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jokeringcutio · 11 months ago

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Art the Clown x Reader Drabble "Giving Birth to Art's Baby" [ EXPLICIT, Gore]

AN: Nobody asked for this. Summary: If Reader had Art’s baby. (or: You realize you're fucked, birthing a demon's child, but get a bright idea while doing so)

Warnings: Explicit content (Blood/Murder/Birth), Demon!Art, Demon!kid, Cannibalism/Placenta eating. Mentioned Forced Impregnation. Reader gives birth. Reader tries to survive. Reader lives by the end of this chapter. You have Art’s look-a-like baby (not just his head. An actual kid).

The sterile whiteness of the hospital room blurred into a canvas of dread as they told you to push. "You can do this," the nurse said, her voice a harsh command against the silence of your unborn child's heart—a silence that had been haunting you since labor began. The monitors sang no lullaby of life; instead, they hummed a dirge for the creature stirring inside, the one you knew bore no resemblance to a human babe.

"Push!" she insisted, but something primal within you recoiled. Your mind reeled, images of the ultrasounds flickering like a horror show behind your eyes—those glimpses of something otherworldly, something that twisted the midwives' faces into masks of confusion and fear. You felt it squirming, an alien presence in the sanctuary of your womb. Its head, too large, its limbs, too sharp—you remembered the cold gel on your belly and the screen showing a chest empty of a beating heart and a skull with teeth that no other baby ever had.

The images had filled you with nightmares.

"Push, damn it!"

With each word from her lips, you were torn further between the instinct to expel the abomination and the unnatural maternal pull towards the thing you carried. It looked slightly human, yes, but there was no pulse, no thrumming of life—just the void where a heartbeat should echo.

"Push, or we'll lose you both!"

Your muscles clenched, a symphony of pain rippling through you as you fought to obey, to be rid of the living death inside. You tried to calm the tempest in your chest, telling yourself over and over, "I can do this."

Then he invaded your thoughts—Art, the demon, the clown in black and white, a mockery of joy and laughter. His teeth, those sharp instruments of terror, flashed in your memory, evoking the night of unspeakable horror when he had claimed you. Should you have fought him harder? Should you have shouted or cried? His touch was a brand, his seed the poison that grew into the monstrosity within.

You had recognized the shape of the baby’s skull the instant the ultrasound had shown it. His teeth. His head. His heartless frame.

Mass murderer and psycho on the run. A clown who never spoke and was never caught. A criminal the police claimed to have killed time after time again, yet he kept returning. You weren’t stupid. You knew he was no ordinary man, had seen and felt him up close, had lived through carrying his offspring and felt its tiny hands like claws inside your womb.

"Push! I see the head!"

Your scream tore through the air, a battle cry against the violation that had led to this moment. With a guttural cry, you bore down, every fiber of your being straining to bring forth the offspring of darkness. The nurses leaned in, their faces etched with morbid curiosity and professional detachment.

"More! Now!"

And you did. You pushed past the fear, the revulsion, and the anguish. You pushed because surrender was not an option. The child of Art, the silent clown with the soulless bright eyes surrounded by circles of dark, was coming, and you would face it, even as it threatened to tear you apart.

"Head's out!"

The words cut through the fog of your agony, and for a brief, impossible moment, hope flickered. But it was a fool's hope, born of pain and desperation. For what lay between your thighs was neither dead nor alive, neither human nor wholly other. It was the unholy union of your flesh and Art's demonic whimsy, born into a world that would never understand its existence.

"Keep going, you're almost there!"

That nurse's voice, so insistent, so devoid of the horrors that awaited, spurred you on. And you pushed again, into the unknown, into the nightmare made flesh.

The sterile chill of the delivery room clawed at your senses, but nothing could compare to the icy grip of fear that seized your heart. The nurse's declaration was a death knell, ringing hollow in your ears.

"Oh no, look at that color,” she breathed out, her words a ghost lingering in the air. The child’s head was as white as the sheets you were birthing on.

Your gaze fixed on the writhing mass that now slipped free from your body, its skin as white as untouched snow, not a shade of life to be found. Terror danced in the nurse's eyes as she caught the creature you had birthed, fully convinced to hold a stillborn child.

But then it turned its head towards her, lips pulled back in a macabre grin, black and white painted across its face like a twisted replica of Art's mime visage.

It was as you had feared it would be. Any hope you had held that your baby might come out all rosy and normal faded like ice under the sun.

"God!" The nurse recoiled, hurling your offspring onto the bed as if it were a viper.

"Easy! Easy!" You cried out. This was your child, your blood. And there was the little voice inside your head that whispered that Art wouldn’t die. No matter how many shots had been fired at him. No matter how many limbs had been cut off. The man still walked the earth, spreading death in silent joy wherever he went.

What if your child was the same? Already its heart wasn’t beating yet it seemed very much alive. Would throwing it away like its life meant nothing be the solution?

Adrenaline fueled your limbs, and with a grunt, you crawled toward the tiny form cast aside on the cold hospital linen. No. This was your baby too. No matter how evil, you would nurse it.

"Shh, shh," you soothed, half-mad with pain and wonder as your arms closed around the little body. Your hands trembled, cradling him close, the resemblance uncanny—Art's spawn, his legacy. Something soft dangled between the baby’s legs.

"Boy..." you whispered, the realization dawning upon you as you held him against your breast. The baby’s head instinctively sought for your nipple, his already long-grown teeth snapping as he sought.

The sight of his head filled you with terror, and you felt slightly sick to see the baby’s lack of lips and already blackened teeth. Bright eyes stared up at you, black circles around him. The first touch of his mouth to your skin was tentative, searching, before a sharp pain made you hiss. "No biting!"

He seemed to understand or perhaps heeded the command instilled in his dark lineage. You were grateful he started to suck next and didn’t bite your entire nipple off. You wouldn’t put it past him – not with what you had seen his father do and what you had read and heard in the news articles about him.

There amidst the blood and the shadows, you were bound to this child, this extension of a demon's desire, by cords thicker than fear, stronger than revulsion. In the silence that hung heavy, only your harsh breaths and the soft, wet suckling sounds filled the void.

Your arms ached, but you clung to him—the fruit of your womb and a monster's seed. The room spun slightly, the stark white tiles of the hospital room blurring as you focused on the tiny creature at your breast. His lips, so unlike a human’s and too far pulled back, painted in an unseen artist's black and white, suckled with an instinctual hunger.

"Sweetheart,” you tested the word, reassuring yourself that you could do this. That you had to use affectionate terms around him especially because he was the way he was.

A new plan formed in your mind.

If you could bring such true evil to the world, could you perhaps dampen it? You were pretty certain you could not undo it. You could not change a devil into an angel. But if you could not turn evil into good, could you perhaps guide it? Guide it away from harming innocents?

"You're mine," you murmured, studying the little baby in your arms. If not for the head, the child would have looked rather normal.

“My son,” you proudly said, testing the words whilst the nurses and doctors around you stood and watched. You heard their muttering and were vaguely aware of how one of the nurses had pushed an emergency button and alerted someone else in the building about what was going on.

Would they come and take your baby away from you? Would they want to try and murder him?

A fierce protectiveness was swelling within you. “I’ll protect you, sweetheart,” you reaffirmed, determination lacing the single word. “You are my son.”

Some of the nurses took a step back from the bloodied bed, their eyes still wide with disbelief. Behind them, the door burst open with a violence that made every eye swing toward it.

Art stood there, his silhouette like a twisted shadow from a child's nightmare. The nurse at the entrance reached for him. “Sir,” she said, eyes upon the garbage gab he carried over his shoulder. “These are sterile surroundings.” Her concern was cut short by the gleam of steel—a deft flick of Art's wrist—and she crumpled, a scream caught in her throat, blood blossoming on her uniform like a grotesque flower.

The doctor next to her cried out when a blade hit his legs, slashing through the clean white fabric until his shins bled. Another nurse to his side crumpled when Art passed her by, pushed over with blood on her pristine white clothes.

"Stop!" Your voice was a command, even as you recoiled. "Don't."

Art’s head cocked, you could tell he had heard your voice, but he didn’t listen. Whatever knife he had brought with him was launched to land in the middle of a nurse’s forehead, pinching her to the wall. He smiled broadly while he stepped up to the doctor’s tools to get a scalpel from them, obviously pleased with all the sharp things that were within his reach. He threatened to step forth to the Doctor who had already wounded legs and who had fallen to the floor. The man looked up at the demonic clown fearfully, tears in his eyes as Art raised the scalpel.

“Art, please,” you begged, “Don’t hurt them.”

It wasn’t your pleading that stopped him. But something else entirely. A low groan as finally, the afterbirth followed - a final, visceral release that marked the end of your gruesome trial.

His head cocked, the mime's unnerving silence punctuating the chaos he had wrought. He approached, eyes fixed on the bundle in your arms. Between your legs, the heap of blood and tissue drained the sheets. The baby’s umbilical cord was still attached to the placenta that had finally come out.

Art studied it. First, the writhing baby in your arms. He looked at it like he had never seen a newborn child before. He probably hadn’t, you thought. At least, not one of his own. The wonder was visible in those bright light eyes of his. The demonic toothy smile had turned into a black hole of wonder.

Then, the brightly shining eyes traced the umbilical cord and came to rest on the placenta. Something in his eyes changed, and he looked up at you, almost hungrily. His gaze softened then at the sight of his son again, and dirt-covered fingers reached out a few times, indicating he wanted to hold him but was too shy to grab the babe.

Your son’s eyes opened, recognizing his father. But he wouldn’t leave his meal. The teeth nibbled on your nipple while milk kept flowing richly, then bit down a little harder when you moved your arm – an indication that he did not want to be moved.

With a spidery grace, Art extended a hand, his fingers stretching toward his progeny. You tightened your grasp, feeling the peculiar warmth of your son against your flesh.

"Art," you began, voice quivering with a cocktail of fear and resolve. "He's feeding." You met those abyssal eyes, searching for understanding. "We need them alive—the nurses, the doctors. We might need their help..." Whatever could you say to keep him from killing these people? You raked your mind, thought desperately. And then it came out. Unbidden. "For next time."

A pause, and then a different kind of hunger flashed across his face. Another offspring? The idea hadn't crossed his twisted mind until you seeded it there. The possibility of creating more beings like this one, beings that belonged to both of you—it ignited something within him.

"Next time," you whispered, coaxing.

Art's attention shifted, drawn away by the glistening afterbirth on the bed. A grotesque curiosity morphed into action as he reached down, snatching it up with an eager hand. He snapped the umbilical cord with his teeth, igniting gasps throughout the room of the nurses and the doctor – all either petrified or too wounded to leave. You gave them all an empathic stare, a silent ‘I’m sorry’ while you watched as Art descended on his own meal.

The room filled with the sound of his silent feasting, a tableau of horror that paralyzed the surviving staff. They could only watch, too terrified to move, too horrified to look away.

"Good," you breathed, holding your son closer. "Focus on that. Let us be."

Surrounded by trembling bodies and the scent of iron and fear, you rocked gently, whispering promises into the velvet softness atop your son's head, promises of a world where he would never be alone—where he'd have a sibling to share the darkness with. And more importantly, a mother who would guide evil in ways that would save those she cared about. Herself included. ~ AN: This could be a full story, but I was lazy and only wrote the birthing scene. Might upload other parts that can go along with this as I have an outline. If you like my (gross) writing (style), consider following me or browse my masterlists (psst, there's more).

~~ Support me on Ko-Fi - Masterlist - Request Box ~~ The Full Tale: Art saw the pale girl, another of his kind, and realized that he wanted to be less lonely. Someone of his own kind, now that sounded nice. A kid of his own to play patty cake with? So he started looking for a potential carrier for his kid. You were cute, didn't run as hard, didn't make a sound when he tried to harm you. A quiet little human, about the size of the clown kid he had seen. You were perfect. Instead of killing you, he made sure you got pregnant. During the pregnancy, you kept seeing traces of him, found little gifts from the stranger who featured in your nightmares ever since.

You weren't stupid. You found out quite quickly that your clown is in fact the much sought-after murderer who comits the most horrible crimes under the name of Art. You have seen what he is capable of and dive into the archives researching him and his crimes. He seems to survive everything.

