#terrifier fanfic

[strangererotica]

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Art the Clown x Reader SMUT • headcanons, how Art fucks, what he gets off to, etc

big content warning! contains some stuff that may gross you out; read at your own risk: menstruation kink, piss kink, oral sex, anal sex, object insertion, blood kink, various weapons mentioned, bondage, human hair and bones, butts and what comes out of butts, public sex, cockwarming, mostly dom!Art and sub!reader

🔪 Remember the work desk with all of Art’s weapons and tools on it? He knows you want him to fuck you, but he’s got shit to do (meaning weapons to build) so he lets you sit under the desk, cockwarming him while he works. You’re on the ground between his knees, patiently holding him in your mouth. When he finishes constructing his latest instrument of torture/slaughter, Art pats his palm against his thigh, wordlessly telling you to climb up into his lap and ride him.🩸

🔪 Art enjoys blood and guts, so it goes without saying that during your period, he’s particularly eager to fuck you. He can detect the slight change in your scent, usually aware you’ve begun to bleed even before you know. He plays with your pussy like it’s a new, special toy when you’re bleeding, spreading your lips and tracing his name on your inner thighs in red. Seeing/touching/tasting blood that comes from you is special to Art. It’s the only time he gets to play in blood without it being the result of him hurting someone, so that makes the experience unique for him. He saves your used pads for ‘alone time,’ using them later as a ‘sleeve,’ to masturbate with.🩸

🔪 Art sometimes fucks you with unconventional objects, like the handle of one of his weapons (knife, axe) or the neck of a bottle. If you’ve displeased him but he still wants to fuck you, he might deny you his cock and instead use something else, like the handle of one of his knives or the barrel of an (empty!) gun, to make you come instead of his cock, as a degrading ‘punishment.’🩸

🔪 Art loves bondage. He knows what he’s doing when it comes to tying knots, as evidenced by the multiple victims you’ve watched him restrain. He enjoys the power dynamic of being in absolute control of another person. When that crosses over into sex, you both get off on him tying you up and doing whatever the fuck he wants with your body.🩸

🔪 Art’s methods can border on sadistic at times (I mean how could they not??) but because he wants to keep you around to play with for the long haul, he never pushes you beyond the limits of safety, no matter how many new ways he comes up with to plug every hole in your body. If we know anything about Art, it’s that he’s perceptive. He studies the way your body responds to different forms of stimulation and mentally catalogs the information for later. All of his skill in crafting tools of torture means he’s able to create customized ‘toys,’ to fuck you with. But the thing is, they’re never normal, or sweet; they always contain something fucked-up and sick. Art once surprised you with a whip he’d put together for you. Its strands were soft and felt so good gliding over your clit. You came so hard when Art whipped your pussy till it was puffy and leaking. It would have been a wonderful gift, if you hadn’t realized later, upon closer inspection, that the strands now wet with your cum were in fact strands of human hair. And the custom dildo Art made for you, the one that was so smooth and colored beige/white? You later found out Art had chiseled and smoothed down a human bone to make it for you. The information almost made you sick on the spot. Art found your horrified reaction hilarious, of course, and it didn’t stop him from laying you down and fucking you with it all the same…🩸

🔪 ANAL ANAL ANAL ANAL ANAL ANAL …

He loves to fuck you in the ass. Art’s a nasty little motherfucker when it comes to the stuff that comes out of butts, and I’m not gonna elaborate here, but you can use your imagination to follow where I’m going with this…🩸

