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abysswalkerastraea1 · 2 months ago

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Art with a psycho girly partner? 🥺

Beguiling Perniciousness 🎀

I love this ask! 💗

Your eyes briefly swept over the decapitated body and the viscous fluid oozing out of it; you didn't bat an eye. You were bubbly, but there was something downright malicious simmering below the surface; He knew you'd cross paths again as he watched your amiable self skip down the road and fade into the distance.

6k words

Girly reader who is obsessed with Art 🎀

Do I even need to say that it's smut it's all I ever write

You played the part well, he'd give you that. Art had first caught sight of you in the old costume shop in Miles County, lurking towards the back where all the nauseating pinks and creams amalgamated to create it's own fantasy-like microcosm, full of various princess and fairy costumes and similar varieties.

He didn't particularly pay you much mind initially, his focus solely on the girl he often terrorised, grinning eerily at her with a sense of foreboding. He remained cruelly amused even as the adolescent with the ironic angel wings dashed out of the shop, eager to flee his suffocating presence.

His mind had slipped the possibility that you had remained within the shop, excitedly trying on pretty tiaras and adorning yourself with sparkly jewellery, all the while remaining oblivious to the grotesque murder of the store assistant, his head cut clean from his neck. Blood pooled upon the floor, draining from the ugly orifice. His head had been tossed haphazardly to the side.

He had heard your bubbly self round the corner, humming happily with an armful of items and clothes, before bumping into his side hastily. Art peered down at your mildly shocked expression, gauging the way your round cheeks appled out into a smile.

Blood lightly covered his form, and specs of it had been transferred onto you. You didn't react, as happy as ever, giggling at your mistake. "Pardon me! I'm sorry, I'm in a world of my own.", your curls bounced as you gazed around the shop, bypassing the crude, decapitated head, and instead focusing on the locked door at the entrance of the shop.

"Oh! I didn't realise they shut so early. That's okay, I've got everything I need.", you whirled past him, almost skipping over to the door and unlocking it. The dresses and other items in your hands still had the tags on them, unscanned and unpaid for. As soon as you stepped a foot out the door, the alarm rang.

Even still, you remained as unperturbed as ever, glancing back at the clown. "You won't tell, will you?", you had indicated to your stolen goods, flashing him a dazzling smile. "You look like someone who knows how to keep a secret.", your eyes briefly swept over the decapitated body and the viscous fluid oozing out of it; you didn't bat an eye.

In fact, your smile rivalled Arts as he nodded slowly that, yes, he could definitely keep a secret. His head tilted inquisitively, searching your expression for a semblance of fear or shock, but he genuinely found none. As you offered him a cheerful goodbye and skipped off down the road, Art bet most people thought you were ditzy and dumb.

Staring at your receding form in the distance, Arts keen eyes knew the aura of darkness when he saw it. You were bubbly, but there was something downright malicious simmering below the surface. He didn't bother seeking you out, you were bound to cross paths.

That had been a year ago. A few weeks after your initial meeting, Art had paused his laborious work of crafting within the dilapidated house due to the sound of male shouting tinged with irritation.

"You've brought me out here for what? You said I could fuck you, so why the fuck are you leading me into the middle of nowhere? Got your boyfriend out here or something?"

The tone was downright condescending and full of unrighteous anger; he believed you owed him something. Art stood amongst the shadows of the lowering sun, arms crossed languidly as he watched, recognising your melodious voice instantly.

"You don't have to be so crude about it, I just want to have a romantic walk in the forest." You pouted, eyelashes fluttering at him as a small smile tugged at your lips, a pretty sheen of lipgloss staining them rosy.

The man gave you a disgusted grimace, checking his phone repetitively. He seemed aggravated, pawing at your skirt covered hips and backing you into a nearby tree. He outright ignored everything sweet you had to say, barely sparing you a glance as he scrutinised your form hugging jumper appreciatively.

Still, you prattled on and on, rambling kindly about how beautiful the forest became in the autumn, how refreshingly cold it was and that it was the perfect weather for a nice walk-

"You've got such a slutty body. Shut your mouth for me, yeah?" Hands began smoothing the already short skirt up your thighs, bunching the fabric, before they were slapped away. You ducked past him, skipping over to your bag that you had dropped earlier on and started searching for something.

"I just need to grab a condom. I'm a good girl, you know." You twirled a lock of hair with a sly smirk, digging through the multitude of items within your handbag. You pouted your lips in mild irritation, hand swiftly seeking what you needed, before you nodded to yourself happily, hand clutching what you desired.

Standing straight, you twirled around and offered the man a wink, to which he scoffed. Barely a second later, his kneecap was blown off as a resounding bang echoed throughout the thicket.

He screamed and fell to the floor in a heap, blood pouring grotesquely over the leaves that blanketed the damp ground. You held the gun out in front of you, aiming steadily. You shot the other knee, face stoic, and rolled your eyes at the blood curdling scream he released.