When the ultrasounds show you a distorted baby with no heartbeat, you know that you carry true evil inside of you. But getting rid of it is no option, as you can't kill what already seems to be dead. With no other fate, you have no option but to birth the monster's child. How you will handle things after, however, that is something you can influence. You will do anything in your power to survive. ~~

#art the clown x reader #art x reader #terrifier baby #terrifier fanfic #birthing horror fanfic

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a-writer-on-elm-street · 2 years ago

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i was wondering if you can write an art the clown x afab reader

so i have this thought that like reader is one of the people art was chasing down in the abandoned apartment and once he has them tied up on a chair, he notices the slutty costume with a short skirt they’re wearing and cant help but pull the readers panties aside and do as he pleases

reader doesnt know why they like it but they so. also maybe have art threaten them w weapons while he fucks them but doesnt actually use them

a/n: thank you so much for the request! i think i kinda went a little bit off base with this but i hope you like it! :)

pairing: art x afab!reader

warnings: smut, dark content, NONCON turned DUBCON, clowns, reader wears a skirt, threat, kidnapping, restraints, knife play, object insertion, gun play, branding

word count: 961

Your eyes felt like they had been glued shut as you attempted to force them open. Your head was pounding and when you finally managed to open your eyes, you were met with the sight of a dark room, a pressure surrounding your wrists.

Looking down, you found that your wrists had been tied to the arms of a chair, the frayed material of the rope rubbing against your skin.

You lifted your gaze back to the walls that surrounded you, and there was nothing but damp and rot. But when you looked a little further to the side, you managed to spot the clown leaning against the wall, a black and white painted face staring back at you.

And that was when it hit you, the memory of running, flashes of panic entering your mind as you stared at the menacing eyes of the clown, his black rimmed smile sending shivers down your spine.

Panic started to rise in your chest, and you desperately began pulling on the rope around your wrists, but all it did was chisel away at your skin, only worsening the burns that had been forming there.

And it was then that the clown finally advanced towards you, his eyes alight with excitement as he stepped closer.

But when he got close enough, you noticed his eyes skate down your body, stopping at the sight of the short skirt that barely covered your thighs. It didn't take much to realise what he was thinking, so you started attempting to push yourself backwards, your feet pathetically kicking out in front of you as you fought against your restraints.

Although it proved to be unsuccessful as you couldn't manage to move so much as an inch as the clown leaned over you, seemingly inspecting you as you struggled.

He paused for a moment, still staring down at you, and you flinched when he suddenly reached between your legs, his fingers hooking around the material of your panties before pulling them down, leaving them resting around your knees.

You were still struggling in your restraints, muttering quiet 'no's' as you tried to back away from your kidnapper, but it was no use as the clown revealed a knife, a sickening grin spreading across his face as he looked at you.

Your eyes went wide at the sight of the weapon, a scream becoming caught in your throat as you continued to push yourself further against the chair.

Tears were streaming down your face as the clown advanced closer, sliding the handle of the blade between your thighs, the cold metal grazing your exposed pussy.

You jerked away, but that only seemed to annoy the clown as he frowned at you, removing the knife from between your legs and turning to a black garbage bag nearby.

You watched as he rummaged around in it for a moment before finally unveiling a gun.

"Please don't kill me." You found yourself pleading, only managing to earn an amused smile from the clown.

He quickly returned to you, holding the gun in front of your face, the knife still held in his other hand. What did he even want?

"Please." You cried, shaking your head. "Please, don't."

The clown merely offered you a silent laugh, returning the knife to its previous position between your thighs, the cold metal once again brushing your clit.

He kept the gun held to your head as a warning, and he slowly inched the handle of the knife inside of you, the sensation of the metal becoming uncomfortable.

He seemed amused as he watched you squirm in front of him, pushing the metal further. Your head flew back, your hips involuntarily rocking into the knife, heat already pooling in your core.

A moan escaped your lips when he started moving the knife back and forth, the cool metal sending shockwaves through your body.

You wanted to tell him to stop, you wanted to scream for help or at least fight back, except you couldn't find it in you to try.

You were now grinding against the weapon, sinful moans tumbling from your lips and your pleas for help had died in your throat.

"Please." You whispered, your eyes screwing shut as you desperately moved against the knife, your walls clenching around the metal. "Oh shit...please."

The clown simply gave you a silent chuckle, thrusting the knife inside you at a quicker pace, lowering the gun away from your head.

You were practically begging him to keep going now, the pressure building in your stomach as he continued his movements against you. You didn't even care where you were at this point, you were just desperate to reach your release.

And it wasn't long until the fire that had been building inside of you finally exploded, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body as you moaned loudly, your wrists pulling on the rope.

"Oh my God!" You cried out, your chest heaving and your eyes burning with tears. "Yes!"

Once he was satisfied, the clown removed the knife from your pussy, your slick coating the handle. He then brought the weapon up to his mouth, licking a stripe up the handle, before lowering it back down to rest the blade against your thigh.

You weren't sure what he was doing, but it seemed you wouldn't be in the dark for long because you suddenly felt a sting, the tip of the blade now piercing your flesh.

You let out a pained groan, unable to escape as he began carving something into your flesh. And then finally, after a couple of minutes, he stepped back to examine his work, a proud smile on his face.

You looked down to find the words, 'Art was here', carved into your thigh.

[Main Masterlist]

#art the clown #art the clown x reader #art the clown x you #art the clown smut #art the clown oneshot #art x reader #art the clown fanfic #art the clown fanfiction #art the clown terrifier #terrifier art the clown #terrifier #terrifier fanfiction #terrifier fanfic #tw: noncon #tw: dubcon #tw: knife play #tw: gun play

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jessicafangirl · 15 days ago

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I’ve got an idea for an Art prequel story that tells about how he wound up the fucked up little shit we love. It’s romantic, angsty, bloody, and tragic with a revenge core of hellish birth.

Would this be of interest to anyone?

#terrifier #art the clown #Terrifier 2 #Terrifier 3 #art the clown fanfic #Terrifier fanfic #tumblr has reignited my fic writing

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whimsicalish · 18 days ago

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Sienna finds comfort in the strangest place.

around 2k words

Cw for suicidal thoughts and ideation, implied death. There are references to the previous movies and Art is his own warning. Sienna isn't having a good time.

Fair warning- I do not consider myself to be a writer. I just couldn't get this idea out of my head and i thought i could try. So here is my attempt. This fic isn't meant to be shippy and it'd be appreciated if it wasn't viewed that way.

On that note: English isn't my native language so i apologize for any possible errors and mistakes.

Sienna's life was left in shambles after that Christmas night. Her uncle was gutted and nailed to their kitchen wall, her aunt was dead in the living room and Gabbie was gone. And Jonathan- she didn't want to think about him. She doesn't think she could handle it right now.

Her wounds slowly stitched themselves together. Sienna felt numb. She was covered in blood; she was shaking both from the shock of the events that just unfolded, and from the cold.

The cold breeze from the opened window reminded her that he was still out there, that he got away. The sadistic fuck who ruined her life was still alive and he was who knows where. Sienna wanted to scream. She wanted to scream and cry and tear her hair out- but she felt too exhausted to move. She felt too exhausted to do anything.

She sat on the floor, staring ahead at nothing. She doesn't know how long she sat there, but it felt like she had been there for years.

Life moved on, but Sienna couldn’t. She got the house and all their belongings. She was the only surviving relative. She felt like her life was slipping past her, she felt like everything was moving and she was stuck in place.

She was on a treadmill but she couldn’t get up, she couldn’t get her legs under her and stand up and run.

Sienna felt... defeated. What did she have left? What did she have left to live for?

Her therapist told her she needed to get out and start a new life. She told her she needed to find people to talk to- to find new friends, but Sienna couldn’t. She didn't know how to talk to people. She was paranoid and she was terrified still. Art was still out there, he was still alive, and Sienna knew it was just a matter of time before he came after her again. She wouldn't get anyone else involved. She couldn't bear the thought of being responsible for another death.

Her therapist was nice. She was nice but Sienna didn't know how to open up. She didn't know how she could talk about the things that happened. She didn't know what she would even say. She didn't know why she decided to even go to therapy. She knew no one would be able to help her. She knew she couldn't talk about the things that actually happened- she knew she could never talk about the whole “demon” thing nor the immortal thing.

She thought maybe if she had someone there to just talk to her it would help. Maybe she thought that she would be able to talk about it with someone at least a little bit- maybe she hoped she would be able to open up to someone- but she didn’t see herself making any progress.

She was wasting the therapists time.

It was almost a year.

Siennas life was taken from her, and she didn't know how to get back on her feet. She missed her brother. She missed Jonathan. She wanted him back.

Christmas was coming again, and Sienna didn’t know if she would be able to handle it. Both Halloween and Christmas were ruined for her. Now all she could think about when she saw cute or creepy decorations was Art. Whenever she heard a Christmas song or any sort of Christmas carol, she felt like she couldn't breathe. She felt like she was back in the terrifier, she felt like she was back in her aunt's living room, tied to a chair, forced to watch those two murder her remaining family.

It was suffocating. Everything reminded her of the clown, everything around her reminded her of her dead family. She couldn’t stop thinking about the face of her auntie just before she got murdered, she couldn’t stop thinking about Gabbies terrified expression when Art dragged her into the room, she couldn’t stop thinking about seeing her slip with the sword deep into the pit-

She couldn’t stop imagining all the horrendous details, she couldn’t stop thinking about all the blood and the gore around her- the thick smell of all the blood making her sick to her stomach. She couldn’t get the smell out of her nose for weeks, still feeling like her nose was stuffed with all the blood of her now dead family. She would never forget the stench of blood and gore- she would never forget the smell of her family's blood.

Everything felt so overwhelming and underwhelming at the same time and she didn’t know what to do, how to function.

Most of her days were spent sitting at home, stuck in her own mind. She was struggling the five years after the first time she encountered Art, and she was finally starting get better, but now- now she went through the same thing again and she felt like she couldn't do anything. She lost everything and everyone again and she didn't know if it was even possible to move on from something like that. How do you move past that amount of trauma? How do you deal with something like that?

Sienna wanted nothing more than to just go back to her old life.

Getting groceries at the mall used to be a normal, casual and an easy task. Now, however, it felt overwhelming. She was scared, constantly looking over her shoulders and checking around to make sure he wasn’t there- that he wasn’t watching her, that he wasn’t waiting for her somewhere. Sienna knew for sure that he was out there, and it was just a matter of time before he got her.

She couldn’t help the anxiety creeping up on her every time she left the house, every time someone passed by her that she couldn’t see, every time she felt someone brush against her. Sienna hated feeling so scared and being so skittish. She felt like a wild animal sometimes.

Sienna stood frozen. He was there. He was right there, in her kitchen, making hot chocolate out of all things. The man who ruined her life, the man who killed everyone she ever cared about- the man who traumatized her- standing in her kitchen, making hot chocolate. The sweet smell of the warm liquid almost made her want to throw up.

She thought back to last year when he was standing there, nailing her uncles dead and decapitated body to the wall.

She felt like crying. She wanted to scream and yell, she wanted to get angry, she wanted to dash for a knife and stab him, she wanted to run it through his heart and gut him herself, she wanted to skin him alive and ask him how it felt. She wanted to make him scream and she wanted to hear his voice. She wanted to hear him be in pain. (She wasn’t sure if he even could talk, but the thought of making him scream in pain filled her with warmth.)

She couldn’t move. All that anger, all that want to get her revenge- all those overwhelming feelings disappeared as soon as they appeared, and all she could feel in that moment was resignation. All the fight left her. All the anger, the terror- it was all just gone. She felt exhausted and desperate and resigned.

She felt tears slipping down her cheeks.

She wanted to fight- but she knew there was no point. She wanted to run and scream and hide away to never be seen again- but she knew there was no point. He would always come back to haunt her, he would always come back to finish the job. There was nothing Sienna could do.

He was here to have his fun, he was here to end her, and Sienna had no fight left in her to even try and fight back if he tried.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she felt her knees give out. She reached for the chair in front of her to support her weight. She knew running away wouldn't help her. He would come for her if she didn't end him first. And she didn't know how to. She didn't have the will to try. She lost everything and everyone in her life- what does she have to lose? Her life doesn't feel like hers anymore. It feels like it's his.

Sienna stumbling and catching the chair to support herself was what got the clowns attention.

He turned around from his place at the stove and he smiled when he saw her. He was excited to see her.

Sienna didn’t know how to feel. She almost felt relieved. The clowns presence brought along with it such raw fear and anxiety- it felt familiar. Comforting almost. She closed her eyes as tears slipped down her face.

When she opened her eyes again she saw Art has turned away from her again and he was now pouring his hot chocolate from the pot into a mug.

Sienna felt like laughing at the absurdity.

The clown wasn’t paying attention. She could try and end him right now. She could cut off his head again, she could choke him from behind, she could stab him over and over again- but what would it matter? It wouldn’t do anything. He was seemingly immortal. And Sienna was tired of fighting.

She slipped into the chair and sat down.

The man turned around and put the mug in front of her and proudly presented it to her with a wicked smile that made her stomach turn. She looked at the mug before looking back at him.

He appeared to be unarmed. Sienna didn’t feel relieved by that fact at all. She knew she was going to meet her demise soon. She knew he was going to have his way with her, with, or without weapons. He was going to torture her and kill her anyway.

Sienna looked up at him. He was still smiling, looking at her. There was nothing in his eyes. They were scarily empty.

