. —He rips off his suit jacket and cracks his neck.

Bruna is speechless, staring at her shattered phone on the ground… and the gorilla-man standing in front of her.

Art is absolutely losing it, cracking up at James’ declaration.

He starts posing like he’s Mr. Olympia, showing off his “big and mighty” muscles to James (which he absolutely does not have). He flexes his spaghetti arms with such intensity that his face looks like he’s suffering from a severe case of constipation—but hey, it’s the effort that counts.

But when it comes to muscles? Sister Beatrice’s got the real deal.

She unleashes the massive rosary wrapped around her waist and wields it like a nunchaku with the skill of a seasoned ninja.

—ORAAAAA —she yells like she was just pulled straight out of JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure.

She launches into a flying kick, and the momentum carries her into two more spinning air kicks.

She soars through the air like a peregrine falcon.

She lands on the ground at the same moment a lightning bolt strikes her, electrifying her rosary and infusing it with the power of the storm veil.

You and Art watch her from behind—”thank God she’s on our side”, you both thought.

Art is powerful too. But you? Not so much. He glances at you, thoughtful. Then he looks around… and gets an idea.

In an attempt to help you not look totally underleveled, Art picks up his "CIRCUS" sign that somehow survived the chaos, and hands it to you.

It has powers. (Good luck figuring out how to use them.)

Trujilda ties up her hair and removes the stiletto heels from her shoes, brandishing them like dual daggers—slay queen mode: activated.

Bruna enters her “main character energy” phase.

Marian hides behind a bush, as if she’s watching a live episode of Power Rangers.

Both sides stare each other down from opposite ends of the arena.

In one corner of the ring:

James, bare-knuckled and burning with righteous rage.

Bruna, with her iron will forged in fire.

Trujilda, wielding stilettos like dual vampire-slaying stakes–ready to taste blood.

In the other corner of the ring:

Art, with his raw, innate power. (He doesn’t need description)

Sister Beatrice, armed with her electric rosary and unshakable faith.

You, holding the “circus” sign –at least it’s 1 meter long, for the record–, but you look more like you’re headed to a flat-earther rally, to be honest. (That stupid “circus” message making you feel like a real clown).

(Art still has that absurd butcher knife in his back pocket from this morning, but seeing that James wants to go bare-fist, he decides to level the playing field—for dramatic tension, obviously.)

And the fight begins:

Sister Beatrice charges in first, moving like a ninja, flipping through the air like a holy hurricane.

She’s moving at the speed of light—doesn’t matter. Bruna has already mapped out her trajectory down to the last millimeter… even before she moved.

Intercepts her mid-air with a powerful leap. A brutal kick lands directly on Beatrice’s face.

Any normal human would have their jaw unhinged by a hit like that—but Sister Beatrice keeps her composure, face dead serious—even as Bruna’s foot presses into her cheek like a soccer player winding up for a kick straight out of Inazuma Eleven.

Without breaking expression, Sister Beatrice twists her neck like a ragdoll.

Bruna’s foot slides forward from the remaining momentum—

And with her electrified rosary, Beatrice whips it like a cowboy lasso, snaring Bruna’s leg with the speed of Jesus turning water into wine.

She spins Bruna mid-air and slams her into the ground, hard enough to make the pavement quake.

Bruna is flung into a pile of trash bins, pinned there.

Sister Beatrice dives after her like a bald eagle from heaven, arms stretched wide like the wings of a fallen angel, bare feet aimed squarely at Bruna’s skull…

—MOSES SPLITTED THE SEAS! AND I’M GONNA SPLIT YOUR HEAD IN TWO!

Just as she was about to deliver the final blow, Bruna smiles.

She turns.

And…

MEOW

A cat.

Bruna grabs it without hesitation off the ground and hurls it into Sister Beatrice’s face. Claws sink in. The nun screams. Her eagle vision—blinded.

Bruna spins out of the way just in time, watching as her opponent writhes on the ground, struggling to pry the beast off her face.

She shows no mercy—unleashing punches worthy of Mike Tyson. If it weren’t for the rabid cat tangled in Beatrice’s hair, she might’ve bitten an ear off too.

—Try peeling that cat off, mother Teressa—she spits.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elsewhere in the arena—there you are.

You see Art closing in on James. You’re not sure if you should help him…

When suddenly, out of the corner of your eye, you spot Trujilda coming at you.

BAM!

She slams into your side, throwing you off balance.

Her hands—gripping her stiletto heels—swing toward you. She’s trying to stab you in a frenzied combo, an endless flurry of strikes, like she’s got infinite stamina.

She moves like an assassin, those sharp daggers aiming to pierce your flesh and kill you through sheer blood loss.

—THAT HOUSE IS GONNA BE OURS! —she screams, her teeth showing.

You stumble backward, dodging clumsily.

Her face isn’t even human anymore—it’s the face of a rabid dog, foaming at the mouth, like a starving, diseased vermin.

—I’M GONNA KILL YOU HA HA HA —she cackles—. I’M GONNA DESTROY YOU.

She raises both heels high above her head, preparing a fully charged overhead strike straight for your skull.

Now it’s clear.

The moment she lifts her arms, she leaves her chest completely exposed and—

BAM!

You slam the edge of the wooden sign into her ribs.

Trujilda spits blood and folds over, clutching her gut.

You seize the opportunity and strike her in the skull with the sign, dropping her to her knees.

You’re about to land another blow to keep her down, when she drives a stiletto heel straight into your foot with all her strength.

You scream in pain, trying to lift your foot—but it’s pinned to the floor, completely stuck.

With the other heel, she stabs you in the side of your thigh, making you bleed down your leg.

Trujilda stands up and goes right back on the attack—a hook from the right, followed by another from the left, over and over.

Several of those punches land—your blood spilling fast. . You stumble backward, and she stalks after you like a beast cornering its prey.

But then—you gather yourself.

You raise the sign and use it as a shield.

An attack comes from below—you deflect it.

Another from the left—you block it cleanly.

—I’M GONNA DESTROY YOUR STUPID SIGN! —she screams and spits blood in your face.

Her heels hit so hard they start puncturing the wood, splintering sharp fragments into the air.

The splinters dig into your fingers, pricking you, making them bleed—you won’t be able to hold this position much longer…

You need to attack.

Then, without warning, you shift the sign sideways, taking advantage of its aerodynamics in this position.

You smash the jagged edge right into Trujilda’s face.

You watch as splinters and her tears fly out of her eyes upon impact.

You don’t stop. With a swift backhand motion, you swing the sign again, striking her from the opposite side—another perfect blow, full of raw power.

This time, it’s not just tears flying—it’s teeth.

She spits blood but… for a brief moment… She smiles —that artificial smile, like a poorly made doll, with eyes nearly bulging out of her skull. Defiant. Still hungry for a fight.

You sense the advantage and push forward, winding up for a third strike—

But this time, Trujilda is ready.

Before you can land the next hit, she lunges at the sign, biting down on it like a velociraptor.

Her teeth sink into the wood, and with a violent shake of her head, she tears it from your hands, flinging it meters away.

Leaving you completely exposed.

She pounces on you.

You try to escape.

You run toward the sign, but you’re too late—she’s already leapt onto you like a wild snow leopard.

You crash to the ground in a whirlwind of heels, kicks, and fists.

You grab a handful of sand from the ground and hurl it into her face.

She inhales the sand, choking violently, as her eyes fill with grit, blinding her frenzied gaze.

She claws at her own face, screaming, scraping her skin raw with the sand, like an animal

Maybe that buys you some time.

But elsewhere in the arena—

The final battle is unfolding.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Art vs James

—NOTHING IS GOING TO SAVE YOU FROM THIS— James laughs, full of arrogance.

Art slowly turns around, raising an eyebrow, as if he seriously can’t believe this guy is talking to him. He points to himself, expression dripping with sarcasm:

"Mmmm… you talking to me? That was a good joke."

He chuckles and rolls his eyes, like he just heard the dumbest thing in the universe.

—When I knock your teeth out, we’ll see if you’re still laughing, asshole… —James grits his teeth—. You humiliated me in front of my wife and—

James stops mid-sentence.

His brain short-circuits at what he’s witnessing.

Art has turned around. His own arms are wrapped around his torso, mimicking someone making out with him—mocking the way he kissed Trujilda before.

Finally, he spins back around with a smirk, points at James with a single finger, and sticks his tongue out — mocking how pathetic he sounds.

—I’M GONNA TAKE YOU APART PIECE BY PIECE! SLOW ENOUGH FOR YOU TO FEEL EVERY SECOND, YOU PIECE OF SHIT… —James growls.

Art slaps his thigh in silent laughter dramatically —clearly amused.

James unwinds the bandage from his injured hand. His bones crack as he stretches it out, a dry, unsettling noise.

Art’s mouth forms a dramatically exaggerated 'O', then stretches into a mischievous grin.

And then—

RRRAAAHH

James rips open his shirt, revealing his bare chest (beer belly included), like some kind of tribal warrior preparing for battle. If he had a knife, he’d probably carve up his own pecs just to paint himself in his own blood.

Art’s pupils dart around, looking side to side, scanning for a hidden camera.

"Really, dude?"

—I’M RIGHT HERE! —James spreads his arms—. I WANT A REAL FIGHT! FIGHT ME LIKE A REAL MAN!

Art swallows hard.

He pretends to take off his pants, acting like he misunderstood James—as if to fight like a "real man" you have to strip down completely.

—OH! NO, NO —James covers his eyes with his hands—Just the upper body, god…

Art pulls a face like “ahh, of course,” and calmly buttons his pants back up.

It’s not that he has a problem stripping down, but the situation is so ridiculous he can’t help but laugh. Besides, he’s so pale that if he takes off his hoodie, he might blind everyone around him… this guy looks practically fluorescent.

He chuckles to himself, gestures to James with his finger as if to say “hold on a sec,” and starts undressing.

Out of habit, he glances at you—intending to turn this into an improvised striptease just for fun—

But then he notices you’re busy fighting for your life against Trujilda.

That concerns him a little bit.

He decides to get serious and wrap this up quickly.

Art pulls off his hoodie in one smooth motion, revealing his lean but moderately defined body.

For a brief second, he covers his nipples with his fingers, feigning shame—then immediately regains his battle composure.

He honks at James.

Honk? = "Fine?"

James gets cocky at the sight of Art’s slim figure—he doesn’t exactly look like a threat in a hand-to-hand fight.

*(Author’s note: Between you and me, Art is criminally hot and we would absolutely devour him head to toe. You know it. I know it.)*

James narrows his eyes.

—I’m not stupid… I know you have a knife. I saw it this morning. —points at his jeans.

Art rolls his eyes and mimics talking with his hand, opening and closing his fingers like a puppet—mocking James for running his mouth.

Slowly, he reaches into the back pocket of his pants…

And pulls out an absurdly large butcher knife.

(How the hell did that even fit in there!?)

He lets it drop to the ground with a loud—

CLANK

Art raises both palms, arching an eyebrow at James.

"Anything else, princess?"

—That’s it…— James grins, malice spreading across his face.

Art motions with his index finger.

"Come here."

James doesn’t need to be told twice. He lunges forward.

Art watches him approach, but he remains completely calm.

After all, he’s practically immortal—sure, he can feel pain, but at most, James might leave him with a couple of bruises before he knocks him out.

James throws a punch with everything he’s got, aiming straight for Art’s face.

But—Art moves with insulting speed.

PLAF!

His hand catches James’ fist mid-air, as effortlessly as a pro baseball player snatching a slow-pitched ball from a child.

James hears a crack.

—Shit…

Art twists his wrist —James’ immediate reaction is pure agony.

He doubles over, overwhelmed by the unexpected strength of Art, who’s now manhandling him like a ragdoll.

With his free hand, Art mimics a yawning gesture, as if this fight is boring him to death.