Art remained in the shadows, arms folded with intrigue as he chuckled to himself, eyebrows low. He watched the man roll back and forth upon the ground, crying out for help and for mercy. Peering back at you, he cocked his head at the way you giggled with a delicate hand covering your mouth, gun held high.

"You're so silly for thinking I'd ever let you touch me. At least take a girl out for dinner first, you know?"

With a playful wave goodbye, you shot him in the head, watching the way his body collapsed backwards, twitching. All fell silent. You sighed contentedly at the peace, smoothing your skirt back into place pristinely.

A rustle of leaves drew your attention, a tall, monochromatic man standing eerily still, lurking behind a tree at you. He was grinning. You waved at him amicably; he returned the gesture.

"Oh, I'd recognise you anywhere! From the costume shop, right?"

Art nodded slowly, stepping out from behind the tree and taking measured steps towards you. You still held the gun in your hand, but it was pointed at the floor.

As the clown approached, you found your neck craning upwards, his body swallowing you in it's shadow. He was lithe and lumbersome, grinning down at you.

"Think you could keep another secret, Mr tall and handsome?" You giggled, face a light pink from his close proximity and intense stare; he was alluring. In fact, you found yourself downright infatuated with him. You could sense the danger oozing off of him in waves, and although a bolt of caution shot through you, you couldn't deny the peculiar attraction you felt to his unique and theatrical self.

Art declined his head down at you, pointing softly to himself, humbly, as though to say 'who, me?', before comically twisting to look behind him, seeking out the other person you were surely complimenting.

It made you giggle again, smiling sweetly up at him as you shook your head at his playfulness. "Sorry, I shouldn't be so bold. You're the miles county killer, aren't you? It makes me nervous being in the presence of someone way above my calibre."

Your eyes fluttered around cutely, before returning up at him with a beautiful sparkle. Art waved off your compliment dramatically, grin sharpening at your girlish giggle. To anyone else, his rigid closeness and predatory stare down would immediately raise flags. But you seemed happy enough, cheeks a cute pink.

"It's so difficult though, being efficient, secretive and untraceable just like you. If I had half of your strength, it would make my life so much easier. It really takes it out of me having to lug these bodies around. And also-"

Art didn't take notice of when you both had begun to walk slowly through the shadowed forest, only that he didn't mind hearing your rambling. He watched you gesture dramatically as you told your stories of having to lure horrible men into the woods before shooting them, and cocked an eyebrow as you suddenly changed subject and fawned over the falling leaves, excitedly proclaiming your love for the various reds, oranges and yellows.

Art nodded thoughtfully at most things you said, even if the gesture was slightly mocking in its sincerity. Even still, he quite liked your voice, and he found himself laughing at some of the tales you told. You were delicate, short of stature compared to him; It would be incredibly easy to reach over and snap your neck. Art found that he didn't want to.

He wasn't restraining himself out of kindness, and he wasn't even actively attempting to be polite. He simply wanted to act this way, here and now, as spontaneous as always. It was humorous, for once he was the one listening calmly, and you were the one grinning far too widely at him.

That was some time ago. Since your first real introduction, you had seen Art here and there, pleasantly surprised when he'd turn up just as you were about to clean up the mess you made of a body, only to drag it with ease to whichever location you desired and burn it.

From there on, sightings of him became even more frequent, moreso to the point that one day you heard a crash in your kitchen, running down with gun in hand, only to bare witness to Art standing menacingly with a horrific smile, blood coating his form and a scissors and pliers held intimidatingly.

Upon seeing you, confusion entered his eyes, his hands lowering. You had never seen the clown appear bashful at his own mistake, raising his hands and shrugging as though to say 'oops'.

It made you giggle, hand to mouth. You pointed towards the window, indicating to the house nearby. "Art, weren't you supposed to be killing my neighbour tonight? You've trespassed the wrong house!" You snickered, bounding over to him excitedly and staring up at him with the most innocent, adoring expression; it made him want to lift the pliers and rip your stunning eyes out and keep them forever.

Art had the decency to realise his mistake, scratching the back of his head awkwardly before rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. He remembered you saying you lived close to his next victim, but he didn't realise you were adjacent. Mistakes for him were so rare.

Art scoffed at himself, shaking his head and throwing his hands up in the air as though saying 'ive made a real mess of this'. His theatrics made you laugh, increasing drastically as you watched the way he perched his hands on his hips in exasperation.

"I'm really glad you're here. I've never shown you around my home before, so..if you've got time..." You trailed off softly, lifting your hands and crossing your fingers with hope as you danced side to side, awaiting his response.

Art deliberated upon that, taking his time as he watched you dance, before shrugging once with a grin. Sure, why not. He could spare a minute or two before he absolutely maimed your neighbour.

He felt your smaller form bolt over to his side and lock arms with him, and he let you. You pulled him along, showing him each room swiftly before dragging him up to your bedroom and pushing him in.

"You look soo dangerous in my room! I love it!"

You had a point. Perusing the room, he found it to be incredibly girly. You had a lot of pinks, fairy lights everywhere and a few teddies here and there. His monochromatic self standing eerily still within your room feels like he's siphoning the pretty colours out of it.