“Why?” She asked, her voice weak and shaky. She wanted to be angry at him, she wanted to be furious, but she couldn’t find it in herself to get mad. She had no more to give. She just wanted to know why he did what he did.

Art just shrugged in an exaggerated manner, looking all innocent- well, as innocent as a killer clown can look.

Sienna felt more tears welling up in her eyes. This man killed all her friends, her whole family, just because he was bored and felt like it. He did it just because he could, and Sienna was sure it was fun to him.

She slumped forward, her head resting on her hands as a sob escaped her. She started crying silently. She was sure the clown was enjoying her pain.

She heard him pull up a chair and sit down in it, right next to her.

She felt a hand touch her shoulder in what she thought was a comforting gesture.

Looking to the side at the clown, he had mock pity on his face. He was mocking her, laughing at her pain- and Sienna just broke. She sobbed and unwillingly leaned into the hand still on her shoulder. She felt the man tug her towards him and she let her body fall forwards into him.

Art slowly enveloped her in a hug and Sienna could feel him shaking. He was laughing.

He was laughing, he was comforting her to mock her- the killer, the monster who ruined her entire life- he was holding her close and comforting her just to remind her that she had no one else but him. She had no one and nothing left. All she had was her trauma and the painful memories.

Sienna sobbed into his chest and despite her conflicting emotions- his tight embrace felt comforting, and the realization made Sienna sob harder as one of his hands started petting her hair.

She felt safe in his arms, knowing he was going to be the one to kill her soon.

The promise of death felt like heaven to her broken and tortured mind.

#so um yea.#a fic from me #yippie #my writing #god damn thats a wild tag. never thought id be using that one #anyway #please heed the cws at the start #cw sui thoughts #cw sui ideation #terrifer 3 #terrifier fanfic #art the clown #sienna shaw

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lungplay · 15 days ago

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Hi Tumblr terrifier fans

does tumblr like x oc fics because i cannot write x readers for the life of me Wattpad has conditioned me to need to make an oc for everything

anyway…..art x oc fic coming soon! hope u guys don’t hate it 🫁

#art the clown #art the clown x reader #terrifier #terrifier fanfic #slasher fanfiction

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hyperfixated-clown · 3 days ago

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Ok, so I started whittling up that Art x Sienna fic that I posted about a bit ago and I still want to write it but as I’m going on I’m realizing that it’ll definitely be dark-dark and lean heavily non-conish. It’s gonna take place during T3 and be a rework of their final fight scene. I’m extremely aware that canonically, no sex between him and her would be romantic/consensual or…even happen in the first place? 😅 but what’s everyone’s opinion about it being very dark? The darker the better? Or should I tone it down a bit?

(Also I know David has said Art is an asexual being and that he would never rape anyone but this is fandom stuff, not canonical. I’m pretty sure Art has fucked everything & everyone in fics by now) we’re thirsty David….THIRSTY! 😩

#siennart #sienna shaw #art the clown #fanfiction #fanfic #smut #terrifier #terrifier 2 #terrifier 3 #terrifier fanfic #terrifier smut #art the clown smut

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slashmeharderdaddy · 28 days ago

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FREEZER POP

Aunt Flo’s in town and it gave me this idea. I only just now got around to writing it. Art’s s/o, Mal, is on her period and, knowing Art’s a cannibal, decides to give him a special treat.

TW: Blood, menstruation, periods, mention of cannibalism

Mallory winced as another sharp pain stabbed through her. Gritting her teeth, she sucked in a breath through her nose, held it for a few seconds, then let it out through her mouth. She’d always had hellish periods before going on the pill, but after switching to an IUD a couple years ago, her period cramps had returned. She had been tired for the last few days, so much so that she had called in sick the day before just so she could get some sleep. When her period started, she finally understood why.

“Fuck this shit,” Mal grumbled as she grabbed a square of toilet paper to keep the blood off her fingers. The tampon came out with a single yank. Just as she was about to drop it into the toilet, she paused, an idea springing to mind. “Hold on a second…”

Mal glanced down at the tampon. Art had been in her life long enough for her to know he had some…unique tastes when it came to food. He had already earned his red wings, and then some. He couldn’t get enough of her, and he had spent the rest of the night eating her pussy like a man half-starved. He never spent more than a night—maybe two—with her, but he had spent the entire week with her that week, disappearing during the day and returning at night to eat her out again.

Now, staring at the tampon in her hand, Mal wondered if he might want it. Never before had she considered keeping any of her used tampons. To her, it was disgusting, and they were meant to be thrown away. But her cannibal…whatever the hell Art was…might not think so. Maybe he’d want them. Maybe they’d be a treat for him.

Sighing, Mal tossed it into the sink and finished up. Wrapping the tampon in a paper towel, she stashed it in a Tupperware container in the back of the fridge.

~ ~ ~

I have a treat for you,” Mal said when Art inevitably returned. Ever since that night, he’d somehow learned her cycle. She didn’t want to know how—when it came to Art, some things were better left a mystery.

Art perked up, his mouth forming a surprised O as he gestured to himself.

“Yeah. It’s in the freezer if you want it. It’s in the Tupperware in the back.”

Art clapped his hands and skipped into the kitchen. Mal shook her head, still in awe of the way he could be so lethal yet so whimsical at the same time. She knew as soon as they’d gotten involved with each other that he would be her death.

Mal followed Art into the kitchen, where he was digging through the freezer. She smiled as he pulled out that morning’s Tupperware container. Several more used tampons had been added to it, wrapped in a paper towel. She had written Art’s name in glittery pink gel pen on each one. His eyes widened when he opened the container. Glancing up at her, he pointed excitedly at his name.

“Yeah. I wanted to surprise you.”

Art grinned and grabbed one of the tampons, tearing at the paper towel with his teeth. He paused, stunned, when he saw the tampon.

“It’s probably weird, but…I thought these could be a sort of…well, freezer pop. If you want them. If not I’ll throw them out—“

Art cut off Mal with a wave of his hand before popping the tampon into his mouth. If he were the type to ever make a sound, she knew he’d be letting out a moan of delight as his eyes fluttered shut. He replaced the lid and shoved the container back into the freezer.

Art opened his eyes and held out his arms with a beckoning motion. As Mal stepped forward, he pulled her into a tight embrace.

“I take it you like the freezer pop?” She said, chuckling. Art nodded. “Good. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

#art the clown #art the clown x oc #tw blood #tw periods #tw menstruation #tw menstrual cycle #tw cannibalism mention #art the clown is a fucking trigger warning #no beta we die like dawn #Terrifier fanfic #art the clown fanfic

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strangererotica · 7 days ago

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EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Art the Clown x Reader | SMUT | CW: reader is married to an abusive husband | reader uses drugs/alcohol to cope with her abusive marriage | murder/killing mentioned

This story is extremely explicit and deliciously fever dream-ish imo. Hope you enjoy it, my fellow clown fuckers ❤️

What the ever loving fuck is wrong with me?

That’s what you were thinking as your common sense peeked out briefly from the fog of alcohol and weed in your system…a moment of sobriety just long enough to make you question what motivation you could have for the decisions you were now making.

He smelled. Like dried blood and sex, the kind of sex that hurts you, but doesn’t stop you from wanting more. Maybe it would have been enough to stop you, under any other (sober) circumstances. But as it was, you were already sitting in this strange man’s lap, in the middle of an empty mall after closing. And what made the situation even more surreal? The fact that he was dressed in a goddamn Santa suit and wearing gaudy black and white clown makeup all over his face.

Yeah, you really needed to stop sneaking into the mall bathroom and getting fucked up. Swiping a pack of edibles and two travel-sized bottles of cinnamon spice vodka from the gas station had been a bad idea to begin with. Using the privacy of the bathroom to get wasted and scroll through your phone for two hours would have been considered strange behavior by most people. But most people (in fact, no one) knew the reason why you avoided home like the plague.

Your husband was abusive, in every way possible. He controlled every aspect of your life, to the point that sometimes, you worried he could even read your thoughts. Where you went, who you spoke to, your finances, your diet, your sex life; everything about you belonged to him. It was suffocating. And while your habit of stealing from the gas station and hiding in the mall bathroom was an unhealthy coping mechanism, you were coping. Even if eventually it bit you in the ass, like tonight. When you got a little too high, a little too drunk, to notice the time, or the fact that the mall outside the bathroom stall you were locked in had grown quiet…

The mall was closed. Fucking closed, with you locked inside it. You’d staggered out of the bathroom like a fucking zombie in what looked to be a post apocalyptic scene. The mall was empty, devoid of life. Everything was eerily silent, apart from your footsteps shuffling across the tile floor as you took in your empty surroundings. The mall was dimly-lit, the only light source coming from high above, moonlight streaming in through the big panel windows on the mall ceiling.

You found one of the exits, and tried the door. It was locked, or maybe you were too high/drunk to figure a way out? It didn’t matter because regardless, you weren’t going anywhere for awhile. Either you’d sober up and figure out how to get out, or you’d be stuck waiting till security came by in the morning and let you out. A pleasant thought tickled at the back of your mind: your husband had no idea where you were. It felt good to be so far beyond his radar that his ability to oversee your every move was completely fucked. What did scare you, however, was the thought of confronting him in the morning. How would he react to you staying out all night? Obviously it wouldn’t go over well, and just imagining what your husband’s punishment might involve had your stomach twisting.

So instead of ruining your high by worrying about the inevitable, you decided to finish the last of your vodka, yelling “fuck it!” into the empty void around you. Your voice echoed back at you off the walls of the empty mall. It was creepy, and a little exciting, being unsupervised and alone with this kind of freedom. The excitement you felt only heightened when you noticed him. Your mouth twisted into a grin of disbelief, because how fucking high WERE you that you were literally seeing Santa Claus in front of you right now?? You took a step towards him, still unsure if he was even real.

He was sitting in an ornate wooden chair framed by two massive Christmas trees. The strands of lights decorating them weren’t on, just like all the other lights inside the mall. Above him, a sign written in ridiculously large print read “SANTA,” as if the scene itself would have implied anything other than the jolly old elf’s presence. You forced your gaze to focus on the man/hallucination in front of you, the smile on his face as big as yours. And he was a…clown, too? You laughed out loud, the absurdity of it all becoming too much. Your laughter was tinny and soft, like the sound of jingle bells, and it seemed only fitting considering you were standing mere feet away from the man, the myth, the legend himself: Santa Claus.

He patted his lap, encouraging you over. The fact that he apparently didn’t speak made the vodka-soaked dreamworld you were currently wandering feel even more like a dream. As you approached ‘Santa Clown,’ the possibility of him being a figment of your imagination became less believable. When he reached for your arm and tugged you onto his lap, you were certain. He was absolutely real.

You gasped, a surprised giggle spilling from your lips. The clown seemed to enjoy your amusement, bouncing you on his knee just to hear the string of excited giggles that tumbled out of you. He was playing with you, and you were loving it. His hair, or the wig he wore, spilled over his shoulders in off-white waves, flecked by bits of red. It took you a few seconds to register that the red bits were actually dried blood, and that the same blood was caked onto the beard that hung loosely underneath Santa Clown’s chin.

Should you have been alarmed? Probably. But instead of sensing danger coming from the clown, you felt oddly protected, safe. Whoever that blood belonged to, whoever he may have hurt, the clown didn’t seem in any hurry to hurt YOU. In fact, based on the stiffening pulse of his cock under your ass, it seemed like the clown was enjoying your company very much.

To test your theory, you decided to tease him a little and see where it led. Shifting intentionally on his lap, you reached to smooth the blood-crusted strands of hair back from Santa Clown’s face, revealing his sharp cheekbones and smooth, painted-white skin. He was oddly handsome, attractive in a dark kind of way. The way villains are always more appealing than heroes, or more philosophically, how Eve must have felt when she was seduced by the serpent’s persuasive tongue. There was something forbidden about the clown, something instinctively, inherently wrong about wanting him. And yet, that wrongness was precisely part of the reason you did want him.

His smile faded slowly to an expression you couldn’t name, his eyes going dark. Had your flirting upset him? A chill ran through you as even the air around you both seemed to go colder. A sudden sizzle of electricity made you flinch, and you watched as around you, the lights on the Christmas trees were illuminated. You smiled, a pleased chuckle of surprise leaving your lips, and the clown smiled with you. He seemed to enjoy making you feel good; and perhaps the dark supernatural forces that followed him came in handy in times like these, when manipulating electricity could be used to impress a pretty girl?

The rest of the mall remained in darkness, with only the Christmas lights illuminating the festive scene. “It’s so pretty,” you said, and you realized it was the first time you’d actually spoken to the clown. He nodded, feigning a kind of bashful grin, and extended his index finger toward you, tapping lightly against your breasts. Your eyebrows lifted at the sweet gesture. It had been a long time since anyone had called you ‘pretty,’ and somehow, even in the absence of words, the clown had said everything right.