"Too easy."

James’ blood boils—if this guy wants to take a nap so badly, he’ll make sure to put him to sleep himself.

With his free hand, James swings a hook toward Art’s side, aiming below the ribs, straight at his organs.

But Art was already expecting it.

WHAM!

With his other hand, Art catches James’ second fist mid-air.

Art grins, watching him struggle completely immobilized—and without a second thought—

CRACK

Art slams his forehead into James’ skull with a dry, sickening thud.

A burst of pain explodes inside James’ head, and his vision flashes white.

If there’s one thing Art’s got, it’s a massive head (both, indeed)—that shit is like a bowling ball.

The bleeding is instant—blood gushes from James’ forehead, dripping down his nose and chin.

Art laughs—loud and unhinged—still holding James’ now completely useless fists.

—Oh, so that’s how we’re playing, huh? —he muttered under his breath.

James seizes the moment—he wraps his leg around Art’s knee, trapping him.

(Showing off those two Jiu-Jitsu classes he took.)

He pushes with his arms, trying to throw Art off balance—forcing him to let go, or risk falling to the ground.

And—

PAOW!

James headbutts Art right in the mouth.

Art is taller, so the impact smashes directly into his lips, splitting them open. Blood spurts.

—Who’s laughing now, dumbass? —James sneers.

But Art— Instead of spitting out the blood—

He licks it off his lips.

His pupils dilate—blood threads blooming in his eyes like shattered glass.

His sharp-toothed grin, now smeared with crimson, shows something more than just mockery and amusement.

Killer instinct.

The taste of blood awakens something feral inside him.

His gaze shifts, darkness spreads across his irises —fueled by the demon that lives within.

Art charges at James like a predator.

James doesn’t even have time to react before he’s slammed to the ground.

Art’s hands instantly reach for his neck, crushing his windpipe.

Choke—it’s the only thought in his mind.

James flails, throwing punches in every direction—desperate—writhing beneath Art.

But the force above him is inhuman — too strong, too ruthless, draining every ounce of his strength.

His lungs burn.

Art’s blood drips onto his face, thick streams sliding into James’ mouth, making him gag and making it even harder to breathe.

Art is determined — he’ll choke and crush until James’ neck looks like a vulture’s, until his nails puncture the trachea and shatter the cervical spine down to the bone.

His eyes no longer look human.

Not now.

He watches James’ face turn blue with satisfaction—and smiles.

But then…

Out of the corner of his vision—

He sees you, still fighting Trujilda.

And he remembers.

He remembers that you don’t want anyone to die.

The demonic glow in his pupils fades.

His hands release their grip.

Art’s eyes return to their usual color—green.

James is unconscious, breathing shallowly, but —he’s stable.

Art moves off of him, but remains seated on his body, exhaling deeply.

He finally relaxes, realizing James is still alive.

PLAP

He slaps him—maybe a little too hard…

PLAP

Another one, this time with the back of his hand—definitely too hard.

Art laughs, playing with his new toy.

—AGH!

With a violent jolt, James comes back to life— dragging in a desperate breath of oxygen.

Art gives him a thumbs-up and raises an eyebrow.

“You good?”

James barely nods, gasping for air.

Art gets up and turns around, admiring the chaos in front of him:

Bruna beating the crap out of an old lady who’s got a rabid cat tangled in her hair…

You, fending off Trujilda’s stilettos with a giant wooden sign…

He wipes a hand down his face, staring at the fucking daycare center unfolding before him.

“All this… just because I didn’t want to sleep on the couch.”

Art turns back around, giving James a soft, sarcastic clap, like “Well done, buddy. Not bad. You even made me sweat a little. Now go take care of your goddamn family and get the fuck out.”

Art turns around, and his eyes come face to face with a blade.

It flies straight for his neck.

Art turns just in time to dodge it—but not fast enough.

The blade slices his skin.

His jugular.

A jet of dark blood sprays out.

Art clutches his neck, trying to stop the bleeding.

His bare body gets immediately drenched in blood—the wound impossible to close.

His vision blurred.

—If you play dirty, then I’ll play dirty too... —James murmured, twirling Art’s butcher knife in his hand.

Art bared his teeth.

He should’ve seen this coming… He spared his life, and this is how James repays him—

With a knife to the throat, in cold blood.

“Bastard…” he thought.

Art staggered backward, retreating from the blade, feeling the flood of blood filling his lungs.

James walked toward Art, slow and deliberate.

—You are not gonna rest in peace, you are gonna rest in pieces… and then I’m gonna burn your body in the flames of my car. —He aims the knife at Art, already picturing where each cut will land, thirteen cuts exactly. No more. No less.

And then—

The ground trembled.

Cracks tore through the scorched battlefield, branching out like lightning beneath the burning wreckage of James’ car.

Deep fissures yawned open, splitting the earth with a thunderous groan — the world itself seemed to scream.

The fractures widened. A blinding, golden light surged from the abyss, as if heaven and hell had merged in molten brilliance.

Crimson and gold dust swirled upward in spirals, dancing like the ashes of forgotten gods.

James’ beloved car began to sink, slowly at first — then with sudden violence — swallowed by the earth's insatiable hunger, its maw opening like the jaws of some long-forgotten mythological beast.

The ground gave way beneath their feet, snapping the arena in two — twin islands adrift in chaos.

The roar of the earth echoed across the battlefield —

And somehow… It sounded like music.

A strange, sweet scent wafts up from the glowing chasm below.

“Gobble up your order, quick!

Before it runs away!

’Cause food's a little funny

At the Clown Café!”

Everyone stares downward, frozen in wide-eyed horror.

The ground is gone. Only nightmare remains.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elsewhere in the arena, Bruna’s luck runs out.

The ground collapses right under her, sending her plummeting straight into the void.

She lands on a tiny tea table.

—Mind your manners... Don’t forget the pinky... —whispers an old lady, who’s stirring her tea with a severed pinky finger—. HA HA HA.

Bruna jumps up instantly, totally disoriented.

She throws the tea in the old woman’s face, who just keeps laughing as it scalds her skin —bubbles rising across her flesh.

Bruna tries to climb the rocky wall, scrambling up. But just as she reaches the top...

MEOW

Sister Beatrice throws the same cat Bruna threw at her earlier.

(Revenge. Feline edition.)

Bruna screams in pain and falls with a thud.

Sister Beatrice dives into the pit after her, landing with flawless form.

She whips her electric rosary around Bruna’s neck like a lasso.

—Bad dog—Beatrice hisses—. That’s what you get for misbehaving,

She leaves Bruna chained to a pole like she’s a pet.

—AARRRGGGHHH!

Bruna growls and squirms, trying in vain to break free from the power of faith.

—God bless this disaster—she mutters.

CLANG

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Marian rushes across the twisted arena, desperately trying to find her parents.

She watches as each of them runs off in opposite directions, unsure where to go—She starts to cry.

—Have you opened your present yet, sweetheart? —a woman’s voice drifts up from the pit—

Every child gets one. There is no telling what you may find! —her tone is warm and sweet.

—A present? —Marian asks.

—You never know what surprises are waiting... —the woman giggles— Art will be so happy to have you come play with the other children.

—Art?

—And, speaking of surprises, he might even let you ride his tricycle... He only shares it with his favorites—Her voice is pure sunshine—. And judging by your makeup, I can tell you must be very special.

The cloud of red dust clears, revealing the woman behind the sweet voice.

She’s dressed like a clown, wearing a blue dress, a matching hat, and purple striped tights. Her makeup is also blue, with a wide, painted smile.

She begins strumming a banjo and dances cheerfully to the music.

Marian doesn’t hesitate—she jumps.

She lands on a couch shaped like a mouth, complete with teeth and a tongue.

A little boy with balloons for eyeballs hands her the black makeup pencil her mother had taken away earlier.

—Thank you —she says.

The boy smiles and floats away, inflating his colored balloon-eyes as he rises.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the other side of the arena…

Trujilda pulls away from you in terror at the sudden “earthquake,” jumping onto a platform that breaks off without warning.

She tries to leap to solid ground but ends up dangling from the edge.

—JAMEEEEESSS! —she screams.

Trujilda dares a first glance into the hole.

And what she sees… gives her all the strength she needs to pull herself up.

Something was approaching her foot…

A writhing mass of corpses—or is it a single creature?—twisting together in a tangled mess of charred children. Arms, legs, heads everywhere, like puzzle pieces forced to fit together.

—AAAAAAAAAAAAH! —she screams, a shriek so high-pitched it could shatter glass.

She finally scrambles up on her own, frantic, searching for James and Marian, terrified they might’ve fallen into this cursed pit.

But her eyes land on something else.

She now finds herself on Art’s side. His body covered in blood from the hemorrhage James caused—and the sight almost makes her vomit.

—Looks like my coward of a husband isn’t such a coward after all—she chuckles—.

Gave you what you deserved, you freak.

But Art isn’t listening.

The ground has split open between him and James, leaving a deep abyss between them.

Which, thankfully, saved him from more machete attacks.

But…

Who’s going to save you now?

Because James has just landed safely on your side of the battlefield.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

James staggers, but regains his balance just in time to turn toward you.

You take a step back as you see the shirtless man wielding a machete.

—Well, well, well… —he mutters, wiping the blood from his forehead with the back of his hand—. Look what we have here... Miss Clown herself. —he says, twirling the machete—

Nothing personal, but if your boyfriend wants to play with my stuff… I’ll play with his.---His eyes darken.

He licks his lips. That predator grin spreads across his face.

Art, still on the other side of the fissure, keeps pressure on his neck with both hands—blood slipping between his fingers.

He’s helpless…

But not helpless enough not to react when he sees James approaching you with obvious intent.

Art’s eyes blaze with fury.

—Well, well… from Arthur the Charmer to Arthur the Nearly Headless—Trujilda mocks Art, walking toward him with cocky steps— What trick are you gonna pull now?

Art doesn’t let her finish the sentence—

ZAS

He grabs her by the hair.

He shoves her face into his armpit, pressing hard, muffling her irritating voice into silence.

—jhafdoisnhd—she mumbles into his skin.

She tries to hit Art’s chest, but her arms go limp. Her screams fade. She collapses at his feet.

(Chloroform. The best deodorant. Approved by Art.)

Art turns his attention back to James—and you.

His brain calculating like a computer.

James steps toward you, crushing the wooden sign you were using as a shield.

You're standing dangerously close to the edge of the abyss.

—And you know what the best part is? —he says, looking at you— That when this is over, that clown will have to live knowing he couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. —He smiles, remembering how James himself couldn’t stop Art with Trujilda. —HOW IRONIC, RIGHT?! —he shouts over to Art.

You take a step back, your stomach turning from the way he looks at you.

The danger is thick in the air, like a knife pressing against your skin.

You know you can’t beat him in strength.

You know Art is too far away to save you...

—No… don’t come any closer —your voice comes out weak.

James laughs.

His shadow swallows you as he takes another step forward.

—Is that all you’ve got? Fear? —he tilts his head, pretending to pity you—. Don’t look at me like that… I just want Artie to know how it feels. And if I remember right… that true love kiss? That was your idea, you bitch. —he spits, and charges toward you.

Your hands shake, sweat making your clothes cling to your skin.

A chill runs down your spine as James lifts his hand, like he’s about to touch you.

On the other side of the abyss, Art stands frozen, out of options.

The gap is several meters wide—

He has no way to reach you…

Wait.

No way?

His eyes flash.

“What if…”

He could reach you… in part?

Without hesitation, he drives his fingers into the wound on his neck in one brutal motion, tearing the flesh apart—widening it, more and more.

He grits his teeth in pain—

But it’s the only way.

With most of the tissue now separated, he grabs his own head with both hands—

And starts to pull upward...

Pull...

Pull…

And then…

SHRUAAACK

He rips his own head off.