🔪 Art has zero inhibitions: he kills anyone, anywhere. Imagine that relating to sex; of course he’s going to fuck you wherever he wants, including places where you might get caught. Sex in public/risky spaces feels natural to Art, because he literally does not give a single fuck. Remember the first time you ever saw him? When you stumbled out the back door of that sleazy little bar in your home town, so drunk off your ass you thought you were leaving through the front? Art was in the alleyway behind the bar, black garbage bag hoisted over his shoulder, not even looking for anyone to fuck up but when he saw you, he knew he’d found a victim for the night. He’d planned to stalk you home and do unspeakable things to you-but as you took the lead and approached him, there in the alleyway, he was caught off guard, his whole plan upended the moment you slid your arms around his waist, stood up on your tiptoes, and placed a soft, sloppy kiss on his cheek. He was awestruck, and even if he could speak, Art would still have been at a loss for words. You walked him backward a few steps, lining him up against a dumpster in the alleyway. You began fondling him through his costume, grinning when you realized his body had already begun to respond. One thing led to another, and within minutes, Art had you bent over that dumpster, with a fresh hole torn in the front of his costume where your bodies were joined…🩸

🔪 No one would associate The Miles County Clown with tenderness, but if they knew Art, they would see a softer side of him only you do. He’s still fucking deranged, don’t get me wrong. But Art also has moments of vulnerability, when there’s nothing he wants more than to hold you. Sitting in Art’s lap, he wraps his arms around you and stays still, so still, just enjoying the soft thump of your heartbeat against his, and the low hum of your breath on his chest. Your nearness calms the monster inside Art so well that sometimes, he forgets he is the monster itself…🩸

🔪 Another benefit of having you in his lap? Art realized he could use his strength to make you stay in his lap no matter how badly you had to get up and take a piss, forcing you to wet yourself all over him. You felt him gradually getting hard under you as you began to wriggle on his lap. Art could see your discomfort, and when you told him you needed to get up and take a piss, he refused to release you. You’d expect him to be smiling at you at a time like this, silently mocking you; but the look in his eyes was deathly serious, pitch black and full of a demented lust that would have had you locked you in place even if his arms hadn’t. Blushing into his shoulder, you accepted the fact that Art wasn’t letting go of you any time soon, and that he really was into this. He wanted this to happen. You allowed your bladder to empty, a soft trickle saturating your panties, followed by a steady stream of hot piss that spread over Art’s lap. His clothes were soaked through below the waist, your piss running down between his thighs and dampening the couch cushion beneath you. Art was rock hard by this point, his wet cock throbbing against your pussy. He lifted you off his lap just enough to reach between your bodies and position his tip against your entrance, then used your piss as a lube to slide inside you…🩸

[danveration]

Questionable Interests

Parings: Art x Reader

Summary: You fall asleep next to Art while riding the subway, and then he walks you home

Warnings: Mention of blood/killings/serial killers, talk of drunk men, talk of drugs, a mean male subway driver

Word count: 1203

A/N: tehehehehfkbdfk i hope u like ittt🙈🙈 it’s not the besssttt. i did this in one sitting within like 10 minutes HAHHA. i will do better stuff in the near future but Yes!woooo

Art was the talk of the town. “The killer clown is back again!” “Art the serial killer clown was spotted?” “5 killings that all lead to a killer clown. People have seen a black and white clown with blood all over him. They thought it was fake blood but they’re having second thoughts.” Art the clown.

You obviously heard of him. You’ve always had an odd obsession with serial killers and true crime documentaries. It’s a.. passion, some would say. You wondered if Art had any motive, or if he just killed whoever he thought of killing. Did he kill people because they were mean to him? Judging? Or did he just kill anyone, even if they didn’t pay him any mind at all. Did he feel anything when he killed? Did he feel anything at all?

You wished you could see him in real life. What can you say? Your have questionable interests.

You’re currently on the subway, sitting down with your headphones in. You’ve had a long day today. It’s about 8pm and all you want to do is get home and sleep.

The subway isn’t very busy. There’s only about 5 or 6 people on it at the moment. Your mind begins to wonder about random things as your eyes threaten to close. The subway makes a stop, you pay no mind. You’re too out of it to notice who gets on and who sits where. Little did you know, Art stumbles into the subway, bloody and carrying a black bag. Everyone looks scared and soft murmurs begin to start as people look him up and down. He sees you and doesn’t think anything. He see's that you're the only one who doesn't really acknowledges him and so he sits next to you and tosses his black garbage bag on the other seat beside him. You don't hear nor see the worried whispers and worried eyes of the others on the subway.