“Me?” you asked coquettishly, feeling emboldened by the vodka thundering through your system. “You think I’m pretty?”

The clown nodded vigorously, his big, toothy smile returning. “Well y’know what?” you asked through a giggle. “I think you’re pretty handsome, Santa.”

The clown’s mouth made the shape of a surprised ‘O,’ and he pointed to himself, his lips forming the word ‘me???’

“Yeah,” you replied. “And, as a matter of fact-.” You leaned in so your lips were at the clown’s ear, the coppery scent of blood stronger by his face. “-I’m ready to tell you what I want for Christmas…”

You didn’t expect to feel his hand on your chin, turning your head to face him. His expression had shifted back to the one you’d been unable to read earlier, the look you’d mistaken for him being upset. Now, as his thumb tugged your bottom lip downward and his dark eyes studied the shape of your mouth, you realized his expression was one of lust.

You sucked in a breath, extending your tongue to meet his thumb. The metallic tang of old blood met your tastebuds, melting over your tongue as the dried blood under the clown’s thumbnail was wetted by your spit. You didn’t care whose blood it was, because in this strange new reality, nothing beyond this space in the empty mall mattered. His eyes followed his thumb as it pressed deeper, your lips closing around its base, sucking lightly. You shifted again on the clown’s lap; it was so bumpy now that he was fully hard, his erection making it difficult to sit still.

His gaze was fixed on your lips, the space his thumb had disappeared between. You backed your head away slowly, letting his thumb slide out of your mouth with a wet pop. Your hands closed over his thighs to balance yourself as you slipped off his lap, locking your eyes with his as you settled between his boots on the ground. Resting your head against his right thigh, the heady smell of piss and sweat filled your senses. His hand was on your head, fingers laced through your hair and guiding you, inward. Closer. Closer to the space he wanted your mouth, where he needed it to be.

You wet your lips with your tongue and watched as the clown worked the large buckle of his belt undone. He tugged the waist of his pants lower, just enough for his cock to spring free, smacking against his stomach, pre cum clinging to the white fur trim of his jacket. Your mouth fell open at the sight of his member, its impressive length only half as striking as its girth. He closed his gloved hand around himself, pumping up and down his shaft in a few slow, unhurried strokes. The look in his eyes was almost wicked; he knew the thought of him filling your throat intimidated you, and he liked that fear.

With his other hand locked in your hair, the clown pulled your head closer, till your mouth was poised at his tip. He pressed the fat bulb to your lips, admiring the way they parted obediently for him. Urging his hips forward, the clown pushed his cock inside your mouth. The salty taste of his skin on your tongue was unpleasant at first, but you quickly forgot about any discomfort once he’d established a rhythm back and forth inside you. The head of his cock pushed the salty taste to the back of your throat, and you swallowed it down. From there, the only challenge you faced was opening your throat enough to take him. The clown’s hand on your head continued to guide it, pumping your mouth over him like a sleeve. You needed to breathe, to swallow the air his cock was denying you. Just when you thought you might be sick, the clown removed himself from your throat, allowing you the chance to breathe, a long line of saliva trailing from your bottom lip to the head of his cock. He grinned down at you approvingly, patting your head as if to say ‘good girl,’ before lifting you once again by the hair, and shoving himself back between your lips.

He leaned forward and closed his other hand around your throat, feeling his cock fucking you from the inside out. Your cunt was dripping, a pearly string of your wetness slicking the ground between your knees. You squeezed your thighs together as the clown used your throat, desperate for some kind of stimulation. He could sense your desperation, and offered you his boot as a relief, wedging it between your legs to give you something to grind on. You humped it gratefully, rocking your swollen cunt against the clown’s shoe. He stilled inside your throat, buried deep, his fingers tightening in your hair to the point your scalp was stinging. A gush of semen washed down your throat, followed by another. You struggled to swallow it all, your throat constricting as the clown’s cum filled it to capacity. You gagged and choked, and he pulled you off his cock just as vomit began creeping its way up the back of your throat. His wild eyes and wide grin beamed down at you, his chest rising and falling quickly in the aftermath of his climax. Semen you hadn’t been able to swallow dripped down your chin in a thick line. When you attempted to wipe it away, the clown stopped you with a swat of his hand against yours. He wanted to see the results of his work in and on you, his work of Art.

He jerked his boot where it was wedged between your thighs, bouncing you on top of it. You whimpered at the sensation, your neglected little cunt aching and engorged. You needed to come, so badly that it hurt. The clown watched as you stayed knelt at his feet, straddling his boot and humping it like a bitch in heat, grunting and panting, no more than an animal. Your orgasm shook you to your core, your muscles gripping and sucking around nothing, clit throbbing against the clown’s boot as you rubbed yourself into it, moaning and spitting a string of obscenities into his pants leg, where your face was buried.

After your body ceased shaking, you looked up to see the clown still grinning down at you. He offered his hands for you to take hold of, and helped you back into his lap. An hour passed, and then another. You couldn’t say for certain, but you think you must have fallen asleep in the clown’s arms for an hour or so, because at some point, you noticed that the stars were beginning to fade in the sky. Morning was coming, and that meant going home. To your husband. To your abuser.

Fear roiled in your stomach, along with the alcohol and cum filling it. You despised this feeling of dread, of being scared by a shit stain of a human being like your husband. If only you could live free of his tyranny, you imagined. How much better would the world be without the influence of such a toxic man as your husband…?

…And then, the idea formed in your mind. You tilted your head to the clown’s face. Studying the blood on his hair and skin once again, you decided to ask a favor of him. “Santa,” you began, because you didn’t know what else to call him. “You’ve killed people before…haven’t you?”

The clown feigned an apologetic expression and raised his hands as if to say “guilty.”

You nodded your head, a hopeful smile on your lips. And then, you asked him: “How would you like to kill my husband?” 🔪🩸🤍

@arts-bloody-gloves

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that-one-enby-ranger · 4 months ago

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Tempted to write a Terrifier fic not gonna lie

#ive been in a bit of a terrifier high today #i had a dream about art the other day and i havent been able to stop thinking about him since #god i love him #what a cutie patootie #just a little silly #art the clown #fanfictions #fanfic #terrifier #terrifier 2 #terrifier 3 #terrifier fanfic

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mlmxreader · 24 days ago

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Sickly | Art the Clown x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Hi! I saw that you wanted to write more for Art?

I saw your sick fic about him and thought it was so cute! Would you maybe consider doing a part two where Art’s in bed (still in his clown costume because he literally sleeps with that thing) with the reader but he can’t sleep because he’s got the sniffles that bad? And his silent sneezes are just pitiful for the reader to watch lol ❞

: ̗̀➛ You resign yourself to a night of devoting yourself to Art whilst he's sick.

trigger warnings: ̗̀➛ swearing, sickness/illness, mentions of murder & gore

↳ Part One: Feverish

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

The soft sound of Downton Abbey episodes were playing softly from your television as you did your best to sleep; but with Art beside you, constantly lunging forward and silently sneezing and coughing, it was difficult to get any sort of rest whatsoever.

You didn't know if it was better or worse that he made no sound, but even his harsh movements were enough to constantly justle you.

"Just how long is she here for?" Lady Violet asked her son.

"Who knows?" Came the quiet, mumbled reply of Lord Grantham.

You laughed softly at the exchange, which roused Art to shuffle around as he moved to grasp your attention; he tapped your shoulder, and when you looked at him, he pointed to the box of tissues that laid at the bedside table.

Even in the low light, you could see the snot clinging from his nostril, desperate to make it down to his black stained lips. You winced, immediately grabbing them and pressing the box into his lap; Art nodded in thanks, and roughly, violently, rubbed his nose on the tissue.

You had grown used to the fact that he always wore that fucking clown costume, even when he was lying in bed, but you were slightly less likely to think of a complaint given that he was sick and had been ever since his most recent return.

He didn't leave you as often as he used to, in fact, he hadn't left at all since he had come back to you. It was... odd.

You didn't really know what to think of it, if you were honest - sure, you were glad to spend any time with him without interruption. But you weren't used to having him around so often.

Lingering around you like the smell of rotting meat.

Granted, he did smell a lot cleaner than usual thanks to you; he had access to your shower and all your gels and shampoos and body lotions, and he always copied you when you washed in the morning and again in the evening.

He never exactly smelled fully clean, the metallic scent of blood and rotting meat always clung to him, but he didn't smell rancid like he usually did.

Even his breath smelled better now that you were making him brush his teeth after every meal to ensure that the bits of gooey brain matter and sharp shards of bone didn't get stuck between them and fester.

His teeth were always difficult to brush properly, their long and pointed shape, more akin to a lamprey than anything remotely humanoid, made it extra work to get between them without the bristles breaking immediately.

Art moved again, clutching his ribs as he opened his mouth to cough wetly and roughly, even though not a single sound left him; you felt pity, really. You had never seen him in such awful ways.

You coaxed him to lie down between your legs, the back of his head pressed against your stomach as you gently massaged his scalp. His breathing was slow and shallow, like he was struggling to get any oxygen in at all, and you turned the television up slightly.

Art watched the television, appreciating the monochromatic colour schemes of the gentlemen as much as the staff; their black and white outfits were much like his own, although with a different pattern.

He wondered what they would do if he went and bashed their heads in with all those shiny things in the shelves; the blood splattering all over their walls and carpets and paintings. So many people in one house, he wouldn't have to ask for anything to eat for weeks. Months.

But then the scene opened to a young couple - a brunette woman and a dirty blond man - sharing a bed; the duvet was red, with a white stripe at the top, and the headboard was a dark red colour. It looked a lot like your bed, although yours was green, not red.

He pointed excitedly for a moment, then dramatically sneezed against his sleeve at above the elbow.

"Oh, Art," you hummed softly, patting him gently so he relaxed against you again. "Settle down, too much excitement will make you worse, y'know."

He mocked sulking as he folded his arms across his chest and looked up at you with a stern pout.

Anyone else would have been ripped to shreds and had their brains removed and eaten for such a small action; but he simply sat there, pouting with his arms folded. Glaring at you.

His cold, dead, stare never even irked you anymore, and finding him staring at you in the middle of the night and gently stroking your face was far from unusual; but it was your time, now. Your turn.

You gently stroked his face, tracing all the little details that you cared so much for; that long nose and the line where his skullcap ended and his skin began. The little dot on his nose. The ring of black lipstick, the thin drawn eyebrows. The rings around his eyes with the slits down the middle, carved out of makeup.

He was certainly beautiful and striking to look at; you would never be able to deny that, as even when he was unwell and sick, snot clinging to the tip of his nose and phlegm at the back of his throat, he was still beautiful.

"I'll stay up all night if I have to," you mused kindly, a complete distinction to him. It was a wonder you were ever so close. "I can stay up with you."

Art shook his head, the dribble of snot flapping around from the edge of his nose; he was telling you not to bother, he even scowled and snarled at the thought of you losing sleep. No, no, no.

"It's not a worry," you told him. "Honestly. It's one night, and if it helps you to get better, then I really don't mind."

Art couldn't be bothered to argue, so with a heavy thump of his hand, he grabbed the television remote and turned the volume up a bit more; might as well see if the drama of rich, old timey, English people was better than his usual method of keeping himself entertained.

He doubted it.

hi! thank you so much for reading! if you'd be so kind, I'd like to take just a few more moments of your time. the Baalousha family need funds in order to secure the survival of themselves, but especially their two very small children; they have nothing left in Gaza, and with their home destroyed by Israeli bombs, they are desperate for money to continue to stay alive. so far, they have raised €20739 of their €52000 goal, so if you could spread their story and their fundraiser and even donate, then please, please do.

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hail-brod · 13 days ago

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I hope the ‘implied rape’ from your soon coming fic isn’t done by Art :( David Howard Thornton himself said it’s something Art would never do and it’s the one thing they have stated they will never portray in a film

Dont worry, anon. It is not. I love Art and David himself, and it's something I really couldn't imagine for him.

You're right about what they stated and I truly stand by it :))

#a canvas for art #terrifier fanfic #art the clown

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cadavercowboy · 20 days ago

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You'll Ache To Know My Name

Pairing: Art The Clown x Reader

Summary: Your Halloween night is about to take the spookiest turn of all: having an interaction with a man. Lucky for you, along comes a mysterious clown who won't stand for some loser preying on an innocent, unsuspecting woman. Because that's his job.

Word Count: 11.1k+

Warnings: Explicit content (18+ only). Attempted sexual assault. Violence. Blood. Needles. Drugging. Kidnapping. Torture & dismemberment. Murder. Dubious consent. Oral sex. Overstimulation. Blood kink. Spit kink. Forced orgasm. Fingering. Unprotected sex. Creampie.