The flesh tears completely apart, and a fountain of dark blood bursts from Art’s neck like an oil geyser.

Art’s body holds his severed head above his shoulders.

His long, muscular esophagus, still attached to the head, drips blood like a cursed tentacle.

With one hand, Art’s body lifts his own head—. And with the strength of a professional pitcher, he hurls it in your direction.

Art’s head soars through the air, tongue flapping out like a dog sticking its head out of a car window.

HONK!

Art’s body calls for your attention.

You turn instinctively.

You see something flying toward you—strange, fast, impossible to process—until it lands in your arms with a solid, wet THUD.

Art looks at you.

You look at him.

He gives you his best smile and winks.

—WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?! —James freezes in place.

Still holding the head, you notice Art wiggle his esophagus, swinging like a handle.

And you understand perfectly.

—Don’t worry... I’ll aim for the squishy parts—you tell Art, analyzing James’ body—So, basically... all of it. —you laugh.

Art’s eyes light up—he loves seeing you so ready to beat the living hell out of James.

—You gave me your head... I’ll give you some head after this. —you whisper to him with a wicked smile—.A fair trade.

Art’s mouth drops open in shock—then he grins devilishly, his esophagus wagging like a happy puppy’s tail.

You grip the esophagus tight, wielding Art’s head like a medieval mace.

James can’t believe what he’s seeing—Is that woman seriously swinging her boyfriend’s severed head as a weapon?

(That’s relationship goals).

James steps back, but it’s too late.

—WHAT THE FU—

BAM!

You slam Art’s head into his face with all your strength. James yells in pain and stumbles backward.

—Our relationship is as solid as my boyfriend’s skull —you laugh.

BAM!

Another hit—this time to the gut. James doubles over, gasping for air.

Art’s skull is shockingly heavy. Hard as a rock. It’s like swinging a wrecking ball—one that won’t stop staring at you with that shit-eating grin.

James lifts his head, nose broken, eyes swelling.

He weakly raises the machete, trying to aim it at your body.

But you’re faster.

—Catch! —you call out to your boyfriend / weapon.

Art opens his mouth—And you swing him forward, never letting go of his esophagus.

His teeth sink into the blade of the machete—like a pit bull—just before James can swing it.

You yank the esophagus—And Art brings the machete back to you.

You catch it with your free hand, consider using it… but it’s not worth it. So you casually toss it aside, far away.

—This can't be real…THIS CAN’T BE HAPP—

BAM!

You shut him up with another skull-slam to the temple.

James drops to his knees, spitting blood, his nose broken. He has no time to react.

—We’re the perfect couple, James —you say triumphantly—The dream team. The dynamic duo.

Art smiles — then immediately makes a skeptical face, like—

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s gonna be living on aspirin tomorrow.”

But whatever—this is way too fun for him.

You lift Art’s head and plant a passionate kiss on his lips, tongues dancing, right in front of James’ horrified, disgusted face.

Art’s esophagus coils around your leg, which might be a sign of affection—maybe even sexy—

but, well… it’s still an esophagus.

(You don’t care. You love it. You’d swallow his entire digestive system if he asked—deeper, wetter, messier).

—HOW THE HELL DOES A SEVERED HEAD HAVE A BETTER SEX LIFE THAN ME?! —James pulls at his hair. —I HAVE ALL MY LIMBS AND LOW STANDARDS!

—–––––––––––––––––––––––––

Meanwhile, on the other side of the arena—Art’s body wobbles a little, arms hanging loose by his sides, awaiting commands from a brain that’s… not there. It stays upright, only reacts and moves through sheer muscle memory—Basically functioning like a zombie.

A puppet of nerves and instinct.

Until he detects movement.

Specifically—Trujilda, stirring at his feet. Still loopy from the chloroform, groggy and mumbling nonsense.

She grabs onto Art’s legs clumsily, trying to find something to help her stand. Her small hands, with long nails scraping against Art’s skin… similar to yours…

Instantly, his body associates this with one thing.

"Woman."

And, naturally, he does exactly what any brainless man does the moment he registers the presence of “woman”.

He sits down.

Grabs Trujilda.

And puts her across his lap, in the classic “old-school dad punishment” position.

CLAP

The sound of a spanking echoes through the air.

—Aaahh—Trujilda moans, still high as a kite.

CLAP… CLAP

Art’s body keeps spanking her, completely unbothered. He moves like a machine, showing no reaction. Just following his natural impulse, spanking with mindless dedication.

His body moves on instinct—muscle memory at its finest. He’s far too used to your rhythm.

Trujilda keeps moaning, babbling, drooling, her body flopping around like a ragdoll over Art’s lap.

And, obviously, let’s not pretend—He has an erection.

—–––––––––––––––––––––––––

Trujilda’s moans and the sound of spanking reach your ears.

—Oh! Oops… Did you see that, James? —you tease, pointing at them—Looks like your wife is finally finishing what she started. —you laugh—. All it took was a little alone time with Artie, and she threw herself at him. Guess she really wanted it all along, huh? —you love messing with him.

Art and you burst out laughing.

—I’m jealous now, I want a turn too… —you whisper into Art’s ear.

Art wiggles his eyebrows —twice— already picturing all the filthy things he’s going to do to your ass later.

—TRUJILDA, STOP MOANING LIKE A DOG IN HEAT, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! —James yells, his face so red it looks like he’s about to explode, the vein on his forehead bulging like a damn river—. STOP HIM! —he orders you.

Art and you exchange looks.

Both of you raising a single eyebrow, completely baffled by James’ request.

—HIM?! —you reply sarcastically— She’s the one throwing her ass in his face… —you glance down at Art’s head in your hands— Uh… well, technically, in his neck.

Art bursts out laughing.

You’ve had your fun.---It’s time to end James’ suffering.

You take control of the situation.

You walk toward James, smiling, swinging Art’s head like a weapon at your side onze more.

—No… No… No… —James pleads—. We’ll leave, I swear!

—And where exactly do you think you’re going? —you ask.

—We’ll move far, far away from here… —he laughs nervously, still backing away, trembling.

—That’s what I like to hear… —you continue walking.

—We won’t tell a soul. We’ll leave you alone forever; just let as go, please… this stays between us. —he lifts his pinky in a pinky promise.

—That’s what I want to hear. —You nod—. Now, you’re gonna grab your family… and you’re gonna get the hell out of here.

—YES! YES! Absolutely! —he clutches his chest, dramatically—.Thank you… Oh, thank you!

Art sticks out his tongue mocking how pathetic he sounds.

—See how soft he gets when he’s put in his place, babe? He’s basically a chihuahua. —you say to Art.

You both laugh.

James, taking advantage of your momentary distraction—

Runs.

But oh… James.

God has other plans.

In the blink of an eye, James finds himself falling off the cliff.

PLAF

He plummets into the cursed abyss, as if he had tripped over something invisible.

—AAAAAAHHHHH—he falls like a cartoon character.

He tumbles down dramatically.

—AAAAAHHHHH—he keeps screaming, even though he’s already on the ground...

Well… more like inside a pot.

—SPECIAL DISH! —a sausage-faced chef spins around, multiple arms holding different kitchen utensils (Knives, a blender, salt, a frying pan with boiling oil).

—You can’t make an omelet…—his egg-faced assistant mutters—, without BREAKING a few eggs. —crushes two eggs in his fist, yolk and shell dripping between his fingers.

—Ugh… Another one? — says an obese clown in the kitchen—. Well, at least this one looks juicy.

—TRUJILDAAAAA! —James wails like a little bitch, realizing his fate.

Meanwhile, back on solid ground— the most effortlessly cool man in the universe lies calm.

—Idiot... —the vagabond mutters.

He was perfectly camouflaged with his ragged coat and wild hair—If not for the smell of food and wine, he’d be completely undetectable.

He had been hiding in the bushes, tripping James at the perfect moment.

—Hey, Art… You still going through with our bet of not brushing teeth? —he says.

Art stares at him in silence, then smiles—very, very slowly. His smile shines… but for all the wrong reasons.

—That’s my boy. —He pops a mint into his mouth and…—Ha ha ha! You fell for it! —He spits the mint out—.YEEEAH!

You have no idea who this guy is. And frankly, you don’t care.

Art and you exchange looks.

Art blows a raspberry at James in the pit, emphasizing the ridiculousness of the situation.

"What a way to go."

You glance at Art’s body on the other side of the abyss.

Trujilda has gotten up and is now fleeing from the headless body, which is desperately trying to hug her and grind up against her like a needy dog.

Eventually, it gets tired of chasing her— So it just kicks her in the ass, sending her flying face-first into the Clown Café.

—JAMEEESSS! —she screams.

She lands in a swimming pool full of cereal.

A child with pure white eyes emerges, grinning.

—Look! I found a balloon shaped like a snake! —he says.

Trujilda forces a disgusted smile.

The balloon immediately morphs into a real snake and lunges at her.

—JAAAAMEEESGLUGLUGLU— she gurgles, sinking into the milk mid-scream.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You turn to Art’s body, which is standing there, literally like a headless chicken. Just existing. He's standing there, not knowing what to do, staring into nothing, thinking about… nothing, of course.

Art gestures with his pupils toward the "CIRCUS" sign on the ground. Somehow, it looks brand new.

You crouch down to pick it up and hold it in your arms.

—Should I throw it at him? —you ask.

Art nods, moving his pupils up and down.

You throw the sign at Art’s body—like a boomerang. The body senses the movement and catches it automatically when it hits the ground.

It disappears…

—Wait… what? —you mutter, wondering where it went.

And then—it appears right next to you.

—Ooooh! So that’s what it was for.—you laugh… but you still have no idea how he did it.

Art rolls his eyes:

“Of course, girl…”

The hole suddenly closes— just as fast as it had opened.

For a moment, it almost sounds like it burps. It seems to have accepted its sacrifice. And now, it’s satisfied.

You approach Art’s body, about to reattach his head, but you realize—yeah, you’re gonna need duct tape for this one.

You hand his own head back to him. He holds it at belly level, like he’s cradling a bag of potatoes.

—Mmmmmm, hey Art— you ask your boyfriend’s severed head— What do you think is gonna happen to them down there?

Art furrows his brows.

He rests a hand on his chin and makes a deep thinking face—as if to say:

"I’ll think about it later."

—Guess you could say they’re finally… happily settled? —you laugh at your own joke.

Art’s body does a little happy hop, clearly approving.

It enthusiastically nods Art’s head up and down—let’s be real, if his stomach were still connected, he would’ve thrown up at least three times tonight.

His pupils swirl around in their sockets like a cartoon character.

You decide to take his head back into your arms, cradling it like a baby.

You kiss him on the lips.

Instantly, his body reacts.

A —very prominent bulge—, forms in his pants.

—Oh! He felt the kiss! —Art never ceases to amaze you.

You can’t help but glance at his decapitated body–which, let’s not forget, is still shirtless.

—Damn, you look sexy like this —you murmur, licking your lips.

Your hand trails down his abs, appreciating every inch of his lean muscles—but you stop right before reaching his very obvious boner —it twitches.

Art blushes.

He definitely felt that.

“There’s clearly a connection between you two,” you think, smirking.

—Time to go home, guys, —you announce—. It’s late, and we deserve some rest. This has been one hell of a ride.

And with that, you, and both halves of your boyfriend, walk back home to your sweet little haven.

One hand holding Art’s body’s hand, the other hand holding his head.

—I love you so much, Art. —you sigh, full of affection.

His body lifts your hand to his lips to kiss your hand, just like he always does when you tell him you love him.

Of course, this time… there is no head above his shoulders. No lips to kiss your hand.

—I get it, —you tell his head, chuckling—.This is proof that you love me with your heart, mind, and body.

Art flutters his lashes, smiling.

"You make me lose my head," he thinks, laughing to himself.