Regardless, you utterly beamed at him, more than happy. You bordered on manic, he thought, body shaking in excitement and fists clenched so hard. Your bright grin stretched wide, eyes round and watchful, focusing solely on him and his reaction.

After what felt like ages, Art lifted a finger up to his neck and mimicked a cutting motion, head tilted to the side and tongue poking out like a comical cartoon character that had been killed. This room was far too bright for him, sickeningly sweet and adorable, but your high pitched giggles of glee at his honest opinion had him chuckling silently too, eyebrows low as he watched you dazzle.

That had been one of your biggest turning points with the clown, and from that day you saw him almost daily. In fact, he walked into your home whenever he felt like it. You'd find him lounging on your chair by the TV at random times in the night, or eating at your kitchen table serenely.

What you cherished the most was when he took you to his dilapidated hideout, dark and dingy and cold, fully juxtaposing your little home; you were now the only beacon of light and colour in this place.

He did enjoy terrifying you now and again, especially in his hideout, his tall form no longer behind you, silently waiting for the moment to make you scream. Each time it made you incredibly excited, anxiety building up inside of you giddily.

When you'd least expect it, Art would be there, coming at you with a hatchet and swinging it downwards playfully. He'd listen to your high pitched squeals and relish in the way you'd flinch and cover yourself protectively. He'd laugh and point at you, shaking his head; it got you every time.

"You're so scary! But honestly, you're so attractive when you do that. Surely some of your victims admit that? The women? Maybe some men?" You swayed your shoulders bashfully, cheeks turning pink like they so often did in his presence.

Art paused at that, a mild look of bewilderment shaping his face at your proclamation, before a sinister smirk darkened the expression considerably. You blinked owlishly as the clown began to take measured, predatory steps towards you, backing you into a damp wall.

He was so tall, caging you against his body, and all you could do was stare up at him with wide eyes, gnawing your pretty lips in anticipation of his next move. He chuckled silently at your reddening cheeks and the way you reached your hands up to cup them delicately. Finally, as an answer, he shook his head slowly.

You seemed mortified. "Did you cut their eyes out first or something? You're handsome to me! Tall, intimidating, dark, incredibly strong--", you began counting on your hand all of Arts best qualities, all the while the clown crossed his arms and nodded patiently, egging you on to continue with a wave of his hand.

"--Honestly, I've always thought this, but I didn't want to be too bold, and I'm feeling really shy with you backing me up against the wall but I also love it, and--and I'm rambling because I'm nervous."

Your admittance seemed to be the biggest factor that contributed to how the two of you were now: You completely smitten with him, and him accepting the fact that he would never kill you. You were sweet and you made the best hot chocolate, and you did make the killings more fun so he'd keep you around.

You were incredibly bubbly, always smiling at him beautifully and helping him cut up body parts with your constant giggles that rivalled his own. He had unintentionally made you cry once, and a foreign emotion had struck him.

Art thought it would be incredibly amusing to offer you a badly wrapped gift with a human body part inside it. He did it mostly to shock you and hear your shrieks of surprise that would eventually melt into laughter, and he didn't particularly put much thought into what body part he would gift you with.

Upon opening the box, you were stunned into silence at seeing the rotten, maggot infested heart staring back at you. You didn't cry out or scream, and you didn't giggle or smile. Instead, your large eyes filled to the brim with tears, lips quivering before the fat droplets spilled over and a sob was wrenched from you.

"Oh my God.", you held a hand to your mouth, mascara streaking your cheeks messily. "Is that a heart? For..for me?", you spoke in utter disbelief, words whispered and shaking. Art cocked his head at your peculiar display of sadness, but nodded nonetheless. He had never seen you cry before.

"That's the most romantic thing that anyone has ever done for me.", you rushed out in a broken sob, sniffling and wiping your tears profusely. Art blinked, face depicting confusion, lips tilted downward. His mind blanked as he awaited your explanation, amusement doused temporarily.

"Id always appreciate anything you gift me, but a heart? Of course I'll be your girlfriend!" You shrieked out with a sob, box dropping to the floor as you jumped and lunged at the clown, arms wrapping tightly around his neck.

He felt your tears soak his neck, his hands lifted up in mild shock, face deadpan, frozen as you wrapped your body around his own, perched upon his lap. Art rolled his eyes up to the ceiling in amusement and exasperation, mimicking your emotional sobs over your shoulder with a dramatic pout, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes.

He eventually threw his hands up in defeat, chuckling to himself. He did not foresee a reaction like this coming when you opened that box. He was more than content to play along, and eventually wrapped his strong hands around your body, charcoal eyes swirling with evil. He rather enjoyed your spontaneity.

Following the initiation into an apparent 'relationship', Art received a few gifts from you too. He himself received a human heart in a black, satin box. It was relatively fresh, and he couldn't help but sigh dreamily and flutter his eyelashes at the romantic gesture. His theatrics were over the top and evidently condescending, but it flew over your pretty head.