Your eyes begin to close and your head slowly drops onto Art’s shoulder. Art is taken aback, his eyes go wide for a moment before looking down at you slowly. He stiffens and then goes back to staring in front of him at the empty seat. He doesn’t particularly think anything of it. He just stays still and let’s you rest on him.

10 minutes later, he notices the subway is about to stop at the stop that he plans to get off. Though he doesn’t get off. He just sits there.

After a while, it’s time for subway to “close” aka just stop until the morning. Everyone is off except for you and Art. The driver gets up, and yells, “Hey! It’s time to go, come on. Get up!”

Art stars daggers at the man and just stays sitting down.

The subway driver rolls his eyes and hits the metal pole close to you. “Come on!”

With that, you suddenly wake up and whimper. Looking up to where the sound was made, you come to realization and your eyes go wide. “O-oh my gosh! I’m so sorry. Where are-“

He cuts you off, “You’re at the subway center on Marshall Street.”

Luckily that was not far from where you lived. You could walk, though you’re a bit scared to considering your watch says 2:50am. There are so many weirdos out there at this time. Drunk men stumbling out of bars, drug users, and even murderers! Like Art the clown. But honestly, you’d feel more safe with him than any other man. Which sounds horrible but at least you know he could protect you and he isn’t afraid of killing someone if it came to that. But why on earth would he protect you? He would probably just kill you. You don’t know what morals he has, if any.

You’re about to get up but you realize that you were actually laying your head on something when you were sleeping. There was not a wall next you so..

You turn to where you were sleeping and you notice something black and white out of the corner of your eyes. Looking up, you see..

What? You have to be dreaming.

Art or someone who is dressed as Art is sitting there staring at you with a neutral expression. You just stare with wide eyes as he stares back without blinking. Looking straight at him, you can definitely confirm it's the Art. Blood & all.

“Hey!! I said scram. Both of you!” The subway driver yells and motions for you both to leave.

You go to walk off the subway as Art reaches for his black bag and gets up to following you off, giving the subway driver a nasty look as he walks off.

Once you are off the subway, you look over to Art as he stares down at you. You don’t feel scared, necessarily. He doesn’t look mad or anything. But still, you feel the need to apologize for sleeping on his shoulder.

“H-hey. I’m real sorry about falling asleep on you. It-it’s just been a long day.” You stutter out.

He looks at you and motions for you to walk.

“W-what?” You ask in confusion.

He makes a finger person with his hands and motions them walking.

“Walk? Walk where?”

He attempts to draw a house with his finger and points at you and back at the house.

You take it that he wants you to walk to your house. Does he want to follow you there? You really are starting to feel intuitive with the way you just thought of this not even a little while ago.

“Walk to my house?” You ask him.

He eagerly nods and gives you a thumbs up as he smiles.

Art the killer clown wants to walk you home? You smile to yourself at the situation you’re in right now. Most people would be running away but you’re literally happy right now. You are kind of a fan girl of Art, so it’s crazy that he’s actually here and not.. Killing you. He actually seems sweet. Maybe he does have morals left.

“O-okay.” You say.

You start to walk and he walks beside you, slugging along his black garbage bag. You two walk in silence. You want to ask him questions but you’re not sure if too much at once is a good idea. Maybe asking him questions will set him off in a way, you’re not sure. So you decide to just stay quiet and soak in the moment.

You’re walking on the side of the sidewalk, until you hit a street. Your street. You take a turn and he follows, smiling to himself and looking around to take in the neighbourhood (Totally not to memorize where you live). You walk for a few minutes until you get to your house.

“This is me” You say as you awkwardly chuckle and motion towards your house.

He motions for you to walk up all the way to your door, at which you do. He follows you all the way until you open your door. Then, he waves goodbye with a smile and closes the door for you.

You stand on the other end, in disbelief of what just happened.