A/N: Bad news for everyone...I'm not afraid to admit how badly I wanna fuck the circus boy. Haven't been able to see the third film yet, so I am lashing out in anger by writing this. :) Happy day after Halloweenie!

(Worth noting that this deviates pretty significantly from my personal perception of Art's character (David himself said that he sees him as an asexual creature and unfortunately, I agree :-( but a girl can dream) so this was really just an exercise in self-indulgence with a heaping side of very sick delusion! Hope you enjoy and if not...don't care, didn't ask xoxo)

The steel door slams shut behind you and the cool night air engulfs your overheated skin, prompting you to throw your head back and breathe a sigh of relief. Your shoulders finally fall from where they had spent all night practically tucked up next to your ears so that you can stretch the tight muscles of your neck. Even the glass and a half of straight liquor hadn’t been enough to ease the stress of being packed like a sardine into a hot room full of drunken, rowdy people.

Your costume — a torn and tattered white slip, hardly reminiscent of the gown worn by Elsa Lanchester in the original Bride Of Frankenstein film — had been chosen last-minute, without comfort in mind. It itches now and clings annoyingly to your damp skin. The hem falls at your knee and the bust is held up with only two thick straps. A cheap, two-toned wig drapes over your scalp and though the long, wavy strands aren’t technically accurate, they’ve gotten the job done. With some decent makeup and a few neat sutures drawn across your throat in eyeliner, you’ve managed enough hallmarks of the iconic character for your costume to be recognizable.

The moon is high and full above you, casting an appropriately spooky glow on the shiny synthetic fabric of your dress. You yank the wig from your head — sick of the way the tight elastic band is beginning to give you a headache — and chuckle to yourself, hoping the hazy beams of moonlight won’t bring a beastly werewolf across your path. Your shoes thud with tired steps down the vacant sidewalk and you’re feeling exactly like the doctor’s stitched-up and reanimated sweetheart. The Halloween party was admittedly fun, but you’re ready to get home and climb into your cozy bed.

A breeze blows, gusting past your bare limbs and sending a slight chill through your body. All the sweat drying on your skin makes the wind feel colder than it actually is. You wrap your arms around your middle and check both ways before crossing an empty intersection. The city street is uneven beneath your feet and you’ve only just stepped onto the adjacent curb when the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. At first, you pay it no mind, but when the muffled sound of steady footfalls emerges from behind, you instinctively turn your head.

Over your shoulder and a short distance away, you spot a man strolling down the sidewalk. His hands are tucked casually into the pockets of a brown leather jacket, however his eyes are pinpointed directly on you. Goosebumps raise across your flesh, having little to do with the night’s dropping temperature. Hoping to avoid an unwanted interaction, you duck your head and pick up the pace, your calves burning as you stride with purpose.

“Hey, Frankie!” the man calls.

You’re unsure how he’s able to discern your spooky get-up in the dark, wondering if perhaps he recognizes you from the party. He certainly isn’t the hypothetical werewolf you were afraid of, but undoubtedly a predator just the same. You steadfastly ignore him and keep your steps swift in the hopes that he takes the hint. Much to your disappointment, he does not. Dread settles low in your belly; not borne of fear, but rather disgust. His voice is much closer when he yells again which — paired with what he believes to be a clever come-on — raises your hackles and puts you on the defensive.

“Wanna come tighten my nuts and bolts, baby?”

Rolling your eyes, you begrudgingly halt and set your teeth on edge, prepared to use your bitchiest voice to correct the idiot and let him know it was actually Frankenstein's monster who sported steel bolts on the sides of his neck, not his bride. But when you wheel around and come face to face with the man, the words die in your throat. More specifically, they’re caught behind your bared teeth when the pig has the audacity to grab hold of your backside to admire your pretty dress and ponder what material it’s made from.

“Get the fuck off me!” you snarl in a voice that sounds foreign to your own ears.

Utilizing the only mechanism of defense you currently possess, you whip your wig in his direction. The acrylic strands snap harshly across his face and while the accompanying utterance of pain is satisfying, you’ve clearly angered him. He grabs ahold of your other arm and twists it painfully behind your back. You writhe in his grasp and try to reach around to claw at him, but the damned wig is tangled in the stupid Victorian-style ring you’re wearing and your fingers are buried uselessly within the plasticky tresses as he shoves you further down the sidewalk.

“Stupid bitch,” he barks, spittle flying from his lips as you struggle against one another. “Learn to take a compliment.”

Even with your feet planted, you fail to impede his progress as the man wrangles your body towards the mouth of a dark alley. Though the streets are woefully empty this time of night, there’s at least a chance that someone may see or hear you; if he maneuvers you into the shadows, you’re screwed.

The pair of you stumble between two buildings, the massive structures blocking the glow of the moon and blanketing you in disorienting darkness. He continues dragging you along until the alley splits into an open area which contains a rancid-smelling dumpster and several piles of discarded rubbish. You’re slammed painfully into a wall moments before a grimy hand crawls its way up your dress and between your thighs.

“Come on. With an outfit like this, you’re pretty much asking for it.”

Just like that, you’re seething. Your rage and fear meld into one powerful amalgamation of force and you manage to twist hard enough to knock you both off balance. You come down hard into a mountain of garbage and your combined weight slams into a half-rotted wooden pallet; its slats are splintered and it boasts several exposed nails. One nail in particular — bent at a rather unfortunate angle — catches your arm as you fall and you can feel the sharp point split your skin from your wrist all the way to your elbow. Blood spills from the wound almost immediately, though the searing pain is of little consequence when your assailant promptly locks both of his hands around your throat, effectively cutting off your airway.

Choking and spluttering as you fight for breath, you kick uselessly at the heaviness of the violent man on top of you. He has you pinned to the ground in such a way that your legs can gain no purchase to get him off. Your eyes feel ready to burst out of your skull and your hands scramble across the buttery leather encasing arms which vibrate with exertion as he ventures to squeeze the life out of you.

When your vision begins to tunnel, you fling your arms out to the sides in search of something you can grab. Your nails scrape painfully along the concrete until you’re sure your fingertips are rubbed raw and bleeding. And finally you feel it: a short but heavy chunk of the broken pallet. The shards of wood digging into your palm — rendered slippery from the spillage of your own blood — go unnoticed as you use your waning strength to whack your attacker across the head with it. He instantly flops to the side and cradles his wounded head as you suck in a gloriously deep breath.

You roll over with a gasp and a cough, saliva dripping freely from your parted lips. There is only a brief moment of reprieve before you force yourself up onto your knees and ignore your own spinning head as you repeatedly bring the piece of wood down on the man curled up beside you. The ruthless blows have the intended effect and his movement ceases. Two crooked nails protrude from the end of your makeshift weapon and you aim them at the center of his body until blood seeps from under the material of his jacket and begins to pool beneath his immobile form. With a sort of strangled battle cry, you climb to your feet and hit him one last time for good measure.

Beads of sweat roll from your hairline down your temples and your shaking hands release their hold on what remains of the now-bloodied piece of wood. It falls to the ground with a clatter. Sparing a glance at yourself, you overlook the red and black stains that have ruined your disheveled dress to inspect the extent of the injury to your arm. You grimace as blood continues to seep from the rather serious wound. It’s definitely going to need stitches.

You begin to look around for your phone. You dropped it during the tussle and you nearly cry when you eventually spot it…shattered, just a few feet away. A hospital is definitely your first priority, but without the aid of your phone, you aren’t quite sure how to navigate there from here.

The night is silent save for the rush of stuttered wheezes that still rip from your burning lungs. You pause, holding your breath for a second to swallow deeply when you think you hear something. A shuffling…a rustling of plastic, perhaps. In your heightened state, you shift with the speed of hunted prey; eyes peeled, knees bent and ready to fight or flee. Glancing towards the source of the noise, you squint at the alley you were forced down earlier.

“Oh, what the fuck?”

You blurt the words without thinking, but the unexpected sight rids you of any ability to hold your tongue. There — tucked safely beneath the cover of shadow — stands a very tall man. Or rather, a clown. At least you think that’s what it is. Your fists clench uneasily at your sides and the tensing of the muscles makes your wounded arm sing with pain.

In the darkness, you can only make out the parts of his costume which are white: a long leg opposite an equally lengthy arm, a frilly collar, silky hood, and a heavily painted face. He takes a single step closer, as if testing to see whether you’ll run from him.

The moonlight paints a slightly clearer picture of his appearance here. Both his eyes and mouth are encircled with thick blobs of black face paint and a pair of thin eyebrows arch unnaturally high over an exceedingly piercing stare. His ebony lips form a distinct ring of shock and you realize that he’s probably just seen your whole ordeal. Or at least the parts that made you look bad.

A tiny, jauntily-tilted top hat adds an oddly comical touch to his ensemble. In his left hand he holds a crinkling black trash bag that looks to be filled to the brim with several hefty objects. He raises his right hand and wiggles his fingers with a delicate and playful wave, the long digits encased in a pair of fingerless gloves that may have been white once-upon-a-time.

You naively assume the mysterious clown poses no threat, simply regarding him as an innocent Halloween reveler who happened to stumble upon a terrible situation. Right now, your only fear is that he’s witnessed you beating a man — possibly to death — and has no context as to why. Gesturing to the motionless pile of flesh behind you, you deem it necessary to explain yourself.

“This guy attacked me,” you breathe, pausing to lick your chapped lips. “I was defending myself.”

The clown remains unmoving and silent, giving no indication that he’s even heard what you said. He merely stares, visage still awash with surprise. Uneasy, you shift your weight and raise your eyebrows expectantly in the hopes of prompting a response.

Nothing.

You aren’t lying about what happened, but you have to admit…you kind of sound like you are. You try again.

“I…I don’t know if he’s dead,” you admit warily. “He really would’ve hurt me if I didn’t stop him, so he was kind of asking for it.”

A dry chuckle follows the comment and you cringe outwardly at your poorly-timed humor. While you’re busy kicking yourself, the clown continues to do nothing but glare at you. He’s so static, you might be convinced he were a statue had you not seen him move moments ago. Unsure what else to do, you make one last attempt to earn a response from the costumed man. You point uselessly to the ground where your destroyed cell phone sits even though you already know the clown isn’t going to look.

“Could you maybe call the police for me?” you implore, hoping your willingness to contact the authorities will sway his opinion on whether or not you’re a cold-blooded murderer.

Still, he does not move. Or speak. He doesn’t so much as acknowledge you. Your patience has all but vanished at this point and your shoulders sag, a disgruntled scoff escaping your throat. Just your luck that you run into two total freaks in the same night.

“Gotta be kidding me,” you murmur under your breath.

Having had enough of this strange game, you square your shoulders and bravely cross the short distance between you and the creepy clown. You plan to slip past him, leaving both him and your would-be killer to figure things out for themselves, but the silent specter has other ideas.

When you’re only a few feet away, he releases his trash bag and it crashes to the ground with a deafening, metallic resonance. You stop at once and your eyes drop to the discarded bag before glancing back at the previously stupefied face where you’re now met with a gleaming smile that you can only describe as… wrong.

The clown’s grin shines with moisture and his teeth seem too large for his mouth. Something about the almost inhuman way his muscles contort to display every inch of his smile unnerves you, nearly as much as the length of time he manages to maintain the severe gesture. You swallow thickly and your nostrils flare with the stirrings of distress. The clown waggles his thin eyebrows tauntingly in response. It’s clear to you that this weirdo is looking to garner some sort of reaction of fear and you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you adopt a bored expression and cross your arms over your chest, being careful not to aggravate your wounded arm.

Your choices are limited and admittedly risky. Either you push past the clown or take the chance of turning your back on him in search of another way out of the alley. Neither option appeals to you very much. Before you can decide, he finally moves.

Stomping one over-sized shoe on the ground, the clown bends at the waist and flings both arms up and out to feign a lunge in your direction. It doesn’t even make you flinch which prompts his limbs to drop ever so slowly back down to his sides. You swear you can see his expression pinch slightly in frustration. He studies you for a moment, then his smile deepens as he tucks his chin to his chest so he can peer at you from beneath his brow.

The gesture is eerie, but your apprehension worsens when he suddenly and inexplicably returns to his full height and the corners of his mouth fall slack. His grin rapidly vanishes, though his long teeth are still partially visible. This is followed shortly by the drooping of his black-painted eyelids. For some reason, his lifeless expression is what finally awakens a real sense of fear in you and a chill begins to seep into your body.

Uneasiness runs rampant through you, dissipating only a little once you realize that the clown’s deadened green eyes aren’t fixated on you. His gaze trails lazily towards something over your shoulder. Something that leaves him unquestionably displeased. Daring to turn your back on the clown, you peer behind you to find your attacker miraculously stumbling to his feet. Although his face is bloodied and beginning to swell, you can tell that his eyes are focused on you. He staggers and groans; struggling, but clearly determined to reach you.