He was mildly impressed. You often used guns to kill your victims, lacking the strength and speed to ever out maneuver anyone bigger than yourself. Your hands were never that dirty either, you were not acquainted with using sharp weapons on the human body, so to be gifted a heart of all things, carved with effort from somebody's chest - it made Art nod in genuine approval.

The rest was history.

Art felt unnaturally domesticated within your presence, but he really didn't mind. You had a lot of uses, and he couldn't deny the possession he held for you. If claiming you as his own meant that you were in a 'relationship', then so be it.

He remained nonchalant to your girlish romanticism. He found it to be amusing and peculiarly cute, and even when he'd coo at you mockingly like a little dog, you loved it. In fact, a lot of his condescension did not perturb you. You were overjoyed at him mocking your kissy faces, pouting petulantly, mirroring your own actions.

Art couldn't deny enjoying the tender moments too. He had come to the conclusion long ago that he would never kill you - you were the only exception - and would display surprising levels of intimacy if only to hear your high pitched giggles and tease you for your pinkening cheeks.

Like right now, how he had his large palm delicately stroking your soft hair, brushing strands out of your face. His hand reached down to cup the side of your face, thumb tenderly rubbing circles upon your cheekbone.

You sighed dreamily, the exhale leaving your nose as you bobbed your head up and down his thick length. You sat perched on your knees between his wide thighs on the living room floor, sticky lipgloss leaving a messy residue on his shaft, your lips glistening with saliva.

You had been doing this for a while, languidly pleasuring him, and he let you. He allowed you to sink to your knees and fondle him until he was half hard before your loving mouth engulfed him. All the while, he watched whatever movie you had on TV.

Even when his dick was fully hard, splitting your jaw apart, he barely looked at you. He was focused on the movie, a masked killer hunting a woman down, and hardly spared you a glance even as you worked him faster, slurping and sucking him messily.

It made you unbearably wet, craving his attention, craving even a semblance of pleasure in his expression, or a buck of his hips to indicate that he was enjoying it. Instead, he stroked your cheek delicately, lazily, as though you were a pet that was doing a satisfactory job and nothing more.

Your brows knit together frustratedly, and you took him deep into your throat, saliva pooling down your chin as you choked and moaned quietly at the pulsating between your thighs. You were so wet it was beginning to coat them.

Granted, you had foregone the underwear, instead wearing an incredibly short skirt that had your plump ass cheeks hanging out. You were needy today, you depended on his attention, but he refused to spare you even a thought and it made childish tears well up in your eyes.

Your knees spread below you, skirt rising up higher upon your hips. If he had spared even a moments gaze upon you, he'd see the way your tight, puckered hole swallowed a pretty buttplug, embellished with a sparkling pink diamond on the end.

The pressure was pleasant, and you used your inner muscles to squeeze the toy, wiggling desperately as you did. You closed your eyes as you began sucking him lewdly now, the sounds becoming sloppy and loud as you reached a hand between your legs to play with your aching clitoris.

You were dripping whorishly upon the floor, moaning around his huge cock as you rubbed circles around the pulsating nub before slipping your fingers over it directly, hips bucking in relieved pleasure.

Arousal surged through you as you felt his hips lift the slightest, seeking the back of your throat, and your eyes flew open to witness the serenely blissful expression on his face, only to widen your eyes.

His gaze had been unknowingly on you for a while now, lacking it's usual grin and instead staring sternly, eyebrows low and shadowing his dark eyes. There was a lecherous blackness in his gaze, drinking in the way your cheeks reddened considerably, eyelashes fluttering bashfully against your cheeks.

You had his full, undivided attention now, and it only served to make you increase your efforts tenfold, bobbing your head up to the very tip to suckle the sensitive nerves, lapping up his salty precum with your hot tongue, before sinking back down as far as you could go, lifting a hand to fondle his swollen balls, encouraging them to unload inside your wanting mouth.

Arts intimidating stoicism faltered momentarily at your ministrations, head leaning back into the cushioned chair as his mouth opened in a silent, pleasured exhale, his sharp and angular jawline emphasised greatly from this angle.

That subtle, minor expression of bliss shot bolts of unfiltered arousal through you. You moaned around his cock, redoubling your efforts even as your jaw ached. You suckled your way to the tip, releasing his solid length with a pop; your hand took over, jerking him steadily.

"Mm, I get so wet whenever I give you a blowjob. If you had spared half a second to look at me, you'd notice.", your voice came out in a quiet, childish whine, lips pouted dramatically.

Art lolled his head to the side and stared down at you, eyebrow cocked in a silent question. He scrutinised your little pout and the way your eyes sparkled with unshed tears and a slow, sharp smirk etched it's way onto his face.

Aw, did you crave attention? Are you his little attention whore? Art snickered at the thought, but found that this must surely be the answer; you craved his affections, and he chuckled as your lips quivered.

Art stroked your face tenderly and pouted right back at you, nodding and mockingly agreeing with your little outburst. It really was awful of him, wasn't it? He'd have to rectify that.