Without a doubt, no one would ever set foot on Clown Street again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hope you liked it.

And yes — Sister Beatrice and the vagabond are the Clown Café characters from Terrifier 2.

If Damien’s not gonna develop his characters… then I will.

If I ever end up making Chapter 4 (wink wink), I apologize in advance, because that's gonna be so deliciously nasty, in the best way possible.

Here you got the 2 other chapters:

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/776929905368825856/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt1-the-prospective?source=share (Part 1)

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/777377407333171200/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt2-the-real-state?source=share (Part 2)

22 notes · View notes

abysswalkerastraea1 · 5 months ago

Text

Sporadic Contingency

The predicament you found yourself in was utterly unfathomable. Death was yet to come for you, perhaps it was because you had a lot to offer the clown; he in turn reciprocated. Perhaps he thought you were amusing, for now.

Your morals must be twisted because one thing was for certain: There was no denying the unshakeable, terrifying tension building between the two of you.

12,400 words

Slow burn

Rough sex (obviously!!)

Art being a fucking dom

The predicament you found yourself in was utterly unfathomable. In fact, thinking back through foggy thoughts, you couldn't really trace back to where this started.

You supposed fate aligned correctly for you. Logically speaking, you had a lot to offer the clown, and he in turn reciprocated favours.

Living within the vast forest adjacent to miles county, not many people ventured into the thick greenery. You had resided here for some time, at first with your father and then on your own once he passed.

You're grateful for the fact that your father had such a lively business. If not for that, you doubt you'd ever be able to live so well and comfortably all alone on the outskirts of the county.

You lived in an old cottage with ample firewood to stay warm and luscious land that stretched afar. A lot of it you used to keep animals.

You were accustomed to fattening the pigs up through spring while they birthed their young and slaughtering them in the winter for food supply. It was just another day at work for you; not that you had to work. You could live amiably without any need of strenuous hard work like farming, but you enjoyed it.

It was more of a passionate hobby than a job.

You travelled into town for any necessities you may need in your fathers old truck, but largely remained to yourself and a chunk of the townspeople knew that.

Some called you crazy for living in nature while that killer was on the loose, but you moving into town didn't necessarily change your chances of survival.

Thus you stayed put.

It wasn't until one clear night just after Halloween did you hear a disgusting squeal coming from one of your pigs. It was the sound of a slow death, and it startled you enough to grab your late fathers shotgun and storm outside courageously to see just what the hell was stealing your livestock.

You expected an animal. What you found instead shocked you.

A man, tall and lumbering and clad in a monochromatic clown costume kneeled hunched over one of your pigs, it's body twitching and steaming as it's hot innards met the chill of the outside air.

You heard the wet sound of his hands delving into the pigs guts and gripping a handful before bringing the meat to his lips.

This stranger was eating your livestock. Devouring them like an animal, raw and uncooked and grotesquely bloody.

You remained frozen, shotgun pointed, glancing at the black bag that lay beside him full of various menacing tools stained crimson.

If your father taught you one thing, it's that you should treat people with kindness, especially the strange ones.

The weirdos are the most dangerous, and living out here all alone meant that if one ever wandered into your land, it was probably best to treat them as a guest and act amicably, if only for your own safety.

Steeling your nerves, you cocked your head at the man, seeing the gap appear in the pigs abdomen as it's organs were devoured.

"Might want to cook that, stranger." You spoke gently, shotgun lowered to the floor.

The freakish clown paused, fingers laced in guts, head turning slowly and deliberately to the side.

"Tastes better that way, personally. Cooked, I mean." You shifted nervously from foot to foot, the chill of the autumn air getting through your pyjamas.

Maybe coming out here in nothing but some bottoms and a vest wasn't such a good idea.

The mans side profile was lanky even while crouched. His face held extremely prominent features, and you began to wonder if they were prosthetic or not.

You dared to step directly behind the stranger, his blood shot eye staring at you from the corner, pig entrails held frozen. They were cold now.

"Come with me. I can cook that right up for you, throw a few herbs and spices in and make that a great dish."

The clown let the guts slip through his fingers, gloves tainted red, and stood to his feet slowly. Your breath froze in your throat at the way his height seemed to grow and grow as he extended fully, back straight and rigid, and turned around almost menacingly to stare down at you with a dirty grimace.

Apart from the bizarre clown face paint, he appeared incredibly beat up. His one eye was completely red, and you wondered if it was simply shut from injury or if it had been gouged out. It was hard to tell with the amount of blood covering it.

He had a few large gashes littering his body in various places too. His clown costume was ripped terribly.

You both stood silently, your body shivering lightly at the blustery wind and your hair tousling gently. The clown remained unperturbed to the elements.

His good eye was narrowed into a glare, face contorting in an ugly fashion, eyeing your bare feet, your lowered shotgun, up to your bare shoulders and then finally back to your face.

An ominous smirk began to stretch across the strangers visage. It was actually rather unsettling, even without the pigs blood covering him. Merely the smirk alone set your nerves on edge.

You cocked your hip, hand resting on it comfortably as you stared up at him. "So, what do you say? It's a cold night, and you're looking a little worse for wear. Come on in, I'll help you out." Your words were true, and you think the stranger sensed that, but he seemed keenly aware of the way your voice shook.

You don't know how you knew that. Maybe it was the way his lifeless eyes shined dimly at the way it shook. Eventually, the clown nodded slowly, wordless.

You offered him a smile and a nod of finality. "Great. Follow me, if you would." You dared to turn away from this maniac, though you supposed if he wanted to kill you he could easily do that while you were looking at him; He was huge.

Not in the muscular sense, but in height he was at least a head and a half taller than you. Incredibly lanky and thin but from the way he was devouring that pig, he definitely had strength.

Walking a few steps, you paused suddenly and spun around, your silent guest directly behind you. It startled you but you tried not to let it show. "Mind grabbing the rest of the pig? Wouldn't want it going to waste. I'd do it myself, but you know how a lady gets.", you chuckled breathily; it was hard to speak when his void eyes were staring at you, smirk still somehow present and frozen on his face.

"--Don't want to dirty these pyjamas, they're my favourite. And, pardon me for saying but you're already dirty, and you'd no doubt be able to pick it up with ease, so..", you finished lamely, smiling as genuinely as you could.

It felt forced that time. He was starting to unnerve you.

Finally, the clowns expression fell into one of light thought, doing a visual sweep of your stature. It embarrassed you slightly, maybe he was judging your pyjamas. They were simple, but your favourite. Or maybe he silently agreed that yes, he could easily pick the animal up compared to you.

Dead weight was heavy, after all. And he was a big guy, in a sense.

The clown grinned this time, large and sharp, showcasing bloodied teeth, before nodding vigorously. Clapping excitedly, he hunched down to gather up the pig remains and nodded at you, as though to say 'lead the way'.

Smiling in return, you turned and led him to your home.

As soon as your back faced him, your expression morphed into one of doubt and anxiety.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

That was some time ago. It was mid winter now, and Art - the odd clown that had spelled his name to you in blood on your window - was no where to be seen.

You hadn't seen him for two weeks, he often appeared when he wanted and left for days on end too.

You had both settled into an accord of sorts.

The clown was a maniac, yes, and had often tricked and teased and terrified you with knives and hammers, pretending to finally put an end to you only to stop millimeters from your face, laughing silently and slapping his knee dramatically.

You screamed each time, gripping your chest in terror but forcing a breathy laugh to escape you, shaking your head. "Got me again, Art. When will I ever learn?" You tutted, voice shaking and body trembling.

You knew it was only a matter of time before he killed you, surely. So, you did things to keep him happy.

Like offering your old, worn out barn as his work place to fix up his weapons or create new traps. It was dingy and damp, but Art didn't even mind. His mouth opened into a perfect 'o' shape, eyebrows high in surprise, pointing to himself and then to the barn.

"Yes," you had confirmed to him, "the barn is yours. Do what you like with it, I.." you had paused. Art sensed something was left out and cocked his head at you with a menacing smile, hand under his chin as though he was ready to listen to you spill a secret.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Art. Im happy to give you the barn, you do what you want in there and I won't ask questions, but in return I was wondering if now and again, when you're free to of course, if you could help me around the place?", you asked softly, sweetly, your round eyes staring up at him so innocently he often wondered if he should pinch your cheeks until the flesh tears off or flail you.

Maybe not yet. He liked having you around for now. You were sweet and entertaining, and cooked good meals.

Art tilted his head left and right in deep thought, eyes rolling up to the sky as though truly debating with himself, before his large hands suddenly slammed down onto your shoulders heavily, causing you to gasp aloud, eyes wide.

Art began to silently laugh, lifting a finger and thumb to roughly tug at your cheek, before nodding excitedly.

You sighed in relief. Well, you couldn't very well ask him to spare your life as a favour, so you supposed asking him to help you with chores was your only option.

In a way, you think he was amused by how ballsy you were. He was terrifying, after all.

Thinking back to the present day, you hadnt seen him for two weeks, which meant he was either out on a killing spree or recuperating after a nasty fight.

You've since gathered that this man, this thing, isn't really human. He eats because he enjoys it, but you've seen him go weeks without food. This thing you've allowed into your home was demonic, and its sick how fond of him youre growing.

Sighing, you felt fatigue catching up with you as you had spent the last few hours tending to the fields, animals, and other chores such as gathering wood and cutting them into pieces.

Mindlessly lost in thought, you bent down to pick up a log, putting it into place and heaving the axe up ready to cut it. Your arms were shaking; how long ago did you eat? Well, it was around 4pm now, and you've been busy since around 7am, so it's been far too long, and you were ridiculously sweaty even in the mild winters day.

You lifted the axe, elbows suffering and shaking, before huffing loudly and dropping it back down. You really needed a break but you also really needed to start getting this wood ready for the cold winter nights.

Determination taking over your features, you lifted it again, fatigue overwhelming you but to hell with it because you had things to do before nightfall. Inhaling deeply, you lifted it high, stumbling forward as you let the axe split the wood sloppily; it was very off mark, and if your father was here right now he'd make you do it again.

The axe embedded itself into the surface below, and with both hands you gripped the handle to try and wrench it out but to no avail.

Huffing agitatedly, you gritted your teeth and tried again.

The sound of a honk startled you, your entire body jumping and a yelp escaping your throat as you spund around with a hand held to your chest.

"Art!", your tone held accusation but you still laughed. "How long have you been standing there? Please dont tell me you witnessed my horrible attempt at cutting wood.."

Art shrugged, picking up the pathetic attempt at cutting the log in half and scrutinizing it. He shook his head and closed his eyes as though disappointed.

You flushed in embarrassment. "Yeah, that really was a sorry attempt..", you turned back to the axe, gripping it and tugging. It didn't budge.

Suddenly, a pale, gloved hand gripped the handle and ripped it out with ease. You blinked at him in shock, watching at how he slyly looked down at the axe in his hands and then at you, rolling his eyes as though to say 'have I got to do everything around here?'

For a speechless clown, he was sassy. And terrifying.

You smiled tiredly. "Thanks. I'm so hungry and sweaty and gross and ugh--", you shook your head, "ignore me. Are you hungry? I'll go and--"

Fingertips touched your lips to silence you, and then a finger shot into the air, telling you to wait. The clown eagerly knelt down to rummage through his bag of..mysteries.

He excitedly rubbed his hands together as he found what he was looking for, and delved in to grab it tightly.

The clown spun around to face you, item hidden in box, and closed his eyes dramatically, then stared at you pointedly.

"Oh, um..Close my eyes?", the clown nodded happily at you being able to understand.

Your pulse increased, fear gripping you. You wouldn't refuse him. Closing your eyes slowly, you held your hands out. "I-I trust you, Art. No funny games, okay? Please.", you pouted.