You look frantically along the ground, yet again in a desperate search for something to defend yourself with. The piece of wood you dropped earlier is too far away to grab before you’re back in his clutches, but it's your only hope now that you're sandwiched between a wannabe rapist and some sort of mute psycho.

To your relief, your attacker stumbles and braces himself against the brick exterior of one of the buildings, stopping to catch his breath before he’s able to resume his pathetic journey to exact revenge. That feeling of relief is short lived as a loud, cartoonish honk bursts through the air and you nearly leap out of your skin. You whirl around to find the clown standing so close to you that your bare arm brushes the silky fabric of his monochromatic costume. A smear of your crimson blood now stains the lighter half of his jumpsuit.

His nearness prompts your eyes to widen in surprise and you inhale sharply. The clown has finally elicited a reaction and by all appearances, this thrills him. He jumps up and down where he stands, his blackened eyes crinkling with unbridled glee. His toothy grin is back, showcasing a sheen of saliva as his lips split open at an unnatural width to accommodate another terrifying smile.

With fists raised and shaking victoriously, he honks his bicycle horn several more times, then stuffs the prop into a hidden pocket. Anxiety rattles your bones when the clown throws his head back and practically unhinges his jaw to unleash a completely noiseless laugh. The entirety of his massive frame quakes, quivering with such believable intensity that you cannot fathom how he isn’t actually making a sound.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you squawk with annoyance, putting an abrupt end to the clown’s celebration.

His head tips forward slowly, angled to stare you down as his smile falters a bit. But he recovers quickly, raising his eyebrows close to where his hairline should be while he holds up a single finger, beseeching from you a moment of patience. Unbelievably, he proceeds to delve into a classic magic trick, the kind you’d see performed by an amateur entertainer at a child’s birthday party.

The clown’s gloved hands wave and twirl dramatically in front of your face as a sort of distraction. You do your best not to flinch when he reaches next to your head without warning. As expected, he reveals a shiny quarter, wanting you to believe he’s pulled the coin from behind your ear. He pinches the bit of silver between two fingers and offers it to you with a fluid sweep of his other hand and an encouraging smile as if presenting something of great value. Playing along, you laugh mirthlessly and hope the bemused set of your mouth resembles a smile.

“Yeah, that’s great buddy,” you say through gritted teeth, accepting the proffered quarter. “Thanks.”

Taking the coin in hand, you move to step around the clown, but he denies you. He repositions himself with alarming speed and blocks your path with his lanky frame, suddenly fashioning his own mouth into a frown. The odd shape of the grease paint surrounding his lips pulls down into a sort of melting effect. Contrarily, the bright rings of green circling his dark pupils are pure ice. Something in his harsh expression serves as a warning, one which requires no words. Still not permitting your exit, the clown holds his hand up with his palm facing you and continues to keep you an unwilling, captive audience.

Just like before, he repeats his same trick. Only now he reveals what appears to be a thin plastic tube. By the time you notice that there’s a sharp needle affixed to the end of the syringe, the steel tip is already piercing through your skin. He aims for the space just above your collarbone, where your neck and shoulder meet. You cry out and he grins wickedly. The force he uses to jab the needle in would have been painful enough on its own, but the sensitive spot he chose as a target makes it all the more agonizing and your knees threaten to give out.

In your peripheral, you watch him depress the plunger with slow and dramatic flare. His mouth is molded into another perfect circle of facetious shock as the liquid invades your system. Your ears ring while fear pumps white-hot adrenaline through your veins alongside whatever concoction had been forced from the syringe. You stumble backwards, wanting to put some distance between yourself and this maniac. There’s no longer a worry about the dangerous offender still lurking behind you because you’d been afraid of the wrong man all along.

The clown watches, alight with unadulterated joy. He offers a happy and child-like wave goodbye when your balance starts to waver. His fingers flap clumsily with the level of excitement he displays. Your neck burns and you’re feeling nauseous; sweating yet shivering as your limbs grow heavy.

Little black dots fill your vision and your eyes water, then begin to cross…or slip shut, you really can’t tell. There’s a loud whooshing and suddenly you can’t differentiate up from down, only that your body is swaying, tipping, tumbling. The last thing you register is the tiny ping of the quarter falling from your clammy palm and ricocheting off the ground. A slur of panicked nonsense drags over your sluggish tongue seconds before your world goes black.

If eyelids could be made of lead, you’re certain yours must be. As your body graciously allows you to ease back into consciousness, you struggle for several long minutes before you’re actually able to see. What you’re met with is a blinding halo from the single bulb situated directly above you. Blinking rapidly to adjust to the brightness, you try to pinpoint any indication as to where you are. You even wrack your fuzzy brain trying to remember anything from tonight, to no avail.

There’s a horribly uncomfortable surface supporting your body, rock hard and covered in some sort of sandy grit. A pervasive odor of rust and wood assaults your senses, mingling with the scent of something old and earthen. The aroma reminds you of an antique toolbox your father kept in the musty basement of your childhood home. Somehow the notion of being there momentarily frightens you more than any other possible reality.

You’re still feeling a little too weak to sit up just yet, but you do manage to lift an arm in order to press a palm to your aching forehead. The movement prompts an unexpected pressure, a sort of tight pulling along your flesh. It turns your stomach and you begin to feel hot and queasy. Your vision blurs for a moment and once that passes, you hold your arm up and turn it over to determine the cause of the sensation.

A long line of stitches run the length of your wound. The sutures are done in black thread that hardly seems up to medical standards and their pattern is rudimentary at best. Like something straight out of a horror movie, the edges of your wound are still caked in dried, coagulated blood. Obviously left unsterilized, the flesh is jagged, puffy, and sore. You shudder to think what kind of an infection you’re going to end up with.

The sound of metal clanging makes you jump, drawing you from the observation of your injury. Not being able to see your surroundings is making you nervous so you force your lethargic body to cooperate. First you plant your elbows, then carefully use your forearms and palms to ease yourself into an upright position, doing your best to keep your weight off of your ailing limb.

You experience the worst headrush of your life, but your equilibrium adjusts quickly. Looking down, you find yourself still clothed in your bridal gown, although your shoes are mysteriously missing. You’re sprawled across what looks to be a large wood-topped workbench. With the glaring light overhead, it feels more like a surgical table. The irony is not lost on you.

Directly to your right, there’s another workbench. This one is made of steel. Your vision hones in on a large mass and suddenly the night’s events come rushing back all at once.

Over the workbench hunches the sleek back of the taciturn clown, twiddling with the rusted teeth of an old hacksaw. Moving as gently as you can, you quietly adjust your position and throw your legs over the edge of the table, letting them dangle limply as you observe him.

As far as you can tell, there’s only one door out of the dimly-lit dungeon, but your captor is sure to spot you in his peripheral if you try. You watch and wait, hoping he’ll turn away and allow you a chance at escape.

The clown must sense your gaze because he freezes, stands up straight, then — with a remarkable lack of speed — spins his towering body to face in your direction. Although you had been expecting it, the presence of his startling grin still makes your throat tighten with anxiety.

“Where am I? What do you want from me?”

It’s stupid to ask. You know he isn’t going to answer. At least this time he bothers to acknowledge you. He slowly creeps his way over with the tool in hand, walking on tiptoes as if sneaking around and hiding from someone or something when it is he who is the monster. He smells of something familiar and sugary, a scent so offensively sweet it actually makes you gag. The silk of his costume brushes against the front of your legs and your body goes stiff with trepidation.

Your breath catches as a single finger traces the drawn-on stitches that transect your throat. He holds the saw up, pushing it close to your neck and sliding it back and forth, by all accounts interested in making the wounds very real. Concern furrows your brow and the display of fear must please him because he actually takes pity on you. He shakes his head with a mischievous smile and dismissively waves you away to let you know he’s only kidding.

The clown twists his body to put the hacksaw on the workbench, peeking back to make sure you’re watching. He lays it down with purposeful movements, then indicates that’s where it will stay. For now, anyway.

A frightened whimper nearly slips free when the clown quickly lifts a gloved hand to push two fingertips against your wrinkled forehead before jokingly smoothing out the deep lines forged by your distress. He points at you and mimes another one of his hearty laughs, but that only makes you frown more; doing very little to actually assuage your growing fear.

Seeming displeased with your lack of amusement, the clown lifts his other hand to join the first. Astoundingly, he uses a finger from each hand and shoves them quite impolitely into the corners of your mouth. You pull back in surprise, but he simply follows, forcing the long digits deeper until he’s touching your teeth. He doesn’t relent until you stop fighting the invasion. When you do, he wrenches his fingers upwards, forcing your mouth into the shape of a painfully exaggerated smile.

The clown pins you in place with an unflinching stare, his head tilting sharply to the side with intrigue. His face lacks any notable signs of emotion and you look on in astonishment, unable to do anything except endure his assault. He senses your resignation — insignificant as it may be — and the corners of his own mouth lift, gradually revealing more and more of his teeth until even his gums are on full display.

When he finally slips his fingers out of your mouth, you assist in their exit by pushing the offending digits away with your tongue and spluttering loudly. This catches his attention and the clown’s green eyes widen with interest. Appearing to ape your previous action, he relaxes his jaw and sticks his tongue out at you. The fleshy pinkness of the muscle is a stark contrast to the ink-like abyss of his painted mouth. He allows the muscle to roll over his teeth where its moistened tip nearly meets the point of his chin before it’s snatched back into the recesses of his maw. Then he points at you.

You can only shake your head in confusion, not quite understanding what it is he’s attempting to communicate. Executing a comical roll of his frigid eyes, the clown lifts and drops his angular shoulders with a soundless sigh of frustration then repeats the motion. Tongue flopping from his mouth and painted brows lifting with encouragement, his hands splay in a gesture of presentation that says ‘See? Like this.’

Now he’s pointing to himself with both hands before displaying two open palms in your direction while nodding in invitation. He’s asking you to mimic him. You don’t want to, but you have a feeling refusal is not an option so you do as he asks, albeit with some hesitation. Lips quiver as they peel apart to make way for your tongue which slips out with jerky, jittery slowness. It leaves you feeling quite foolish, sitting there with your mouth agape and tongue twitching while a six foot clown grins and applauds gleefully in celebration.

When you try to close your mouth, he stops you. A falling smile and a single loud clap directly in front of your face works just as effectively as any shouted words would have. Your eyes meet his and he holds up a finger, indicating you should wait; remaining exactly as you are while he decides what bizarre performance to put on next. You’re glad your mouth has gone dry so you don’t drool all over yourself and further add to your indignity.

He presses his thumbs to his temples and opens his hands up like a pair of moose antlers, wiggling his fingers playfully and sticking his tongue out once more. Just like you thought he would, the clown points to you and widens his eyes like an excited child waiting for you to play his game. You try to hide your huff of annoyance, but do as you’ve been directed.

This time, there’s no warning. You don’t even see it coming. Taking advantage of your open mouth and your distracted state, the clown shoves the two middle fingers of his left hand past your teeth. Although you weren’t prepared, he is. His other hand snaps forward to cradle the base of your skull when your head predictably rears back, ensuring you cannot escape his delving fingers. You try to move your face from side to side and relieve yourself of the pressure from the invasive digits, but he holds fast and renders you immobile.

Saliva floods your mouth as the tips of his fingers reach deep enough to brush the back of your throat. You gag and cough until your eyes begin to water, but he does not let up. Instead, he adds the rest of his fingers so they can twist this way and that; pinching, massaging, and pressing against the textured surface of your tongue. It reminds you of the way someone reaches in to remove the innards when gutting a fish.

His skin is salty, juxtaposed by the bitter, metallic flavor of oxidized blood you can taste as the edges of his fingerless gloves glide over your tongue and soak up your spit. Tears spill down your cheeks and you fight to breathe, feeling like you’re choking on his hand. No matter how hard you cling to and pull at his skinny wrist, you’re unable to extract him from your mouth. You whimper and start to heave more forcefully until mucus ejects from your nose.

All at once, he stops. Your throat emits an awful, strangled sound when he removes his fingers and abruptly turns away from you, shaking his hand and flinging a glob of saliva towards the floor as he does. It takes a moment for you to catch your breath and compose yourself while you wipe the moisture from your face, blinking rapidly until the tears stop falling from your lashes. When you look up, you see the reason for the interruption.

At the far corner of the room is a folding chair, its steel legs bent and misshapen. In it sits a face that you wouldn’t exactly call familiar, but you recognize it nonetheless. The man who attacked you earlier shifts and groans, his head lolling from side to side as he tries to get his bearings. You have no idea how the clown heard the man’s movements over your choking and whimpering, but you’re grateful for the distraction. His attention is now centered wholly on the man in the chair, clad only in a pair of checkered boxer shorts and with his arms bound behind him. His torso is riddled with little oozing puncture wounds and you can’t help feeling a twinge of pride.