Before you knew it, you found yourself bent over the arm of the chair, legs kicked apart as he toyed with the little plug in your ass, wiggling it back and forth. You had a glorious ass, round and fat and smooth, and even he wasn't immune to its juiciness.

He jiggled your cheeks playfully, watching the skin mold to his hand and ripple outwards under the pressure. One day, he'd fuck your tight little rim raw, and the thought had him rock hard as he pushed his cock against your sodden pussy and glided in halfway with a teasing smirk.

"Nng, don't tease me. P-put it all in, stretch me out-", you begged pathetically, pushing your luscious ass back against him.

Art pulled out slowly to the tip, rubbing along your folds for a moment, before catching the tip against your hole. With a playful wiggle of his eyebrows, he sunk in as deep as he could, parting your velvety walls. The stretch was always considerable, always tinged with pain. It made you shudder beautifully, back arching.

"Yes, yes--Love this feeling, love you--", you rambled in a high pitched, girlish tenor, moaning as he filled you to the brim and more.

Arts face split into a nasty, smug grin behind you, shoulders shaking with laughter. It was pretty clear that you loved him, he thought. Each time his cock found your sodden hole you'd proclaim this proudly, delirious and euphoric.

Gripping your waist, Art smoothed his calloused hands down to your hips and back up rhythmically, hearing you sigh in delight. He fucked you the way he knew you loved, hard and deep, and had no issue acting so intimately, so romantically, as you'd say.

You were his, and he enjoyed your feminine noises of pleasure. He felt that you were the only instance where he would ever act this way. With you, he didn't merely act on a whim anymore, dangerously spontaneous. Of course, that did happen on occasion, but in moments like these, when he was paired up with someone so bizarrely loving, so warm and bubbly and intimate, he found that reciprocating wasn't all that hard anymore.

He revelled in your little adoring sighs as he smoothed his way up your womanly figure, and the way you'd nuzzle into his palm every time he'd trail a strong hand down your jaw and onto your neck to hold possessively.

You were as unhinged as him, but you were also..gentle. He didn't particularly want to hurt you too much anymore. He did want to fuck you into a crying mess, however.

Art pressed a thumb to the dazzling diamond sticking out between your cheeks, applying pressure so it sunk in deeper, all the while fucking you hard and filling you so full.

He had a feeling that you were hinting at something with the way this delectable little toy jutted out of you. You were so pure on times, he imagined you found it hard to admit. That was fine, he'd get it out of you one way or another. If you wanted your ass played with so much, all you had to do was ask.

He wiggled the toy back and forth, pulling on it slightly and feeling the way your tight hole suctioned it back in. You whined at the feeling, your ass and pussy deliciously full, and stared back at him with dazzling, loving eyes.

"Ahh-Art--Feels so good-!", you gasped, moaning sweetly to him, so high pitched and whiny that he couldn't help but coo down at you in faux affection. His cock pummelled into you rhythmically, the wet slap of skin permeating the air. His heavy balls slapped sinfully against your pulsing little clitoris causing your legs to quiver and shake.

Art gripped the base of the toy more firmly, wiggling it side to side once again, before pulling it out from your tight rim. You whined noisily at the feeling, shuddering as you felt his fingers dip down between your legs to gather lubrication, before prodding at your hole once more and sinking in to the knuckles.

You cried out, back arching and legs widening further at the feeling of his thick fingers rhythmically filling your ass. It felt dirty and forbidden, something you had never done before, but each and every time he gave your virgin hole attention, whether it be a delicate stroke of his thumb or his tongue lavishing the area, it had you so wet and sticky that you could barely handle it.

Art grinned salaciously as his digits pumped into you deeply, all the while his rigid cock slipped into your pussy relentlessly, stretching you in ways that you should be used to by now, but you never were. He was so long and thick and it made your mind whirl with pleasure.

"S-so dirty putting your fingers in there I--ahh-- I shouldn't like it but I do!", you rambled adorably, your tongue loosening as he fucked you harder, snapping his hips against your bouncing cheeks.

Art snickered and shook his head at your innocence; A finger in your ass was probably one of the least dirtiest things he had touched. Another digit entered your passage, his hot length ravaging your pliant form. You cried out in broken whimpers, rambling little, soft compliments about his sheer size and how you needed him to fuck you, how you loved him.

You became dumb once his cock was near you, he found. He quite liked it, revelled in your incoherent stammering, or the way your eyes would be glued to his massive length.

Art grinned cruelly down at you, a sudden darkness enveloping his irises as he gripped painful handfuls of your hips, his fingers no doubt bruising the tender area, before he pushed your body forward so your upper half fell down with a yelp, your ass fully on display for him and fucked you so mind numbingly rough that tears streaked down your cheeks, your high pitched sobs and cries to slow down were music to his ears. In the next breath, you'd beg him to never stop.

Your thighs quivered and shook as his balls slapped hard against your clitoris, his cock fucking into you so sinfully you were outright weeping. You shrieked when your orgasm peaked, splattering down your quaking thighs as you gasped and fisted the blankets desperately.