[clownyclaushoe]

art the clown x reader 🔞 | i taste blood and it's turned into an obsession series

part one | champagne confetti

the first time art the clown eats your pussy (and makes you squirt 😫🖤) 🔞 ofc

i didn't intend for there to be so much semi-plot before the porn but it gets just a little angsty/sad at the start. chapter title comes from the song 3d by jungkook cause i couldn't think of anything else and its a euphemism for squirting 😆💦🍾 series title is from lilith (diablo iv anthem) by halsey feat. suga.

part two | part three | part four

---

you couldn't quantify what your relationship with the miles county clown was; it wasn't really a friendship and you weren't romantically or sexually involved either, though you'd be lying if you said art didn't have a way about him that drew you in, something so inexplicably attractive about him. for his part, it seemed he tolerated you most times, others it was as if he kept you around for his own amusement.

that much was probably true enough, given the night you'd met and his over the top reaction to your homemade costume last halloween - harley quinn from the animated series. when he'd walked into the fast food joint and noticed you, he dropped his massive black trash bag to the floor, rushing up to you as if you were a celebrity. it was late enough that there were a few groups of people from the nearby bar throughout the restaurant. his display making them stare, snicker, and talk amongst themselves. it made you a little self-conscious, but the funny clown wasn't fazed at all.

you thanked him, because though a little embarrassing, it was also flattering, considering the time and effort it took to make each detail of your outfit and makeup just right.

somehow you'd let him sit at your table, you asking if he was going to purchase anything, if he was hungry; he had definitely looked like he could use a meal. he had pulled out some change, counting it out on the table. you placed your hand over his, stopping him, telling him you got it. his head jolted back as he looked up at you wide-eyed, mouth agape, as if he was scared by your touch. something in your chest clenched, wondering what made him react in such a way, what could have happened in his past.

six months later you still didn't know the details of his past, though you still were curious. what was he like as a kid, as a teenager, was he an outcast back then, too? would you two have been friends?

you stared at his back as he sat at his work bench, tinkering with some new items for his arsenal. it troubled you how you could compartmentalize that murderous, sadistic side of art from the silly, caring side, though as time goes on its lessening. you wonder, too, if those "good" parts of him were enough to keep him in your life, if it meant even monsters could one day be redeemed. though you doubt art sought redemption, his dark heart beyond healing.

you return your gaze back to your laptop, you had been binge watching youtube videos, just about to search for funny animal clips, when art's hand suddenly waved in front of the screen.

"shit, what, art--" you said all at once, as you hadn't seen or heard his approach. art's arm dropped, and he slumped a little, frowning at you curiously. "i'm sorry, i didn't mean to snap at you. i was just startled." you exhale a deep breath. "yes, art?"

art grinned, pointing at your laptop. "what is it?" art flexed his fingers in a gesture suggesting you hand your laptop to him.

"you want this?" art nodded. "for what?" art insistently did a grabby-hands gesture, while bouncing on his toes. "okay, okay." you handed it over, hoping he wasn't ordering materials or weapons to be used for his next kill using your saved card info.

after a few clicks, suddenly there's audio playing. it's a woman - and it sounds like she's shouting. for a moment you think it might be a snuff video. it takes a few seconds to realize those are shouts of pleasure, not pain.

"i'll leave you alone to enjoy that."

art grabs your arm momentarily, shaking his head, pointing at you, himself, then the screen. you stare at him, confused until he turns the laptop to show you what he was watching.

a man eating a woman's pussy. and not in the cannibal sense, but the cunnilingus sense.

he continues pointing between the three of you, animatedly. "art? you want to eat my pussy?"

art nodded excitedly while pausing the video and putting the computer aside. you didn't think he viewed you that way, wasn't even sure he had a libido.

it seemed at times even art was at the mercy of his own whims, compelled to do things without knowing why or bothering to question it. you wondered if this was one of those times.

did he even understand what he was asking?