You watch apprehensively as the clown picks up a bundle of material from the workbench and shakes it out to reveal a frilly, floral-patterned apron which he promptly drops over his head and fastens behind his back. The man watches this too, slowly piecing together what he’s seeing. Dread colors his features when he takes note of his state of undress and his imprisoned limbs. His eyes volley from the figure towering over him to you, then back again to the clown who bends to dig through a wooden crate full of more tools.

“So what, you two freaks know each other or something?” he questions, panic evident in his shaky tone though he tries poorly to disguise it.

He receives no answer, but the tall clown — having evidently found whatever he was searching for — straightens and peeks over his shoulder at you. Only the upper half of his face is visible when he waggles his brows in response to the man’s inquiry, leaving you clueless as to what it’s supposed to mean.

Now wielding some sort of object, the clown approaches the trapped man with slow and sure steps. He crouches before him and presents the object to the man. You can only imagine the smile he wears.

In his hand, he holds a terribly rusted pizza cutter. The clown flicks the wheel as if hoping it will glide smoothly, but it doesn’t budge. Deflating only slightly, he tries again using more force, but the pizza cutter only stutters with a grinding sound. He mimes a disappointed sigh and shakes his head, then shrugs his shoulders with acceptance, apparently deeming the utensil useful enough.

Your fingers wrap with crushing force around the edge of the table you sit upon as you brace yourself for whatever is about to occur. Though the unsuspecting man seems equally as dubious, nothing could prepare either of you for what happens next. The clown moves with viper-like speed and precision, snatching the man’s underwear and yanking them down just far enough to reveal his crotch.

“Wh-what the fuck?” he yells, rattling the chair as he squirms wildly. “Hey man, what the hell are you doing?!”

The rising pitch in his voice indicates he already knows the answer. While the sizable build of the clown shields most of your view, your imagination fills in the blanks vividly enough. Your ears ring with the volume of the man’s ragged screams.

A squish of flesh and the unmistakable splatter of dripping blood intersperse his cries and you slam your eyes shut as though that will block the awful sounds out. It’s the worst limb for a man to lose and there’s no doubt the dull condition of the clown’s chosen tool is making this experience all the more harrowing. Its lack of sharpness certainly lends to the amount of time the clown spends sawing through the man’s appendage.

From your vantage point, you cannot see the detached body part when the clown places it on the workbench, though that may be due to the fact that you’re preoccupied watching him lift the long cylinder of a propane blowtorch. He fiddles with the nozzle for a moment before rearing back and snapping his fingers like he’s just had an epiphany. Virtually from thin air, he procures a pair of flower-shaped sunglasses and perches them delicately upon his hooked nose. The torch ignites with a whoosh and the hiss of blazing fire does little to disguise the man’s blood-curdling scream as the clown touches flame to flesh in order to cauterize the leaking wound.

When he’s finished, the clown extinguishes the torch and tosses the tank aside with a resounding bang. His impromptu eye protection follows. Turning to you, he swipes the back of his hand across his forehead and flicks away some imaginary sweat before doing a comical imitation of an exhausted exhalation.

By now, the man’s distressed sounds have died down to nothing more than pained whimpers and quivering breaths with the occasional sniffle here and there as he processes the trauma of being dismembered and broiled like a human steak. The clown whips his apron over his head and hangs the blood-spattered garment on a hook with uncharacteristic gentleness, then retrieves the detached appendage from the workbench with equal care. He keeps one hand curled tightly into a fist, hiding the prize he holds within as he fumbles around in search of something. Meanwhile, you’re busy trying to keep the roiling bile in your stomach down.

The clown spins and moves towards you, one hand dripping blood and the other tucked out of sight behind his back. Instinct tells you not to look, but morbid curiosity says otherwise. Your lashes flutter as you prepare yourself and you find the clown’s face stretched familiarly into that same lecherous grin. His delighted eyes burn as bright as the scorching hot flame and you know that can’t possibly be good. When it seems his smile might split his face right in half, he finally makes the big reveal.

From behind his back, he dramatically presents a large magnifying glass. The lens is scratched and tinged brown beyond function yet it still serves the clown’s purposes just fine. He swings his arm wide in a theatrical fashion to hold the magnifying glass near his face as he opens the palm of his other hand to unveil the man’s severed member. His drawn-on eyebrows slam down and his lips mash into a flat line as he tries to peer into the lens and proceeds to move it back and forth between his face and hand as if struggling to see the disembodied penis even through the magnification. Without warning, the magnifying glass drops from his hand and shatters on the floor, making you jump.

The clown’s eyebrows launch upwards and his mouth gapes wide. He bends backwards and mimes a seriously maniacal laugh, holding a hand to his stomach and even pretending to wipe tears from his eyes as an added touch. You almost find yourself laughing at how absurdly fucked up it all is.

A devious expression overcomes his painted face and that smile — the one which lets you know something awful is about to happen — returns. The clown approaches you where you still sit and places a hand on your bare knee, using it as leverage to wrench your thighs open. You instinctively try to slam them shut, but you’re no match for the clown’s strength. What began as panic soon melds into shocked horror when he directs the bloody, limp penis towards your parted legs and moves it in and out in a taunting manner, seeming to threaten to penetrate you with it.

Your offended exclamation has his probing gaze snapping to your face. He ceases flopping the appendage around only long enough to wag his finger in admonishment. When he shakes his head with disapproval, it doesn’t seem quite as silly as all of his other gags. There’s an unspoken and indecipherable warning in the controlled, reprimanding oscillation of his head. Having sufficiently weirded you out to his satisfaction, the clown blindly tosses the penis over his shoulder with careless whimsy where it lands with a wet slap at the man’s feet.

The sound appears to make the clown take pause, something new churning in his iniquitous brain. His body tilts slowly away from you and he spends a long moment observing the half-conscious man in the corner. There’s an unsettling chill in his eyes when he turns back. In quick succession, he points to the slumped man, the discarded appendage, and then to you; all the while, an impression of inquiry in his expression.

You understand what he’s asking, you’re just not sure whether to be wary of or flattered by the crazy clown’s apparent indignation. Surely, he recognizes the hypocrisy in being insulted on your behalf after what he’s done. Your head shakes almost imperceptibly when you finally respond.

“No, not with that,” you manage to choke out, suddenly feeling inexplicably embarrassed.

The clown’s face is vacant and motionless for a painful length of time. It feels like he’s staring straight through you. He lifts his right hand and points to it with his left, eyebrows raised quizzically. You can only nod your confirmation. His gaze drops to your lap, lingering between your still-parted thighs for longer than you’re comfortable with.

You’re not certain how many times you’ve watched his eyes go blank and his mouth slack, only that the empty expression always serves as a hair-raising harbinger of something heinous. This occasion is no different. You hardly have time for your skin to crawl or your heart to skip a beat the way it has previously when the clown suddenly whips around in a blur of black and white to snatch up the hacksaw he’d been holding earlier.

The man in the chair hasn’t a chance to react either before the clown kicks him with all his might, sending the man toppling to the floor. His head bounces off the concrete and it seems to jostle him from a stupor, launching him into a fit of frantic mumbling which the clown puts an end to when he crouches down and promptly shoves the man’s own severed penis straight into his open mouth.

Without preamble, the clown leans over and begins to saw through one of the man’s bound arms. Not cutting at the elbow where the joint would allow for an easier amputation, but grinding the teeth of the tool halfway down the man’s forearm. The grating of metal against bone churns your stomach. Screams of pain echo off the brick walls and pierce through your skull in a way you know will haunt you.

Though muffled, his agonized sobbing is disturbing to listen to. Luckily for you, it doesn’t last much longer. The clown emerges from his stooped position with half an arm and a whole lot of teeth. His demonic mouth unfurls with a silent cackle as he flaps the severed limb about, even using it to wave at you. Blood pours from the end of the arm where jagged bone pokes out, the thick liquid spilling down the clown's own limbs and soaking into the shiny fabric of his costume. It's a macabre image like something straight out of your nightmares.

“What are you?” you wonder aloud, horrified.

Not wanting to monopolize all the fun for himself, the clown crosses the room, toting his freshly harvested arm. With two hands, he holds it parallel to the ground and extends his long arms to offer it to you. Fat drops of blood leak from the limb and plop wet and warm into your lap. Persistently, the clown stretches even further to pass the disgusting arm to you and you have nowhere to go except backwards.

Pulling your legs up, you plant your bare heels under yourself and scoot away from him, using your hands in tandem to shuffle faster. The clown instantaneously releases the arm and it falls to the ground with a sickening sound, freeing up his hands to snatch your ankles before you can get away. You screech instinctively, but he doesn’t heed the terror in your high-pitched utterance. He yanks hard and your much weaker arms offer little resistance as you topple over. You’re pulled in rather violently and he situates you lengthwise along the table, your legs hanging over the edge and bracketing either side of his thighs.

Panic still floods your mind and you immediately sit up, ready to continue your fight to escape, however the clown plants his hands on your blood-smeared thighs and presses his weight down until the crushing pain of it makes you cry out. If you want him to stop, you’ll have to stay still. Your hands curl around the edge of the table and you tamp down every instinct you have in order to do what he wants.

The clown doesn’t let go of you until he’s certain you won’t try to get away. You’d have vehemently promised him your cooperation if the ache in your bones wasn’t stealing your breath. The clown relents and you practically moan with relief, panting and frightened. When you look up at the figure standing between your knees, you’re surprised to find him with his arms crossed petulantly across his stained chest. He regards you with disdain and frustration, displeased with your refusal of his gracious, gory gift.

He takes a single step back — his attention having shifted to the blood-soaked garment that hangs off his lanky frame — and he throws his hands up in mock exasperation. One long arm reaches behind his back and you hear the sound of a small zipper. You half expect him to reveal that his body is actually composed of a million little bugs and spiders beneath the suit, or at least something equally disturbing. To your relief, the revelation is much less sensational.

The loosened material falls away to expose his shoulders first, his skin so pallid it’s nearly the same shade as his painted face. His long arms and slender torso are so plainly unremarkable that it makes him almost too human. With nothing but the white hood stained red still around his head, the clown looks more silly than scary, but you’re too transfixed by the sheer normalcy of what was hidden beneath to even notice. The costume slips free of his bony wrists, stopping just short of falling away completely when it settles on the protrusions of his hips. That cloying, sickly sweet scent wafts from him more strongly now, starkly contradicting both his gruesome appearance and grotesque behavior.

Humiliation warms your cheeks when he catches you staring, but he’s more interested in something else. He falls easily back into his role as a joker, suddenly gesturing almost apologetically to the sanguine splatters covering your legs. The tip of one finger swipes through a large droplet of blood, leaving a clean streak in its wake. The clown flattens a palm against each of your thighs and drags his hands towards himself, trying to use his filthy gloves to sop up some of the blood, but they’re already so sodden that he only makes more of a mess.

His mouth forms an inspired circle and you can practically see the light bulb flicker above his hat-topped head. Time slows and you watch him pitch forward, hinging at the waist when he bends to lick at the blood staining the skin just above your knee. The wet heat of his lapping tongue is shocking in the worst way. Your body moves reflexively, leaning away from him until you’re forced to catch yourself with your palms braced behind you.

A startled gasp escapes more loudly than you would have liked and the clown pulls his head back at once, a high-browed, jesting look of surprise contorting his painted face. The taut, rounded shape of his mouth soon morphs into a broad grin that makes your stomach flip for a plethora of reasons. His eyelids lower in the closest thing he can manage to sultry and he delves back in with fervor, latching his lips to your thigh even higher than before. Though slender, his fingers grip your legs with incredible strength and keep you in place. His teeth occasionally catch your flesh as he licks and sucks the blood away.

When your brain finally manages to function somewhat normally, your hands can only float uselessly above the clown, too afraid to push him away for fear of the consequences. His mouth journeys higher and higher until his angular nose reaches the hem of your tattered dress and pushes it far enough to reveal the plain pair of panties beneath. The rush of his breath fanning over your underwear is enough to finally make your paralyzed hands move, but it’s too late.

Sitting up straight, your hands have barely made contact with the warm skin of the clown’s upper arms when the tip of his moist tongue sweeps with pointed precision directly over your covered center. Though you had intended to shove him away, the sensation instead causes your fingers to dig harshly into his soft biceps and you cry out. The clown peers up at you and carefully nods his head with approving enthusiasm before returning to the apex of your thighs to do it again, almost experimentally. The whimper he earns this time is twice as sweet and he pulls away, clapping happily in awe of his discovery.

Still stained with the fruits of his labor, a red-tipped finger sneaks between your thighs and he swirls it with damning pressure directly on your bundle of nerves. You don’t want to react, but a hiss escapes you, unbidden. The clown’s face twists with elation and he does it again and again until your teeth clench with restraint. You know your lack of sounds does nothing to preserve your dignity when you can feel the wet spot you’re sure must be visible through your underwear by now.