Art grit his teeth in concentration, feeling that overwhelming urge to unload himself within you. He placed a rough hand against your head and forced you downwards, his head tilting back and lips parting in bliss as his cock filled your crammed little hole with ropes of hot cum. His hips stuttered as each powerful rope shot out, your pulsating walls milking him and lapping up as much as it could before the excess spilled messily out of your pussy, around his girth and down his balls.

You were panting shallowly as he finished, unceremoniously dropped as his hands and body removed themselves from you. Cum dribbled out of your used hole, and you flushed darkly as Art righted your bunched up skirt, smoothing it back down over your ass and putting his cock back inside his costume as though he hadn't just decimated your body and mind brutally.

You pushed yourself up on weak arms, turning to face the cheeky grin of the clown who looked as pristine as ever, not at all out of breath and sweaty like you were. Art indicated to the forgotten movie on the screen, nodding over to the settee so that you could both take a seat and finish it, but upon taking a step forward your legs felt so shaky you thought you were about to collapse.

You stumbled forward and gripped his costume tightly, gravity making the thick, warm cum inside of you dribble down your thighs messily. Art outright laughed at your unstable legs, cooing down at you and winking at you slyly. He shrugged nonchalantly, raising his hands as though to say 'oops'.

You giggled up at him bashfully, feeling him lead you to the settee before you promptly flopped backwards onto it and spread your legs out over his lap. Art didn't mind, from how short your skirt was he got a good eyeful of your glistening, puffy pussy. It made him scoff darkly to himself, shaking his head.

"Oh, Halloweens on. This used to be my favourite film, I had a massive crush on Michael Myers for the longest time-".

Ah, there it was - your silly ramblings had started again, and Art cocked an eyebrow at your admittance, peering at the character on the screen who seemed to be choking a stupid teenage girl.

"--And I guess I do like Jason too but, I don't know, he never appealed to me as much as Michael--"

Art nodded along to your cute outburst, watching the way your eyes sparkled passionately. He smoothed a hand up your calf, smirking.

"--But Jason is so much faster than Michael, which is kind of attractive, you know, the whole predator/prey thing, and--"

Art raised both brows now, grin positively evil. You wanted to be chased, did you? Hunted down and captured like a victim? Interesting. He began to chuckle to himself, arms folded and turning in his seat so he could give you his undivided attention.

You felt your cheeks pinken at his look and realized you had probably admitted too much. From the way he wiggled his eyebrows, stare turning predatory, you knew he was plotting something.

"What? It can't be that surprising that I'd..kind of like to be on the receiving end one day. We hunt so many people, it must be hot being hunted," you sighed dreamily, hand reaching over to his and stroking it tenderly. It was rough and calloused.

"Especially by you. That would be..", you paused, biting your lip in a sultry display. You imagined the scene: Him undoubtedly capturing you and having his way with you. You could feel heat blooming in your abdomen. "-Exhilarating. I-Ive thought about it a few times.", you shrugged softly, embarrassed. You struggled to meet his gaze, but when you finally did, it made your breath hitch.

Long gone was that teasing grin, instead replaced by a stern austerity, eyebrows low and shadowing his dark, smouldering eyes. He chuckled once, demonstrated by the way his shoulders lifted in amusement, but his face remained downright terrifying and blank.

You fluttered your eyes to your lap, crimson faced and fidgeting, rubbing soothing circles into his veiny, strong hand.

"Do you...like that idea? I-if not that's okay. It's weird. I shouldn't have said anything.", you trailed off vulnerably, uncertain. You struggled to decipher his moods when he wasn't smiling, and it scared you.

A firm hand gripped your chin, tugging it upwards to meet his fiery gaze forcefully. He was so close, suddenly leaning halfway over your body and with a deliberate, slow nod, he wanted to make it clear that he would very much enjoy that.

You bit your lip in nervousness despite his clear agreement, studying his expression cautiously, but a smile soon graced your lips as Art wiggled your chin fondly back and forth, offering a small smirk; He liked that idea.

Soon, your face brightened up, and you practically jumped at him and snuggled against his chest, his thigh between your own. "You make me so happy.", you whispered, sighing in delight as you watched Michael kill another teenage girl.

Art shrugged playfully, patting your head. You probably should have never admitted that fantasy to him. He'll chase you like you wanted, give you a little head start, but after that he'd treat you like a real victim. You'll be so terrified that you're shaking, having second thoughts about the ordeal.

Then he'd fuck you into the dirt like a whore, knife held too close to your neck, borderline cutting into your flesh. He wouldn't go too far - Some light cutting, some choking, a gun to your head. It was all relatively toned down.

Even still, no matter how much you begged and screamed and pleaded, you'd still hold that adoring infatuation for him. It made him tilt his head back fully, unhinge his jaw and laugh so violently it actually scared you.

You knew what he was. You knew the dark, unfathomable pit of evil inside of him would swallow you whole too, making you his victim one way or another.