Art cocked his head at your pouting lips and shaking hands. He had that unexplainable urge to squeeze you tightly and also cut your lips off with a scissors. You were adorable, he'd admit that. He wondered if a day would ever come where you'd flutter your cute eyelashes at him and he'd grab a knife and burst your dazzling blue orbs.

Maybe one day, but not today.

It was only on rare occasion that you'd catch the sadistic killer of miles county choosing to not act with violence.

You were the only rare occasion.

Pushing those tempting thoughts away, Art held the box excitedly and tip toed over to you dramatically. He was eager for you to see his gift.

Firm hands gripped your own as a box was dropped into it, only a small box.

You smiled uncertainly, eyes closed, and felt the box with your hands. Art poked at your eyelids gently for you to open them.

The box was black. Tattered. You lifted the lid slowly.

A multitude of emotions filled you. You didn't know which ones to show. Art watched eagerly, excitedly, though you could still see the sharpness of his eyes.

The box was filled to the brim with Beatles. They were squirming and hurrying over one another in an ugly display, some spilling out onto your arms before falling on the floor. Luckily, you weren't terrified of insects.

Looking at Art, he began mimicking holding an imaginary box and shaking it hard, then pointed at you.

You shook the box hard, the Beatles scattering everywhere, and gazed into the box.

Your blood ran cold.

A decapitated fox head stared at you, eyeless and bloodied with its tongue cut out and shoved into one of its eye sockets. Beatles crawled throughout its skull.

"A..Fox."

Art nodded aggressively, pointing animatedly at your chickens cooing in their pen, then at the fox, then at himself.

"Oh! You killed the fox that has been hunting my hens?"

Art clapped silently and his eyes dazzled as though screaming 'bingo! Finally!', then pointing and laughing at your pale expression and wide eyes. His gruesome smile was held wide, cutting sharp, as he buckled over in silent laughter.

Your mouth quirked upwards in amusement. Well, he was certainly keeping his end of the bargain. The fox was a pest, after all, even if his method of killing was a little..unorthodox. Not that you'd ever complain.

You couldn't help but giggle at this absurd man. "Thank you, Art. I appreciate that. Now with my hens remaining alive and well, I can make you some more of those pancakes you like once they lay their eggs."

Arts mouth opened in surprise, eyebrows raised high. He tipped his hat in a gentlemanly fashion, nodding at you as though to say it's a job well done. You agreed that it was.

Putting the box down, you gripped the axe once more, ready to return it to the shed. "Well, I'm going to have a quick shower, then how about I make us some supper?"

Art wiggled his eyebrows at you suggestively, and heat lightly warmed your cheeks. Before you could reply, the axe was ripped from your hands and Art had already gotten to work with cutting some more wood. He did it flawlessly.

He shooed you away dramatically, wiggling his eyebrows one more time before chopping through the wood efficiently.

Conflicted in how easily he embarrassed you, you made your way tiredly to the bathroom. You really needed that shower.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You let the hot water wash away the stress of the day, eyes closed as you nourished an apple smelling conditioner through your hair.

You sighed, feeling ten times better already, muscles sore from the strenuous chores you barely managed to finish today.

Standing in the warm confinement of water and steam, you began to wonder if Art was still cutting wood. This led to thoughts about how bizarre it was having a murderer in your residence while you showered vulnerably. He didn't appear to want to kill you yet, and you wanted to keep it that way.

Wrapping a towel around your hair and body, you stared at your tired complexion in the mirror and frowned.

You really shouldn't be so comfortable with his ominous presence, but..

There was something quirky and charming about him, you guessed.

You soon froze at the sound of an alarm blaring.

You ran to the bathroom door, tearing it open. What was--

Was that your fire alarm blaring? But why? You had meat in your slow cooker, yes, but--

Panic surged through you as you darted out of your bathroom and bolted down the stairs. You didn't know how or why but you prayed that your kitchen was in tact.

Barreling through your living room and into the kitchen, you scrutinized the area, seeing no smoke, no fire, nothing.

Eyes wide, you ran to the slow cooker and switched it off. There wasn't even any smoke coming from it, how had your alarm gone off? Bending to check in your oven, you confirmed what you already knew - there was nothing in there.

Standing straight, hands on your hips in annoyance at that blaring alarm, you sighed aloud. Your towel remained upon your head, however loose hair had managed to escape and fall upon your shoulders from your erratic movements.

Glancing around desperately, Art was no where to be found. With his height, he could probably reach the alarm on your ceiling and deactivate it. You spent no time waiting for his possible arrival and grabbed a chair.

Lugging it over to the centre of the room, you gripped the top of it and shakily stood tall upon the chair. Reaching up high, you fiddled with the alarm, attempting to get a good grip to be able to remove it.

You huffed, making a sound of aggravation as your towel somehow remained firm around your figure, even if it was short. The water from the shower was cold on your body now and it only seemed to worsen your mood.

Finally managing to rip the damn thing from the ceiling, you removed the batteries and tossed it to the floor with a scowl. Stupid faulty alarm.

In a less than desirable mood, your hand gripped the chair to steady yourself. Before you could even put a foot on the floor, a honk sounded so close to you it had you yelping; you hadn't even sensed him let alone heard him.

Wide eyed, you stared down at the clown. His shoulder was practically brushing your outer thigh as you stood high. "Oh, Art, I didn't see you--"

A hand being thrust out to you interrupted you. He was offering his large hand to you, and although uncertain, you couldn't deny that he had a peculiar charm. Smiling, you gripped his hand with your own to steady yourself, lifting one leg to put on the floor.

Except you never did. You barely caught the malicious grin the clown gave you, eyes narrowed into slits and teeth bared as he lifted one foot backwards and kicked the chair out from under you.

The leg of the chair shattered from the force, splintering and bending as you began to topple to the floor. You screamed, eyes squeezed shut.

You thought you had whiplash at the way your hand was wrenched painfully towards his body, your figure pressed up against his as your head butted into his chest.

He had an arm around your waist, suspending your weight in the air against his body with no difficulty.

The clown remained frozen, grin still as wide and terrifying. Your feet barely brushed the floor. "Art!", you screeched, body shaking from adrenaline, hair towel fallen to the floor.

The clowns eyes snapped to yours disturbingly. Before you could berate him further, you were tossed upwards until dexterous hands rested at your shoulders and below your knees. He was holding you bridal style and it terrified you.

You cried out in shock, gripping his clown suit between white knuckles, bath towel beginning to slip ever so slightly. You felt a mixture of terror and embarrassment at being in the brutal arms of the county killer.

And the terror only increased tenfold as the clown removed his grip from supporting your shoulders for mere seconds, your body heading straight for the floor, before securing his arms around you again before you could make impact, shoulders moving in silent laughter.

You truly screamed that time, legs kicking out and arms wrapping around his neck instinctively. Your eyes squeezed shut, towel slipping even more; it mortified you.

"Oh my goodness, Art, you terrified me! And I bet it was you that set off my alarm?", you accused in a high pitched, shaky tone, grasping him incredibly tight as you felt his fingers teasingly loosen just to scare you.

Art nodded vigorously, proud and excited that he had been caught, and snapped his head down at you. His grin of sinister glee slowly morphed into a knowing, filthy smirk.

You blinked up at him vulnerably, wide and glassy eyed, rigid in his arms, before realising that oh my God, you were in a towel this entire time, a short towel that surely moved during the commotion--

He must have noticed the sudden panic in your eyes, for his lecherous smirk stretched terrifyingly, eyes narrowed.

Surprisingly pervertedly, Art glanced down at your body swiftly. Once, twice. An indication that you should probably take a look. His eyebrows wiggled, and without needing to look, your cheeks reddened, lips parted in shock.

Head snapping down at yourself, a flush spread from your neck to your cheeks. The towel had dropped so low your breasts were threatening to spill out obscenely. It didn't help that you were of ample size.

And although everything else vital was covered, the way your upper thigh was exposed had you squirming desperately to try and make some distance.

"Ah!", you cried, "my towel! Put me down!" You demanded helplessly, overcome by embarrassment as Art snickered silently at your need to protect your intimates.

Art dropped the arm holding your legs, letting them crash upon the floor painfully. The sudden downward motion had you squealing, gripping him hard. You were grateful that he supported your upper body, you supposed.

The way your body dropped had your towel falling fully for a split second before you ripped it back up to cover your modesty.

You tore yourself away from him - he let you - and stared at him with wide eyes, chest panting in fear and fluttering peculiarly.

Your hands shook as you gripped your towel, knees knocking together, withering under the intense stare of the clown as he foregone his usual dramatic, knee slapping laugh and instead almost seemed to chuckle in amusement, brows as low as they could go, head tilting in fascination at your half naked state.

He expected anger, frustration, undeniable fear at his actions towards you. What intrigued him was the way your round cheeks flared crimson and how your eyes, usually relatively confident when regarding him, fluttered everywhere but him.

Yes, he decided, head tilting left and right slowly, deciphering. You seemed incredibly flustered.

He felt lust, often. For blood, violence, but rarely sexually. Pain was sweeter than pleasure, he thought, but regarding you now, languidly staring at you from head to toe, an idea struck his mind...

An idea you couldn't decipher, but the way his eyes lit up and his eyebrows rose pleasantly sent heat flaring through you.

You didn't allow it to consume you any further as you darted up the stairs and into your room.

On the way past him, you saw his shoulders moving in a silent, mean laughter.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

That had been two days ago. Since then, you continued on as normal..

Or as normal as can be.

Art remained busy in the old barn, the sounds of hammering and God knows what else permeating the quiet air at all hours of the day, and oftentimes there would be silence; He had left.

It had been a full day and a half since you last took sight of him. It was unusual how domesticated you felt, preparing enough food for two with a little extra leftover, keeping only the dark towels in the bathroom from when he no doubt came strolling in covered in blood and took a shower.

You came to notice he was meticulously clean about things he deemed worthy, such as his clown suit and himself. He loved to bathe in his victims blood, yes, but after a fun days work, you often found him spotless. Well, apart from his teeth. Bizarrely, he didn't utterly stink, and you come to the conclusion that he chose his terrifying mouth to look that way on purpose.

That was good. You appreciated that even if he didn't necessarily do it for you.

The only thing you had gently persuaded him on was allowing you to at least dry his clown suit before putting it on. With a roll of his eyes, he allowed it.

There were very few things he allowed genuinely, and you seemed to believe he had grown accustomed to your gentle naggings of 'Art, please don't touch that with blood on your hands', or 'There was no need to trail bloody footprints all over my kitchen'

You never demanded. That probably helped. Of course he had days where he'd grin mischievously and smear blood across your mirrors and door handles, knowing you'd have to touch it and clean it.

You could live with that. Thankfully, after a night of killing, he was reasonably tame, eating whatever food you kept in your cupboards with a calm expression.

That wasn't to say that he wasn't unpredictable. He could snap on times and come at you with a knife, chasing you around the kitchen as you screeched and whined for him to stop, all the while watching him laugh with glee.

And on real scary nights when he seemed bored, well..

Anything could happen then. Even still, Art remained tame as of yet in comparison to the things he is capable of. He clearly saw a need in you, and repaid your generous cooking, cleaning and fixing up his costume for him with keeping you alive and leaving you mostly unharmed.

A cut here or there, yeah, and definitely a bruise but you were alive and well.

The only real affect he had on you was terror, he did enjoy popping up randomly in the dark when you had got up for a glass of water, hand roughly pushed over your mouth as your screams muffled into his hand before realising who had caught you.

Or the times you'd check on him in the old barn, just to see if he was around for dinner, calling his name out. Venturing in, you'd freeze as the door shut behind you, darkness enveloping the entire area, only for the sound of a flame thrower igniting near you making you scream and cover your mouth in terror.

Each time you'd ramble something like 'Art, stop it! I-Im making beef for dinner and I just wanted to check that you wanted some!'