He seems to be testing the limits, seeing how far he can push before you’ll break. Adding a second finger, he rubs more firmly and his touch drifts from your clit to your entrance where most of the moisture collects. You keep your eyes fixed securely on the ceiling where you only have to see the termite-ravaged rafters and not what this murderous clown is doing to you. Still, you can feel the clown’s unwavering stare burning holes into your upturned face. It isn’t long before your panties are soaked through and you can actually hear the stickiness as he massages the damp material into your folds.

You know it’s twisted and you should stop him, but some incredibly sick part of you wants to indulge his curiosity. And another small part of you just wants to avoid pissing him off, lest you end up asphyxiated on some body part of your own or missing one of your limbs.

You’re finding it increasingly difficult to think clearly enough to make a decision because the clown’s relentless ministrations have the muscles in your thighs beginning to quiver. His touch is dizzying and when his pinkie finger trails along the seam of your underwear where it meets the sensitive crease of your thigh, your legs part ever so slightly. This is apparently all the evidence he needs of your capitulation because what little control he’d been showing suddenly snaps.

In an instant, the clown has tucked all four fingers beneath the gusset of your panties. He yanks so hard that your bare ass skids across the workbench and nearly off the edge. You barely manage to catch yourself on your elbows before your skull slams into the hard surface behind you. Your underwear is wrenched a second time and the material digs into your flesh for a moment before splitting. He divests you of the shredded fabric, making sure to undermine the moment by wrapping the ruined garment around his head like a babushka.

The clown cups behind your knees and shoves both you and your legs upwards, forcing you to plant your feet on the surface of the table and leaving you laid openly bare before him. He wastes no time ravishing your exposed center, his mouth latching onto you without hesitation. His tongue moves with little finesse, sloppily soaking your already wet cunt with saliva. Your hips lift with a shriek and he wraps an arm around either leg to pin you down while he feasts on you, his sharp nose bumping your clit and sending zings of pleasure through your body.

You’re too far gone to think about the blood still coating his fingers when two of them force their way into your slippery pussy. A whine catches in your throat as the clown curls his fingers deliciously, massaging your walls in a way that has your head tossing from side to side. Using the widest part of his tongue, he pushes the muscle with unforgiving speed against your clit until your vision blanks.

Juices flow abundantly as the clown fucks you with his fingers and mouth. Stopping once or twice to allow a string of saliva to drip from his pointed tongue only adds to the slickness. His tongue occasionally delves into your entrance to taste every bit of nectar you have to offer. When your back begins to arch, he redoubles his efforts, shoving your knees to your chest as he plucks a fierce orgasm from your willing body. His lips latch onto the turgid bundle of nerves and with very little effort, you wail and fall apart like putty in his bloodied hands.

He doesn’t stop when you cum. The rough tip of his tongue slips with agonizing slowness from your cunt to your clit, then back down with the softer, smoother underside of the muscle. The continual onslaught of the clown’s mouth becomes too much once your orgasm dissipates and the stimulation is overwhelming, forcing you to clench your thighs around his head. You finally find your voice and beg for mercy, tears collecting in the corners of your eyes as you endure the torturous slithering of his long tongue.

Eventually, the clown grants the mercy for which you’ve begged and rises from between your shaking thighs. His vast grin glistens more than usual in the low light and a combination of your essence and his saliva coats his chin, tinged pink from the blood he’d cleansed from your thighs. The sight should terrify you, but has the opposite effect, instead tying your stomach in reprehensible knots.

With your body still propped on your elbows, you have a perfect vantage point to study the looming clown. His shoulders are pulled high and taut, his entire frame expands and deflates with deep, steady breaths. Those long teeth grind, his jaw shifting contemplatively from side to side as he wars with his wavering control. Something decidedly evil brews in his light green irises.

Your gaze drifts lower along his seemingly never-ending body to where the clown’s partially-shed costume still clings to his trim pelvis. The thin material does very little to disguise the distinct ridge of a growing erection, its outline pronounced and slightly curved. He watches your pupils dilate and your mouth drop open with a humorously audible pop. He holds one palm bashfully in front of his mouth and coquettishly flutters his dark lashes, shyly shooing you away with his opposite hand and shimmying his shoulders in a facade of self-consciousness.

His hand promptly falls to his waist where he nudges the silken fabric of his jumpsuit lower until it slips down his long legs. Bared to you now, you’re graced with the sight of his half-hard cock. The shaft is notably thick and measures up nicely; pale and smooth like marble with the weeping tip the same fleshy pink as his wicked tongue. You’re not as disgusted as you should be by the sight and that thought is sobering. When you use your hands and feet to scurry backwards across the table again, the clown’s dick jerks as it hardens further.

A punishing grip crushes your windpipe as he takes you by the throat and halts your momentum, his entire body practically thrown over yours atop the table just to prevent you from getting away. You claw at his imprisoning hand, your fingernails leaving several raised scratches across his otherwise perfect skin while you gasp for air and he drags you back where he’s decided you belong. He releases your neck only to slam you flat on your back with a palm splayed across your chest. This time, your head does bounce off the workbench.

Hiking one thigh over his hip and pushing the other at an angle you aren’t quite flexible enough for, the clown spreads you wide open. His height makes it so that he’s almost too tall for his pelvis to align with yours but he does his best, bending his knees just enough for his impressively hard cock to nestle heavily across your pubic bone. Several tumescent pearls seep from the swollen tip, leaving a trail of sticky precum when he pulls his hips back.

Your muscles quake with the effort it takes to keep your bent leg in place when the clown releases his grip on the limb. Using his free hand, he drags the blood-soaked glove covering his palm along the length of his throbbing shaft, eyes igniting with sinful heat as he watches his fist pumping. His knuckles lightly brush your clit and the contact has you ready to launch straight off the table.

The clown releases his length, letting it fall back against your pussy with a wet plop. With his thumb wedged just beneath the tip, he angles his cock towards your slick hole and uses its girth to stretch you open. Just as your lips part in awe, his hips thrust forward to bury several inches inside of you and a startled yelp rips from your mouth. He pauses momentarily to laugh noiselessly at you, the jostling of his body allowing his cock to slip deeper.

The pressure is mind-numbing, though you fear you might actually pass out when the clown drags your body close to his, impaling you until your walls are stretched around the thickest part of his cock and the thatch of hair at the base is saturated in your flood of juices. A full-body convulsion causes your internal muscles to clench and even the malevolent clown is not immune to the stimulation. His blackened mouth hangs open on a soundless moan, eyes hazed with salacious lust as he watches his cock retract from your dripping cunt. The slick pull of his length makes you cry out.

“Oh…my god,” you breathe.

The clown plunges deep once more, bottoming out — once, twice, three times — until your breath catches as you watch him sink every fat inch into your pussy. Your eyes pinch shut against the undeniable pleasure. He repeats the motion over and over until his thrusting hips settle into a steady, unabating rhythm that has you racing towards another orgasm. The wetness spilling from your core would prevent any decent friction if the clown’s cock wasn’t so thick, but each precise grind of his hips is wracking your body with ecstasy. As the rapturous sensations build, so too does the volume of your moaned chanting.

“Fuck, oh my god. Oh my god. Oh…my…god.”

Fire licks at the back of your neck and your toes curl, every fiber of your being trying to fend off the intensity of the tumultuous orgasm which approaches. You wrench your eyes open only to find the clown's eyebrows angled sadly and his frowning lips moving in sync with your simpering words, silently mocking every pathetically moaned syllable perfectly in time with your hoarse voice.

Feeling humiliated by his taunting, your cheeks heat and you reach between your legs to press a flattened hand to his lower stomach in an attempt to put an end to the havoc he wreaks on you. You’ve made the mistake of reaching down with your injured arm and he takes advantage, circling your forearm in his spindly fingers and squeezing — digging deep in the tender wound — until the raw flesh begins to bleed and you yell like a snared animal. You recoil in pain, your body tensing as you do and clamping harshly around the cock still rutting between your thighs.

Pain mingles with hellish pleasure and your cunt ripples uncontrollably, threatening to bring you both to your end. You slam your eyes shut and hold your breath against the rising tide. Sensing the battle you wage, the clown opts to prolong his torment. Bracing his large hands on the workbench, he uses the leverage to fuck you even harder and deeper, his hips slamming so roughly that it knocks the wind out of you. You’re on the verge of sobbing, each sorrowful sound distorted by the force of the clown’s cock pummeling your body.

A warm palm lands none-too-gently across your face, the clown’s pinkie and thumb tucked between your cheekbone and jaw on either side of your face; his other three fingers gouge indentations into your forehead as he easily clutches the entirety of your skull in his hand. The filthy fabric of his glove crushes against your nose and mouth, soiled with your blood and saliva as it impedes your ability to breathe properly.

As the clown approaches his own release, his thrusts become brutal, fucking you mercilessly without a care for your pleasure or comfort. He shows no consideration for your life either, judging by the way he continues to smother you. Still, your own orgasm is quickly becoming inevitable and he can tell by the desperate way you swirl your hips, trying hopelessly to meet every stroke of his swelling cock.

He shifts his grasp on your face, allowing you to take a much needed breath. He pinches your cheeks with all of his strength, ensuring that it hurts. When you refuse to open your eyes, he taps his fingers against your damp cheek, hitting you harder and harder until you meet his dominating glare. His fingers proceed to dig painfully into your face like a claw and you’re glad his blunt nails aren’t sharp enough to break the skin.

The clown curls his body ominously over top of yours. He crowds your space, your vision, your mind. You can see and feel nothing but him. You’re surrounded, every one of your senses blotted out by his presence. In a fleeting moment of clarity, you finally recognize that syrupy scent which clings to his skin like an entity all its own: sugary, saccharine cotton candy. A total antithesis to the malicious beast it oozes from.

His grinning mouth splits wide so a stream of pink-tinged saliva can drool from his open lips and splatter along your abdomen. He holds fast to your cheeks, forcing you to maintain eye contact until his cold eyes roll briefly to the back of his head.

“Shit. Fuck,” you cry, fearing what’s about to happen and knowing you’ll never be able to stop it.

He smiles evilly and his head nods fervently when he sees the abject horror and realization in your face. Eyes flashing fully white, the clown’s body begins to vibrate with furious, unbridled carnality. In an attempt to get out from under him, you twist your hips in a way that only allows the clown to slip deeper than ever, his cock bumping painfully against your cervix and his tight, cum-laden balls crushed against your ass.

Your palms slam flat at your sides and his crash down right beside them. Against your better judgment, one of your legs hooks firmly against the taut muscles of the clown’s bare back, locking him in place as your pussy constricts with a release that shatters your sanity. His torso quakes powerfully as he crumbles along with you, his head nearly coming to rest against your chest as he cums deep inside you.

He makes no noise, but a sharp exhale unleashes a long, hot puff of air across your skin. Every pulse of his cock as he spurts more of his seed extends your orgasm until your whole body shakes with exhaustion. Your cunt squeezes his throbbing length so hard you fear he may never leave your body.

Contrarily, the clown is already moving between your thighs, thrusting his cock decidedly deep with a final cruel stroke before pulling out with aching slowness. His barely softened length rubs every one of your sensitive nerve endings and your body launches into another, less debilitating orgasm. The tip of his dick slips free along with a flood of cum that drips down to collect beneath you.

Hardly conscious, you hear the shuffling of fabric as the clown redresses in his bloody costume. He tucks his cock — still partially stiff and slick with your abundant juices — into the suit before casually sliding his long arms down the sleeves. You’re left exposed, your panties missing and your dress hiked just under your breasts. He studies his cum- and blood-stained gloves for a moment, rolls his eyes, then plucks them comically from his hands and flings them over his shoulder with a shrug and a dopey frown.

Pools of saliva shine on your belly and the clown slides between your open thighs to lick it up. You flinch at the contact, your body still on edge and hyper-aware of his teasing touch. His tongue trails slowly from your belly button to your sternum and back down to the apex of your thighs where he delves gently between your folds to taste your mingeld cum.

The salty sweetness makes him breathe hotly against your center. It's a soothing sensation, swiftly interrupted by the intrusion of his fingers slipping into your used cunt with shallow strokes. The clown coats his fingers in your juices, dipping in and out until you whimper before using the sticky white fluid to draw three sloppy letters across the space between your hips; writing his name to mark you as his property, a plaything to keep around only as long as it suits his sinister whims.

Writing Masterpost

#TUMBLR STOP EATING MY POST CHALLENGE #i really took the scenic route on this one #i need to honk his horn and slonk his dong soooo badly u don't get it #art the clown x reader #art the clown fanfiction #art the clown fanfic #art the clown x you #terrifier fanfic #art the clown x you smut #terrifier fanfiction #horror fanfic #horror fanfiction #slasher x reader #slasher fanfiction #slasher fanfic

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