You knew he wouldn't kill you, but that doesn't mean that he'd never torment you. These were facts that you simply accepted; you loved him, you didn't know if he was capable of such an emotion, but him keeping you alive and treating you tenderly now and again was enough for you.

It made your heart sing and your insides pulse with need. Leaning your head fully against his chest, you curled up against him as he almost naturally enveloped you in his arms, holding you close. You nuzzled into him and savoured the moment.

You couldn't wait for the future ahead. You couldn't wait to maim more people with him and make love to him in their blood. You couldn't wait to become his next victim.

The thought made you wet all over again.

#art the clown #art the clown smut #terrifier #terrifier smut #art the clown x reader #terrifier x reader #art the clown x you #terrifer x you #i like ass so readers ass is hot okay #also im craving him #the title basically means 'enchanting wickedness' btw. love fancy titles if you hadnt guessed by now

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desceros · 9 months ago

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tries to sleep, fails, gets melancholy, copes by writing purple turtle fic donatello/reader, gn!reader, rated t, 1.6k. insomnia, friends to.... friends, (were you ever just friends? are you something more? what is love if not friendship shifted an inch to the left?), yearning, yearning, yearning, yearning—

Donatello is sleeping.

Hefting a fatigued sigh, you hover in the doorway to his bedroom for a moment. Staring at his face, taking it in. He’s gotten unfairly handsome as the years have gone by. Beautiful, even. Pretty angles, sharp defined lines, dark seductive eyes. Like this, unmasked, slack in sleep, it’s free for you to look as much as you want. More than you can during the day. A little secret thing just for your own heart’s keeping.

…Best friends shouldn’t want to stare at each other like this, you think with an ache.

It’s late. You can’t sleep. Lying down has provided nothing but racing thoughts you can’t quiet. Things to do tomorrow. Things to say when you see someone. Things to write down if you can hold them until the morning. Things, things, things. So many things in your head, ten thousand little voices like little snowflakes in your skull. Each small, powerless; but together, a force too mighty to outrun.

And Donnie is sleeping. Normally he’s awake. Fiddling, poking, prodding, studying, twisting, cracking, bending. Available to draw you into sleep. Always soothing, petting your hair, cooing at you until you drift off at last to the dulcet sounds of his low rumbles.

But not tonight. Tonight he sleeps, pretty in his sheets even as he’s all sprawled out and drooling. Cute. He’s cute. He’s cute and close enough to touch but so, so far away that you know you never will. Not like that. Not like that.

It’s late. You can’t sleep.

Slowly, not wanting to wake him, infuriated with yourself just at the thought that you’d risked it by lingering as long as you have, you peel away from his door frame and sneak into the living room. The couch greets you again. Inviting, soft. It smells like turtle ass. Popcorn. Movie night. It smells like family, like home. Scratchy beneath your cheek. You’ve been meaning to get them some new pillows. The way Mikey had laughed so hard he’d snorted his drink. Leo’s squawk when it got all over him. The weight of Donnie’s arm on your shoulder when he’d leaned on you while laughing until he got the hiccups. His cologne, new, smells nice. You should tell him tomorrow.

(You can’t tell him. There’s no way for a best friend to look at the other with pupils shaped like hearts and be the same. You can’t tell him.)

Heavily, you sigh. It’s late. You can’t sleep.

You sit up. Get up off the couch. Stretch a little before exhaling and walking around a bit to try and work off some of this excess energy. The darkness of the living room isn’t so much, anymore, what with how your eyes have adjusted. You can see the pieces of the evening strewn about. A pizza box that Splinter’s going to find in the morning and yell at the lot of you for not throwing out. Raph’s teddy bear, leaning against the other couch where he’d been pretending he hadn’t been using it to hide his face in the scary parts. Mikey’s cup, half-full, forgotten in Leo’s panic to find paper towels. And—

—Donnie, standing in the doorway, bleary-eyed, arms folded.

“Why are you awake?” he asks, voice tumbling over your ears like rocks on a riverbed. Guilt strikes you like a blow. He’s exhausted. You’ve woken him up.

“I’m sorry,” you say as an answer, tangling your fingers in the shirt you’d borrowed out of his closet. The shirt you always borrow. The shirt that’s half yours, now.

Donnie’s quiet. You sink your teeth into your lower lip and hope he’ll shrug and go back to bed. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’s got enough sleep juice in him that he’ll drift right back off and forget this happened.

He doesn’t. “…Can’t sleep?”

The guilt burns your skin like sand in the wind. You smile and pretend. “I’ll be okay. Go back to bed, Don. You need it more than I do.”

He doesn’t.

“…Please?” you try again.

You’re met, instead, with a sigh. He rubs the back of his head where his mask would tie if he were wearing it. Lets his arm fall to his side—ah, except no. He’s holding out his hand, palm outstretched, inviting you to come close. When you don’t, his beak wrinkles. “Come here.”

You take a few steps closer, but don’t take his hand just yet. “What are you doing?”