The clown would tug on your cheeks with both hands, patting your head as though to say 'how adorable are you?' before pushing you surprisingly gently towards the door and shooing you away.

You'd run back to the house with your chest beating so loudly you could hear it in your ears.

Presently, you were wearing a cute brown dress, tights covering your legs as you cleaned around the place. Loving the winter, you brought out your cosy candles and fairy lights, loving the gentle glow as the nights grew longer and the sun faded earlier. It wasn't quite time to decorate for Christmas yet, so this will do.

In fact, having a little break from the clown had allowed you to really tidy everything up, get your chores done, see to the animals and bake some brownies in the oven.

All in all you felt refreshed and well, truly in your element. It allowed you to push.. peculiar thoughts of Art from your mind.

Time carried on, and the brownies were cooling on the baking tray as you sat comfortably on your settee, a white blanket decorated in pumpkins covering you. You loved Halloween, too.

Dropping off to sleep, your mind felt at peace until a muffled sound was heard from outside. Lifting your head, you didn't react as you awaited Art to barge in at any moment, only..nothing.

Sitting up, you waited silently, hearing that muffling once again.

You frowned. Art was a master of silence, if he didn't want you to even hear the rustling of his bag, you wouldn't.

So why did you hear leaves crunching loudly, and..

Oh.

That wasn't Art.

You could hear voices mumbling now, close to your window, though unintelligible. You wondered who it could be. You had no known close relatives, and no friends, really.

Not close enough to appear unannounced on a late Friday evening, anyway.

Living in the middle of no where, you learned to be cautious of such sounds. You had no neighbours, and hardly anyone ever passed your cottage. Those that did tended to knock politely, not skirt around your perimeter sneakily.

Aside from Art; he's different.

Standing swiftly, you opened a drawer, gripping a handgun. You could never be too careful out here all alone, and you doubted it would go down easy if you stood with your shotgun aimed at them.

Handgun it is. Hiding it furtively, you stepped outside with confidence.

The sight of two men dressed head to toe in black greeted you, peeking through your curtains.

"Can I help you?", you began politely, causing them to bolt upright and spin around to face you. You couldn't see their faces.

They weren't amicable strangers, that was for certain.

"That truck yours?", the tallest indicated with a nod of his head.

"It is."

"You, uh..you live alone?"

You smiled.

"I do."

The two men sprung into action. "You do, do you? Be a good girl and chuck me the keys."

"Why would I ever do that?" You remained calm, pulse elevating, adrenaline begining to grow.

"Why?", the other repeated with a scoff, and swiftly pulled a knife out from his pocket, "because I want to see your round ass walk away like a good bitch, so go grab those fucking keys before I cut your face off."

Talk about overboard.

Nodding politely, you backstepped. "I understand. I don't want any trouble, give me one moment, please."

You backstepped further into your house, keeping the door open.

As you did, you heard one of the men hiss 'im not a fucking murderer, let's just get the truck and fucking go!'

You had a few options here.

You could run, hide, call the police.

You shook your head and steeled your nerves. Hell no. This was your damn property.

The two men looked around cautiously, impatient. "Where the fuck is she? We should've gone in with her."

"She's terrified, bitch probably can't find the keys."

They heard the sound of a gun cocking. Loudly.

Turning back to the door, you supposed they never thought to see a shotgun aiming directly at them. You could see their eyes widen behind a black robber mask.

"Woah, hey, keep the fucking keys--", one began, hands in the air, knife dropped to the floor.

You remember holding this very shotgun the night you met Art. You smartly lowered it, knowing true evil and terror when you saw it.

But these two? They had nothing on Art. Just average men, trying hard to terrify a woman. A nasty smirk broke out on your face, one of anger and satisfaction.

"I'll tell you what's going to happen. You're going to get the fuck off my property before I blow a hole in your chest. How's that sound?"

The scared one nodded vigorously, hands jittering as he backstepped, ready to bolt. The other, however..

"You wouldn't do that. You don't have it in you.", the other tried calling your bluff, taking a leap forward. It started you, but you remained strong.

"Wouldn't I? Out here in the middle of no where, who'd ever come looking for you?"

The man shrugged. "You might be right, but whose going to look for you?"

Before you could respond a hand grabbed from behind, reaching out and gripping the barrel of your shotgun and forcing it to the sky.

You instinctively pulled the trigger, sound blasting through the forest loudly causing birds to flutter away.

How the hell did he get in the house?

The assailant was stronger than you, tearing the weapon to the floor before gripping you by the hair roughly.

You grunted in pain, hands frantically searching for the handgun on your person as the man at the bottom of your steps began coming at you too.

You managed to shoot him in the thigh, hearing him cry out and collapse.

The scared one took off in a sprint, never turning back.

The aggressive one currently ripping strands of hair from the root wrestled you to the floor after shooting his friend, boot pressing firmly on the hand that held the gun and kicking it away.

He got on top of you and held you down as you struggled and fought against his hold, head reeling to the side as he back handed you, hard.

Furniture and anything close by moved and was tossed over as you fought back, unwilling to let him pin your hands to the floor, punching a fist into his groin to get him to crumple slightly so you could lug him off with all your might.

You scrambled to your feet and made a dash to the door, barely getting halfway before a strong body wrestled you back to the floor, your hands aching from the wall as he ripped your dress from the back to keep a hold on you.

You continued scrambling ahead, reaching out for anything, hands gripping the large sewing needle you had lost some time ago and turning to stab it into his cheek.

The man hissed, face turned into an ugly snarl as he staggered back in pain, holding the wound.

You up and ran, panting and panicking as you frantically made it outside.

The man didn't let up, he ruthlessly grabbed your hair causing you to cry out and slapped you so hard across the face you saw stars.

Blood dripped from your mouth as you stumbled back, held upright by the man's grip on you.

He grabbed your cheeks hard, squeezing the blood from your mouth, snarling. "Pretty thing, I'm going to put you in your fucking place--"

You cried out a sharp 'no!', kicking him between the legs and pushing him away.

You both fought tooth and nail for a while, you managing to run a short distance before being dragged back and hit even harder in the face.

This time you gasped helplessly for breath, blood spurting out of your nose and down your mouth.

What scared you the most was a hand gripping your thighs and trying to spread them.

"I'm going to fuck you before I kill you, bitch. And it's going to hurt." The man seethed the ugly promise, tearing your dress up high and grabbing your tights to rip a hole in then.

You cried out, kicking him in the jaw but to no avail. Without any weapons you had no chance in winning against his strength.

You saw an opening as he stumbled back at your kick and bolted it as fast as you could towards the trees. You knew this land well, so you knew where to hide.

Frightful and shaking, tears littered your cheeks as you heard the sound of the man getting to his feet to chase after you.

You gasped painfully, unable to breathe, and all but screamed bloody murder as you ran directly into a chest.

An arm wrapped around your struggling body, a hand smothering your scream as you fought and cried out desperately against another assailant. This one was like a brick wall, unmovable to your attempted attacks, even if he himself wasn't attacking you.

Two hands gripped your shoulders and shook you hard, causing you to look up at his face in terror only to pause, wide eyed.

That familiar, monochromatic clown tilted his head down at you in a thoughtful frown, mild confusion pooling in his irises as he studied you from head to toe, moving a gloved finger to wipe at the blood trickling down your chin.

"Art!", you cried, chest heaving up and down, "Theres--These men--attacked me and--and tried to-to--"

You could barely get your words out, watching as Art cocked a surprised eyebrow up and attempted to decipher your rambled sentences.

He didn't really need to. Upon further inspection, he could see the bruising of your face, the very blatant tear of your tights which showed a lot of skin, and how your dress had been ripped.

He knew something was off when he heard the sound of gunshots. He knew you had guns, but for you to use one meant something was amiss. Something compelled him to come and look, dropping the dead body he had been mutilating in the woods, eager and..somewhat impatient, to get to you.

That was a foreign feeling, and now having actually studied your shaking hands that gripped his costume and the amount of blood that covered your face as tears dribbled down fatly, staring up at him in utter relief, he was unused to such an expression, and truly didnt mind it coming from you.

Gazing outwards at the forest, an intense ire began to build in him. You weren't going to die today, he doubted you ever would because you were his, and only his.

Having finally made a decision, Art grinned cruelly, fingers eager and twitching excitedly to meet this so called attacker.

Letting his arms drop from you, he took a step forward to make his way to the house, stopping as you gripped his arm in fear.

"W-wait, please don't leave me--"

Art held up a hand calmly, shushing you, and went through his black bag, retrieving a hammer. He patted your head, as though telling you not to worry, and made his way towards your home. He walked excitedly with a bounce in his step.

You knew what that meant.

You were so happy to see him, as fucked up as that is, but he clearly made the decision to protect you. You felt relief and fondness, sitting against a tree with your knees up to your chest, waiting.

You wanted them dead, truth be told, but may God have mercy on them for what Art is about to do..

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You remembered hearing gut wrenching screams and splatters of vomit as various tools were used to maim the trespassers.

You remember your body moving on auto pilot as you entered your home, Art briefly stopping his flaying of the man who threatened assault on you, to lift a hand and wave at you, fingers dancing playfully.

You waved back slowly, trudging up the steps and into your home where your living room was a mess from the commotion. There were patches of your blood on the floor, a lamp upturned and glass shattered messily.

Body and mind exhausted, you laid down on the settee and fell asleep dreamlessly. You didn't even awaken to the sounds of a chainsaw and guttural screaming.

You don't know how long you slept for. You were in and out of consciousness for a while, waking up to your ribs aching from the attack, or your lips burning from being split, the blood drying on them and irritating them.

You were still a mess, hair dishevelled and face bruised, dried blood flaking off your face and your clothes in almost tatters.

Your face was still puffy from crying, eyes opening slowly and slightly bloodshot. Moaning weakly, you stretched your legs out and hissed as your ripped tights dug into a deep cut in your thigh.

The TV was on. You barely registered the comforting hum of some early Christmas film that was on, volume low and tranquil.

Slowly standing, you made your way to the kitchen. Your chest fluttered at the sight of Art, sitting calmly at the table with a plate of sweet treats you had in the cupboards, including biscuits and cake, and what looked to be a cup of hot chocolate.

He was eating them very civilised, too. You were proud of that. It wasn't like he needed to eat, at least you thought, but he really did enjoy sweet food. Same as you.

Clad in a surprisingly clean clown suit, he waved at you, his hands stained red. He must have cleaned himself up for the most part, and..looking around, you sighted a mop bucket, so he must've really made a mess and cleaned up after him.

That was oddly..sweet. It made you smile.

"I must have been asleep a while." You gathered aloud, taking a seat at the table across from him.

The clown shrugged, held up a hand with 4 fingers. So you slept for about 4 hours then.

You rubbed your eyes, exhausted. The clown tilted his head at you slowly, frowning softly in thought with a finger to his chin.

"Yeah, I'm a mess. I can't believe those guys." You huffed, glaring down at yourself. Your anger spiked at the sight of your attire.

"He ruined my favourite fucking dress!" You exclaimed, arms folding frustratedly. You were a mixture of huffs and mutters as the clown cocked a calm eyebrow - how had you both switched places? - and listened to you curse and swear which he had never heard before.

It made him chuckle silently, head in hand as he watched you. Feeling eyes on you, your frown softened. "Im sorry, I'm not myself. I thought I had it all under control when I saw the two of them."

Your gaze dropped lower to the floor, reminiscing. "I didn't really notice the third. I have no idea how he got in." You almost whispered defeatedly, eyes misted and glassy as you remembered the way that man treated you and touched you.

You suddenly felt incredibly dirty. What if you hadn't managed to outrun him? He was about to violate you. And what if Art had never showed up? He'd--

Your thoughts draw to a pause as Art taps your hand gently, points to himself and does a stabbing motion, then points outside.