"i didn't think-- art, i-i don't--" you trailed off, at a loss for what to say. for what you could say. the truth was for an unbearably long time you've wanted him in every way possible, how could you deny yourself the chance now.

you stood, turning to him, and pushing up on your tiptoes, wrapping your arms around his neck as he slipped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer against him. your faces so close, you can feel his breath fanning against your cheek, his intense gaze boring into yours.

the moment lingered. which of you would act first and finally release the thick tension filling the already stuffy air; the summer heat worsened in the poorly ventilated room, sorely lacking air conditioning. sweat trailed down your side, under the thin fabric of your dress. you needed out of these clothes.

art smirked at you, tilting his head, eyes widening and brows raising - he's teasing you, trying to see if he could get a rise out of you. you knew he liked to fuck around with people for his own entertainment, of course you'd be no different. luckily, the distinction between you and everyone else was he's about to fuck around with you, literally.

you couldn't wait any longer.

you leaned forward, capturing art's mouth suddenly, gripping the back of his head. after a moment, art kisses back, a little uncoordinated and off-kilter, which is to be expected with art, and the almost certainty that he's long out of practice.

you whimpered a little against his mouth, taking aback by just how much you're affected by the touch of his lips and his embrace surrounding you.

his hands move down to your thighs and you hop up, art pulling you off the ground, your legs wrapping around him. art takes steps forward and you have no idea where he's taking you and you don't fucking care. he walks you over to his work bench with all his beloved tools that he kept in a particular order and never let anyone else ever touch. he cast the tools aside with a swipe of his arm, setting you on the table.

you sit at the edge and he presses close between your legs as you kiss again, feeling his hard-on though his costume, your hips rolling to grind against him, seeking friction to drive you both wild.

"fuck, i can already feel your big, hard cock," you gasp out incredulously. "want to feel it inside me already. please, art."

art grins, but wiggles his finger at you, shaking his head with his tongue out as if to remind you of what started all this in the first place.

you wait impatiently for his next move.

he grazes his hands up your dress, starting at your thighs and up the curve of your hips, over your waist, shifting up to squeeze your tits together. he unfastened the buttons at the top of the garment before pulling it up and over your head. once again he's surprised you, you would've guessed he'd tear the thin fabric off your body. you get wetter at the thought.

he's quick to do away with your bra and underwear. you lie back on the table as much as will allow, your legs spreading further apart for art to see all of you.

he grabs the backs of your thighs, holding them up as he leans closer to your pussy. he spits on it, his cold saliva spilling over your hot and pulsating labia.

art ducks his head, wasting no time latching his mouth onto your pussy, his big nose bumping your clit repeatedly.

"ohh, oh my god," you struggle to get out, taken aback by his enthusiasm, watching his tongue jutting out to lick between your folds. your body already starting to shake with how fucking good he feels.

his grip on your legs tightens, keeping you still. there's already a familiar feeling of building pressure, like you had to pee - you knew if it were piss, art would be unbothered and perhaps even like it more than the squirt that he was about to coax from you. it was growing urgency, you were so close. your hand blindly reaching for art, for some bearing to ground you, as you felt untethered, completely unfurled by this curious creature and his perfect mouth.

that pressure became too much and you let go, releasing a guttural moan as you come, squirting on art's face, and calling his name.

once art draws back, bearing his teeth with a grin. you knew there was something otherworldly about art, something uncanny, and this seemed farther proof, how he knew how to make you come harder than you ever had, so deeply, it ached - it nearly hurt.

he stands, leaning over you for a kiss, allowing you to taste yourself. when he pulls back, he looks to the pile of tools and for a fleeting moment you think you're his next victim. the real death after the "little" one.

he grabs something from the pile, showing it off with a flourish of his hand. it'd been what he was working on earlier. it was a metal dildo with a smooth head, small ridges around the side and a ribbed shaft.

a shiver ran through you at the thought of art using it on you, that he made it for you. you got wetter imagining being pounded with it, impaled by it.