“Just come here,” he says again, curling his fingers a few times in an imperious grabby command. You come closer. He opens his tired eyes in a squint, mouth dipped into a frown, and his gesture gets more demanding. “Come here.”

Stepping closer, closer, closer, finally you get within range. You realize he wants your hand the moment he loses patience with you, watching as he rolls his eyes and reaches out to encircle your wrist with strong fingers. They eclipse the bones there easily, tugging as he turns, pulling you out of the living room.

“Don—” you start to protest, but he stops you with a breath.

“Stubborn,” he accuses, though there’s no heat to the word. The scoff is thick on the back of your tongue—Donnie of all people calling you stubborn—but you don’t let it out, knowing it’ll be too-loud in the pitch night.

He pulls you into his room, the very room that had been such a sweet siren song to you earlier. He pulls you towards his bed. He pulls you in behind him when he settles in. He pulls you beneath his blanket. He pulls, pulls, pulls, until your chest is flush to his plastron and his arm is around your waist and his breath is in your face and your heart is in your throat.

It’s late. You’re not going to be able to sleep.

“…Go to sleep,” he says after a few seconds, doubtless able to feel the way your pulse is like a hummingbird against his skin.

“Sorry,” you say in lieu of—anything else. You don’t dare try to say another word, unsure of what exactly would tumble out instead. Perhaps a sweet poem about the texture of his skin against yours. Maybe a lament that he feels the need to tuck his thigh between yours so so so close to where you wake in a pool of sweat dreaming of his touch. Or possibly a whispered confession that tastes like lightning and blood and sugar all at the same time; that you want this but not this, you want this but more.

Gently, a forehead bonks against yours. Dark eyes open and meet yours, centimeters away. He studies you, and you watch the gears turn. More slowly than usual, lethargic even, because of his slumber.

“You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs. Dumbly, you nod. “Need to talk about it?”

“…Yeah,” you admit, then, “…but I won’t.”

He doesn’t like that. A frown mars his beautiful, beautiful face.

“Why?”

You swallow the incredulous laugh, the kaleidoscope of responses. They’re all irrelevant, impossible to share, save for one. “You should sleep.”

Donnie’s hand tightens, fingers curling in his—your—shirt in the small of your back. “So should you.”

“Yeah.”

“…”

“…I don’t understand.” The confession, rare, makes you sigh.

“…I don’t either,” you tell him. And you don’t. Why did you have to feel this way for him? Why couldn’t it be someone easier that stole your heart? Why does it have to be the one person you can’t stand to lose? Why does he have to be so comfortable touching you like this and making it hurt even worse? Why can’t you stop feeling this way?

Why can’t you sleep? Why can’t you sleep?

His fingers unfurl from your shirt. His hand dips beneath the hem, finding the skin of your back. Slow shivers spread like little earthquakes as he strokes along your spine, tectonic caresses that ripple and destroy. It's familiar enough a touch that you don't stop him; unfamiliar enough that it rends you inside out.

Donnie leans in. Ghosts his lips along your jaw. It’s not a kiss; you’re just friends, after all. But it’s a sweet caress that feels good, all the way to where he lingers at your ear, whispering there, quivering at the touch that's too close to something else to be fair. “Close your eyes.”

You have one rule: listen to Donatello. So you do; you close your eyes, let his nails drag down your back, let his mouth press warm into your pulse, let his chest rumble with churrs that fill the night air with something akin to a lullaby. His legs curl around yours, mixing, confusing, making the separation of you disappear.

It’s… maddening. You hate this. You love him. You love him so much. You hate that he can do this so easily.

“Shhh,” comes the gentle coo against your skin, like he can tell you’re pulling away from his intent. You obey that, too. Donnie says to be quiet, so you quiet. Thoughts, movements, words; all of them fall away at his beckoning. “Just like that. Good.”

Good, you think, feeling a little fuzzy. It feels good to be good for him. God. You’d be so good for him—but no. None of that, now. Not when you can pretend that these little presses of his lips are kisses. That the thickness of his thigh pressed to your shorts means something. That his hand scratching lines in your skin is something meant to claim as much as it is to calm.

“Making me work for it tonight,” you hear him mumble, half-conscious of the words, not sure if they’re real or part of a dream he’s built for you. “Good job, sweetheart. Just like that.”

More brushes of his mouth. A slow glide of tongue. A lovely dream, you think, finally letting your muscles go slack. A dream of a Donatello who would hold you like this, talk to you like this. A Donatello who is more than just your best friend.

It’s late. Finally, warm and held and pulled into a sweet dream, finally, you sleep.

#me slurring with a voice thick with sleep: two best friends that are in love but too close to tell and so they dance like leaves in the wind #forever brushing close. darting about like little butterflies. gossamer wings catching the light and enchanting one another w each breath #but too close. too close. you can't see the scope of a painting when it's the single strokes that catch your eye.#.....................it's almost four in the morning. im sure there are errors but i shan't be fixing them now. have it as it comes #tmnt #rise #donatello/reader #my fic #rating: t

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