It made your lips quirk. "Their dead?"

Art nodded excitedly, grinning wide as his fingers tickle your hand. You begin to giggle, and grip onto his hand. "I'm glad you turned up. I mean, I managed to fight him off barely, but imagine if..."

You froze, eyes staring at your intertwined hands, and shook your head. "Assholes."

Art suddenly lit up like a lightbulb, face making one of surprise as he held a hand up to wait. Comically running out of the room, you awaited his return as he came near you with one of the robbers mask. Something was wrapped inside it.

Art got down on one knee and presented it to you with arms outstretched, wiggling his eyebrows, and you giggled again. Gripping the fabric, you found it soaked with blood. Opening it, a human heart stared back at you. It was relatively fresh.

You blinked slowly, not at all feeling usual feelings of repulsion and fear. Instead you felt..warm. The symbolic meaning of presenting you with the heart of your attacker wasn't lost on you, and as fucked up as it was, you blushed faintly.

"I.."

You smiled incredibly gently, Art thought. It made him happy to see your face finally light up after those filthy, rotten humans dared to touch what was his.

"I'm incredibly grateful for that. Thank you, Art. Who'd have thought you'd make such a great protector?" You winked playfully, laughing when he returned it dramatically with a nod.

"Oh! I almost forgot!", you rose and grabbed a nearby dish. "I made brownies!", you pouted at the fact that they weren't warm and delicious anymore, and Art thought that if you kept acting so cute he'd have to hurt you. In a good way, of course. He was still confused about that.

Art revealed one of his rare smiles, lacking it's usual slyness or sinisterness, and grabbed a brownie delightedly. It made you beam.

There you both sat, his hands bloodied and your face bruised with a heart sitting between you both as you shared the brownies.

There was an undeniable connection, and as you cuddled up in your blankets after a fresh shower, staring up at the ceiling, you thought about that.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The dynamic had shifted. Art could still be sly and mean in his ways of scaring you, but he certainly toned it down. He seemed to want to hear your laughter more, launching tickle attacks on you until you were a squealing mess on the settee, wriggling and fighting against his grip as tears of laughter wet your cheeks.

"Please!", you squealed, "no more! You win!", you'd shriek, body contorting until his fingers finally stopped and he stared down at you smugly.

For a moment, you both stared in silence, you catching your breath and him observant as ever.

With a burst of excited energy, you fled his slack grip and bolted to the other side of the living room, jumping in your spot. "Just kidding! I got away so I won!" You giggled ecstatically, watching as the clown slowly stood to his tall height.

Your laughter died down, nervous excitement replacing it. He held a glint in his eye that could only mean trouble. Art tilted his head dramatically, finger to his lips as though saying 'Oh, you've won, have you?'

You shook your head in panic, hands held up in surrender. "i-i didn't mean that! Honestly!"

Art mimiced your panicked face, holding his hands up in surrender as he jumped towards you. You jolted, stumbling back as an uncertain laughter bubbled up.

"Believe me, I know I could never outrun you..", you glanced towards the kitchen door, plotting.

Art lifted a hand to his chin, silently humming in thought, before holding up a hand with fingers spread wide.

He dropped a finger, holding up 4.

Then 3.

"Wait--wait why are you counting?!"

Art froze, grin held wide as he remained unmoving. You shifted nervously, about to say something before Art suddenly came to life again and darted towards you.

You screamed and bolted away, running instead to the stairs that were closer and hoping to make it to your room.

You did, and as you ran through it and turned to slam the door shut, Art was already in the doorway and wrapping his arms around you as you shrieked and cried out apologies for challenging him.

Art showed you no mercy, throwing you to the bed and holding you down with ease as he assaulted your ribs again with his fingers.

He laughed silently at your torture, gleeful and delighted at your non stop screaming and laughing.

"Art! Wait! I can't take it anymore!--" you wheezed, grabbing his wrists and pushing as hard as you could.

He didn't even budge. He was like a stone wall. Art paused, cocking his head down at your futile efforts and back up to your terrified face.

You froze, realising that you just challenged him again.

With a flash of black and white, Art jumped atop you, straddling your hips as he held your wrists down with one of his hands, watching you squirm and whine.

He chuckled evilly, silently, eyebrows low and grin spreading wide.

But there was that same look from the other day again. Peering down at you, he watched you analyse the position you were in, eyes fluttering up to his face in shock as a flush tainted your pretty skin.

Art knew that look. He was very meticulous when it came to the human body and the emotions it can feel.

You were panting, chest fluttering and warmth radiating off of you as Art smirked down at you knowingly. He raised his eyebrows, hand to mouth in shock as though to say 'Are those dirty thoughts in your head?'

Although silent, it was as though you knew that he knew what you were thinking. You felt dazed, so red and undeniably enjoying the vision of him above you, holding you down.

There was no denying the guilty thoughts you had had of him in the privacy of your bedroom at night, faceless men turning into monochromatic, super natural clowns each time you reached your peak.

You felt vile at first. But after his protection against those men the other day, your feelings definitely shifted, and since then you couldn't stop your thoughts from trailing to him..

The sexual ones, too. The private ones where you thought about pale, strong hands holding your head down against the bed as you were taken from behind.

The ones where your head was wrenched back by an iron fist in your hair, too euphoric to the point that you could only babble words.

You knew he could take you there. And his incessant flirting in real life, where he'd wiggle his eyebrows at you if you passed in a towel or if you bent over, or where he'd stand teasingly in your way of a doorway, forcing you to squeeze past him as he smirks and winks. Those things made the thoughts all the stronger, and at times you wondered if he knew what you were going to do once you got back to your room.

Sometimes, the way he smirked and waved at you with a wiggle of his fingertips just after you finished getting yourself off made you wonder. He must've known, this freakish demonic man.

The memories brought heat spreading down to your neck, your tongue tied as you struggled to break the tension. You struggled to get a word out, eyes fluttering in nervous anticipation. It was hard not to romanticise this charming clown.

"I--"

The clown leaned down close, void eyes staring into yours that were so full of emotion, raw and naked. His strong hand that was capable of such violence began tracing your jawline delicately, as though you were porcelain.

You inhaled shakily, feeling the digits drop to your neck, pressing against your fluttering, rapid pulse.

From anyone else, that would feel uncomfortable. But Art doing that felt so suffocatingly intimate you didn't know how to react, eyebrows drawn together in mild confusion at your feelings.

The way Art smirked made you realise he knew exactly what he was doing. Lifting his hand to his mouth, he gripped the glove with his teeth and tugged it off, freeing his pale, veiny hand and bringing it to your cheek, thumb tenderly rubbing the area.

You felt like your head was going to burst from how red you were. You think its because the utter shock at having Art act in a way that wholly juxtaposes him and touch you delicately made you feel so exquisitely special that you didn't know how to register it.

How can a mere innocent touch melt you so much?

His fingers traced the lines and curves of your face in fascination. There was no doubt a morbidity to his thoughts, but there was also mild, genuine adoration in his lifeless eyes.

Your pulse quickened, butterflies dancing in your belly at the thumb that now traced your plush lips. Body reacting faster than your thoughts, your tongue wet the tip of his thumb.

A glint began to shine in his eyes, ferocious and wanting. He tilted his head down at you, unsmiling but not in a scary way; he appeared quite tranquil, and something else.

His thumb dipped into your mouth slightly, experimentally, and he was pleased at the way you wholly accepted him in, swirling your tongue intimately around his digit.

Your eyelids drooped, overcome by this display of raw connection, your lips glistening as he slowly retrieved his thumb, giving your lips one final stroke before gliding his hand down your neck again, tickling the skin with gentle fingertips before moving down to your collarbone.

You held your breath, biting your lip as the usually menacing clown above you glided further down, and down, until his hand brushed the outline of your breast, barely skimming across your nipple.

You inhaled sharply, how were you this sensitive? You could feel heat pooling between your thighs already.

Art tilted his head, examining the large, soft globes that hid beneath your clothes. Eyes flickering up at you, Art smirked before gripping the front of your shirt and tearing it open with ease.

You gasped aloud, eyes wide and mouth agape as your breasts bounced free, nipples hard and begging for attention.

You flushed so deeply red that your face began resonating heat. You were so embarrassed at being half naked in front of him, and you didn't know why. Maybe it was because of the teasing way he winked appreciatively, removing the other glove from his hand swiftly before grazing your breasts barely, hands gripping handfuls of them boldly soon after.

His thumbs skimmed over your pebbled nipples, watching your head loll back against the pillow as you inhaled and exhaled shakily. Bolts of arousal were shooting to the junction of your thighs every time his calloused thumbs teased your perk nipples.

Art was entranced by your visible display of arousal, so sensitive and so wanting; he had never felt this way about a person. Even he knew he was being unnaturally kind, inducing you with pleasure that was sure to have you tingling.

Art never did things unless he wanted to. He didn't want to hurt you. No, his dominance and roughness that he could just tell you craved would come later. For now, he wanted you wet and yearning.

He was proficient in knowing how to hurt the human body, which means he's acutely aware of how to pleasure it; that simply came hand in hand.

And, glancing down at you, having been brought from his thoughts by your breathy exhale, he could tell that what he was doing was incredibly pleasurable. You squirmed, legs widening and relaxing unconsciously below him, your pretty green skirt riding up your thighs.

"Art-", you whined in a whisper, nerve endings alight and tingling, begging to be touched.

Art flashed a smile, head tilting once more as though wondering what to do with you. He could leave you here, undeniably wet and sticky and yearning, begging sweetly, or he could indulge, nudge your pretty thighs apart and fuck you like you've wanted him to for a while now.

You didn't hide it well, especially after touching yourself mere minutes before seeing him, pupils blown wide, hair tousled and sweaty, legs lightly shaking. You should probably stop leaving your wet, soft underwear on your bedroom floor too. That's a big give away, if you didn't already know.

The sarcastic thought had him grinning, and after moving his head back and forth in thought, weighing out his options, he flicked his thumbs over your nipples a few more times, watching you react immediately and arch your back towards his hands.

"Ah-", you gasped, shuddering, gnawing at your lip with hooded eyes.

Art rolled his eyes up at the ceiling, then shrugged lightly to himself. He wasn't necessarily a sexual creature, but he was still in the body of a man. Tweaking your nipples teasingly, Art nodded.

He wanted to fuck you, hard.

But he wanted to tease you first.

Arts eyes dropped to the way your legs had spread for him, dark underwear on display from the way your skirt had ridden up your thighs.

Trailing a hand down your waist and to your hips, Art studied you as his hand moved lower, teasing your inner thighs, pinching the fatty flesh there before pressing two fingers against your apex.

You reacted immediately, shuddering a breath in and out as your legs spread fully, bent at the knee.

Pale fingers traced your soft, wet lips through your underwear, tickling from where your hole would be and up towards your pulsating clit, circling the bud with light pressure.

You moaned quietly, legs squirming slightly as you yearned for a direct touch, his teasing becoming relentless. Your hands balled into fists as white hot tingling sensations barreled through your stomach and your clit, demanding to be touched but to no avail.

Art knew this, and pressed two fingers firmly against your clit, circling.

"Oh--yes--", you whined, looking fucked out with your head lolled back when Art had barely done anything. He wondered how you'd react to the plans he had for you later if this is how you were after a few strokes.

His teasing continued, trailing down to your hole and dipping in slightly, soaking your underwear, before running his finger to the edge of the useless garment and hooking two fingers in, tearing it apart.

This time, Art used both hands to grip your thighs, spreading them far. He studied your pink, exposed slit with incredible interest. The mess of wetness was excessive, coating the length of your sex, your inner thighs and gliding down to your tight rim.

You squirmed in his hands at his staring, to which he tightened his grip, making you shudder.

"Art..", you whined

His eyes snapped up to yours expectantly.