"fuck yes, please, art." he pushed it inside your soaked pussy, watching the way it stretched you. "ah, shit."

he kept thrusting the toy in and out of you, kneeling again to lick and kiss your clit.

"yes, art, ah, ahhh," you grab his head, holding him in place. "gonna make me fucking squirt again."

and moments later, you were squirting around the toy fucking you good and hard, drenching art's hand and face. the afterglow seemed to go on and on, you have no idea how long, spanning like the moments you had spend with him, time having no meaning anymore.

when you both righted yourselves, you noticed he was getting hard again, huge cock jerking in the tight confines of his pants.

"your turn?" art nods with a grin.

---

sorry to end it with a cliffhanger

i hope you enjoyed! 🖤❤🖤❤🖤

© angeljeonjkk 2024

[phoenix444ee]

His serious and angry face>>>

[jokeringcutio]

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. ~~

[mlmxreader]

Eager Beaver | Art the Clown X gn!reader

『••✎••』

requested by anonymous

↳ ❝ Art

42“It sounds stupid, but I’d feel a lot safer if you slept with me”

262“Why do you hang around me so much?” ❞

: ̗̀➛ Art comes to see you in a pretty good mood, although perhaps it's time for him to come to terms with what he thinks about you.

trigger warnings: ̗̀➛ swearing, implied sexual references, blood & murder mention, jealous!Art

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

spotlight fundraiser : ̗̀➛ Help Dr Bashar to evacuate his family from Gaza

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

You always left the bathroom door open and the front door unlocked when you were in the shower, as you had learned pretty quickly that if you didn't, you would open the door to find Art sitting on the floor and pouting and sulking; so when the bathroom door creaked from being pushed slightly, and you heard the footsteps of socks on the tiled floor, you only cleared your throat, and shouted over the stream.

"Just a minute, Art!"

He sat on the toilet seat and tapped his legs to the music from your phone, his head moving side to side with the beat as he tried to distract himself for a moment; he wasn't sure why he came back so often, and he wasn't sure why he never even tried to hurt you, either, but he wasn't going to question it if he could help it.

He didn't like to think about those things. He just liked to focus on satiating his appetite; he could still smell the scent of those three washes his costume had gone through at the laundromat, as well as the thick stench of the complimentary shampoo that had been put in the public shower. He didn't like it.

It didn't smell like your laundry powder or your shampoo at all.

He greatly disliked that, perhaps even hated it. But he wasn't going to question that, either.

The shower turned off, and Art was finally greeted by the sight of you in your towel and the thick smell of your shampoo; he grinned, and mimicked clapping as he slightly turned from side to side, his feet stamping on the floor silently with exaggerated movements.

You raised a brow, and took a quick whiff of him. "You went to the laundromat again?"

He nodded. Gesturing out the scene; he had gone in, murdered the cleaner who had been mopping the floors, washed his costume three times, showered whilst it dried, then walked over. He wanted to be clean when he walked in, and you knew how much he detested the feel and smell of dried blood.

You nodded slowly. "You smell good."

Art beamed, showing off those lamprey like teeth as he gazed at you, not sure if he understood entirely why it made him so fucking happy to hear such a thing. He opened his arms, beckoning you for a hug, but you shook your head as you laughed softly.

"At least wait until I'm dried and dressed."

He folded his arms tightly to his chest, and watched with greedy eyes as you towel dried yourself, thinking about how easy it would have been for him to tear through that soft flesh and strip you down to the bone; he settled once you were dressed, and when you checked your phone, you laughed softly.

"Another guy from that hookup app wants to meet me," you explained, "he can fuck right off he thinks I'm going anywhere this late."

Art scowled. He didn't know why, but whenever you mentioned a new man you would see for a night, it made his blood thicken and boil and bubble; he hated the thought of it, and hated it even more when he could smell them on your clothes.

You were never a couple, though. He knew that.

"Art, can you stay the night?" You asked, and he nodded without hesitation, but you still felt the need to explain. "There's just a lot going on right now, and I know it sounds stupid, but I'd feel a lot safer if you slept with me."