"Please, I--", you gasped at his fingers tracing maddeningly around your labia, refusing to touch you directly. "Please touch me. Please, I--..I need it so bad.", tears filled your eyes with frustration, "so fucking bad, you have no idea.."

But Art did know. He's always known, and just to prove his point he searched for something in his pockets, retreaving it and dangling it in front of your face.

You froze. It was your used underwear from yesterday, when you masturbated before a shower, throwing the garment to the floor. You thought you had imagined throwing it to the floor, because upon coming back to the bedroom, it was gone.

You looked mortified, hands covering your face. "You've known all along?" You whined, unable to face his grin. You felt humiliation creep up your chest at being caught red handed, biting your lip hard to ground yourself. Pathetic tears threatened to fall in frustration.

You gasped as two hands gripped your own and pinned them above your head, using one to keep them there while the other hand wagged it's finger back and fore, Art shaking his head and tutting silently.

You were forced to face his smug, teasing stare, your own face pouting. Art lifted two fingers, wiggled them, before bringing them to your lips.

You accepted, swirling your tongue around them, before they were retrieved swiftly. Wiggling them again, Art made a show of demonstrating just what he was about to do to you to bring that smile back.

Winking in a way that had you melting in a puddle of embarrassment, Art pressed two fingers to your wet entrance, grinning before gliding them into your wanton hole.

Your reaction was instantaneous, a keening 'oh!' torn from your throat, back arching as you squirmed beneath the hand that pinned you down.

Art began to thrust his fingers deeply, pulling out to the tip before delving back in, watching you writhe and gasp. You were desperate for more, hips lifting higher.

Art pulled his fingers out of you, showing the wet lubrication that coated them, scissoring them apart to watch the way it attached his fingers with stringy gooeyness.

You released a frustrated whine this time, fighting beneath his one hand. "No, no don't pull them out, please--" you pouted pathetically, desperately.

Art wanted to torment you more, but his desire to see you screaming in pleasure outweighed that at the moment. He wanted to break you.

Shrugging innocently as though to say 'well, you asked for it', Arts two fingers sunk into you to the knuckle, pumping in and out firmly and roughly, curling rhythmically against that spongy area he knew would have you seeing stars.

"Oh--Oh!", you cried, hips tilted up into his assault, the lewd sound of your wet hole permeating the air as his fingers went in and out, in and out, restlessly and roughly, giving you exactly what you wanted.

Art smirked darkly, increasing the pace rapidly, so fast he had to hold your kicking legs down as he brought you too much pleasure, too much torment in the sweetest way he could give.

You cried out loudly now, unable to hold your voice back, body convulsing lightly as your peak approached.

"A-Art, Oh, Ohh--" you moaned, panting and thrashing back and fore as his fingers forced an orgasm out of you, intense and sudden, squirting down his wrist and soaking your bed.

You gasped for air, legs falling slack as your mind felt like it was floating.

You didn't have any time to think as Art gripped your hips tightly, flipping you over effortlessly and pulling your ass into the air. He smoothed the skin gently, before giving it a slap, watching you jolt.

You were soaked, legs quivering as you braced yourself. Your knees knocked together, staring back at him desperately.

You had dreamed of this for some time, you thought, gnawing at your lip anxiously. Judging by the sudden, bare feel of his hard cock against your folds, you knew you were in for a ride; he felt huge.

He was definitely thick, but even more than that is that he was incredible in length. He wasn't an ordinary man, so you shouldn't be surprised, but a tingle of fear and excitement gnaws through you all the same.

"W-will that fit?", you whispered in awe, salivating, and Art merely shrugged, wiggling his eyebrows as though to say 'ill make it fit', before putting a hand on your head and pushing your face into the bed.

You felt arousal course through you at his actions, being pinned down and bared for him to use. You pushed your round ass into him as much as you could, desperate and whorish, feeling his body judder with silent laughter.

He teased you at first, pushing the tip in, then retrieving, only to push just a little bit more in, and then retrieving again.

You huffed, unable to hide your frustration, but choked on it as Art slowly pulled out, then slid all the way in to the hilt.

You cried out loudly, hands balled into fists in your blanket, head pushed into the bed hard as Art gave you no time to adjust and began fucking you.

Your insides were on fire, pain and pleasure at his large intrusion mixing together, pulling moan after moan out of you. You could barely breathe, struggling to say his name as Art now gripped both of your hips and bred you.

A hand was lifted from you before coming down hard on your jiggling flesh, one stroke after another, getting harder and harder until you were writhing and whining.

He didn't stop, testing just how far he could go, switching to the other cheek when he felt your screams were getting particularly painful.

The stinging was unbearable, but it made you so wet, so pliant for him to absolutely manhandle you into the bed, gripping a fistful of your hair before he ravaged you just the way you wanted.

You were already a babbling mess, cock drunk when Art had hardly done anything. He rolled his eyes at you, though he was definitely amused at the unintelligible song you sang for him, something about his large cock and something else about breeding you.

You filthy girl.

Arts hand tangled rougher into your locks, before he gripped it hard and wrenched your head back, spine arching.

Your whines increased, becoming incredibly high pitch and feminine for him as he forced your head back.

Your neck was burning, but you loved this feeling, having a firm hand tug your hair back and an incredible, curved dick hit your insides just right.

The way he fucked you hard made you want to pretend to be bratty in the future, just so he could put you in your place. In fact, maybe one day when you're feeling particularly moody or low, you could get him to fuck it out of you, sweeten you up. The thought of being forced to take him deep as he fucked the brattiness out of you had you sopping, thighs drenched and shaking and barely standing.

"Ahh--Art, it feels so-", you moaned brokenly, thighs collapsing as the demon above you took to forcing your face back into the bed, other hand forcing your wrists above your head.

Having your thighs together now made his cock feel utterly massive, forcing the air out of you as he glided in between your plush cheeks, invading your sodden hole.

It made you feral.

"Oh my God oh my God--", you cried weakly, sobbing. Tears rolled down your cheeks in over stimulation, and Art leaned his body over yours, pushing you into the bed as he used one hand to smother your mouth, hooking his fingers into it.

You babbled, sucking his fingers desperately as you drooled down his wrist and your chin.

His fingers stuffed your mouth, thick length now ramming into you harder. You could barely hold your head up anymore, resting weakly against his wrist as you cried and whimpered, mascara blackening your eyes and cheeks messily.

Suddenly your hips were gripped and your body was forced onto it's back. You whined at the loss of him inside you, legs wrapping obscenely around his trim waist, needing more.

"Fuck me, please fuck me-", you breathed, head lolling back as fat tears burned your eyes, soaking your cheeks. Your lips were formed into a frustrated pout, fists clenched as though you were about to have a tantrum unless his dick resumed fucking you.

Art grinned truly maniacally down at you, gleeful and amused at your cries. It was a stunning sight, seeing your usual reserved self acting like such a slut.

He pouted right back at you, holding two fists up to his eyes and rotating them back and forth to impersonate dramatic crying. He was mocking you cruelly, laughing at your fucked out expression.

Forcing his fingers into your mouth again, Art pushed them down your throat, watching your eyes widen as you gagged and choked. Saliva pooled in your mouth excessively, and he scooped it out with both fingers to smear it messily over your cheeks and down your chin, laughing silently and pointing.

"No, please stop mocking me..", you whimpered quietly, lips wobbling as you pleaded at him with your big eyes. Your hips bucked desperately, thighs sticky and warm.

Art dropped his grin and rolled his eyes at your antics. You really wanted him to fuck you? Sure.

A malicious glint lit up his eyes, tenderly wiping the black tears staining your cheeks from your makeup.

Before you could blink, a strong hand was wrapped around your throat roughly, and a moment later his hot cock was pummeling into you mercilessly.

You couldn't even scream, sounds trapped in your throat and escaping in high pitched exhales, your head falling back against the bed as he strangled you.

It terrified you, but as your breathing became less and your head became clouded, a sudden, indescribable pleasure ripped through you so powerfully your eyes rolled back into your head, drool openly gliding down your cheek.

Your body felt weak and unresponsive, unable to even grip at his wrists for some reprieve, but the pleasure..

The fucking pleasure was mind numbing.

Your eyes drooped, face turning almost purple as he fucked you so deep you felt sick.

You couldn't gasp anymore, weak breaths barely getting past the brutal grip on your throat.

You were delirious now, feeling in a dream like state, ecstasy exploding behind your eyes and lighting your nerves on such a burning fire. You felt like your soul was ripped out of your mortal shell, experiencing the biggest high of your entire life.

Art cackled madly, silently, a sick adoration twisting in his eyes at the way your consciousness began to slip. He held your neck dangerously tight, tighter than he planned but judging by the way your hot, wet pussy gripped at him, he knew you loved it.

The sounds of your joining bodies was obscene and lewd, squelching and loud as his cock forced your lubrication out of your body.

Art gritted his teeth at the morbidly stunning view of you drooling excessive saliva, tears soaking his hands and mascara clumping your eyelashes, your eyes now bloodshot and heavy.

They rolled back, and soon you become quiet.

Bringing you to the very edge, Art removed your hand and allowed air to enter your lungs.

You gasped painfully, choking and sobbing as you were given no time to inhale greedily, instead getting ravaged inhumanly fast.

You couldn't lift your head, eyes blinking dazedly up at Art, who lifted a hand to wave at you mockingly.

You tried to speak but couldn't, mouth held open in permanent ecstasy. Your hips snapped upright as fingers roughly rubbed at your engorged clitoris, abusing the greedy nub.

A cry tore from your raw throat, head thrashing side to side and legs shaking violently as your orgasm rendered you incoherent.

You screamed out, squirting almost violently down your quivering thighs and over Arts rigid, brutal cock.

You sobbed, face screwing up pathetically as genuine, uncontrollable cries wracked your form. You could barely intake breath, body and nerves unable to handle the level of soul wrenching pleasure and borderline pain that was inflicted upon you.

Art gripped your shaking thighs and lifted them above his shoulders, face devoid of his usual smirk and instead scowling down at you with smouldering eyes. He fucked you harder, faster, animalistic before his hips stuttered once, twice, and a hot, thick load of cum filled your gaping pussy.

The amount was unnatural, not human, but your body lapped it up all the same as your insides convulsed and quivered. You moaned weakly, keening in a higher pitch as your lips wobbled and your eyes remained misted and delirious.

You didn't even feel Art pull out, stuck in a dream like state as aftershocks lit your body up. Your legs were dropped from his shoulders, falling unceremoniously to the bed, wide open.

You babbled incoherently, arm covering your face. Art stared down at you serenely, gazing from your dick dumb espression to the mess of cum coating your thighs, globs of it dripping down to your asshole. Your hole gaped and twitched, greedily gulping up all that it could take, thoroughly fucked and bred.

You felt two fingers scooping up the mess and pushing it filthily back into your pussy.

You whined, dropping the arm from your eyes to finally look at the demonic clown that had surely taken grip of your soul and tore it out.

Art smirked down at you, winking playfully. He revelled in the mess he made of you.

"Art that was--I--Mmm--", you moaned, responding to the gentle caress of your clit with his fingers. You were so wet and full of cum, biting your lip.

You didn't move as you felt his form pull away from you. You were so out of it you felt drunk.

You didn't feel him tucking you into bed, only remembered being beneath the blankets as he tilted his head down at you contemplatively.

He felt something foreign, that was for certain. He felt a possessive adoration over you, wanting to break you into a crying, sobbing mess, strangle you until you stood on the precipice of death like earlier, but also..

Watching you now, eyes drooping as you gripped his hand softly, tiredly, he made the final decision that he wanted more tender moments like this.

You were the rare occasion, the only occasion.

He was going to consume you whole.

#terrifier #terrifier 3 #damien leone #art the clown #art the clown x reader #art the clown smut #terrifier smut #terrifer x you

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