He nodded again, and took your phone from you; his fingers worked effortlessly to type, and when he handed it back to you, you could only smile.

"It's really sweet of you to say you'd kill anyone who made me feel unsafe," you reassured, rewarding him with a kiss to the cheek. "You're a good friend."

He scowled again. He hated that. Friend. He didn't want to be your friend, he wanted to be like those men you saw for a night, except permanent.

He shook his head.

"What?" You furrowed your brows. "What, you don't like being friends?"

He shook his head again. You sat on the edge of the bath facing him.

"So, what do you want?"

He mimicked it out; kissing and hugging and giving each other presents. Holding hands. You laughed softly.

"Wait wait wait," you chuckled. "Why do you hang around me so much? Is that what you want?"

He nodded, pointing to you with one hand and touching his nose with the other.

You nodded slowly, and grinned. "Why didn't you say so, then?"

He shrugged. He didn't know how to explain it to himself, let alone to you, and he wasn't about to try either; maybe he could get Vicky or the Little Girl to explain it properly, but he knew for certain that he couldn't.

There was just something about you that intoxicated him, made him feel all weird and as if his lust for blood and guts and gore had all faded away entirely.

There was just something about you that he liked. A lot.

You moved, and sat on his lap with your hands on his shoulders. "Art, look at me... are you sure this is what you want?"

He nodded eagerly, gripping the backs of your thighs until you could feel his fingers digging into the skin.

"So you'll stay?" You asked quietly. "Permanently?"

Another eager nod.

"Kiss me," you whispered, cupping his face in your hands as you met him halfway.

Art was eager, all teeth and tongue as he refused to contain himself; when you moaned softly against his mouth, he couldn't help it, and his hips bucked slightly. He was disappointed when you pulled away.

"Come with me into the bedroom," you told him quietly. "We can do that all night, if you want to."

Art would have ripped your arm off if he had not been somewhat careful, dragging you to the bedroom as you laughed along and told him to slow down, there was no rush.

[hail-brod]

TERRIFIER

ART THE CLOWN (1)

*Oneshots

[SOON] A Canvas For Art || Art The Clown x FReader

Summary: Meeting the infamous Art The Clown should've been an occurrence that never existed in the first place; it could've made you think for the better. Or maybe for the worst. Who knows? You were probably more fucked up than you let on. 

Warning/s: 18+, MDNI, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT (basically implies 'Art's doing Art shit which is being a total sadist'), gore porn, masochism, sadism, blood, implied rape, incest, wrist-cutting and depression, suicidal thoughts, hacking/stabbing/slashing/biting, sexual tension and themes, injuries, Art's 'tools', murder/death, mentions of drugs, alcohol and vomiting, cursing, unhygienic...[will be adding more soon]

[Open for tags!]: ...

...

...

[a-writer-on-elm-street]

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]

[hyperfixated-clown]

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! 😩

[jessicafangirl]

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?

[whimsicalish]

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. 

[strangererotica]

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?” 🔪🩸🤍

PART TWO

@arts-bloody-gloves

[i-hold-horrors-hand]

Facing His Only Fear

Art must face the consequences of his actions by facing his greatest and only fear.

(Based on this post, and the post linked on that one that inspired it)

(also available on AO3)

Art grumbled silently to himself as he rooted around in his big black trash bag. He couldn't believe this. He was really in this situation.

Standing in front of a woman he barely knew, seething under her smug glare, and not killing her. Not eviscerating her, or torturing her, or even scaring her. But rather digging out money. To pay her.

This truly was a situation that he had never expected to find himself in. But then, he had never thought he'd ever end up in Las Vegas, drunk off his ass, and canoodling with a random woman, and continuing that canoodling in her hotel room. Why had he even done that? Must have been the booze.

It also must have been the booze that made that woman think that sleeping with a freaky goddamn clown was a good idea.

He had no idea what had made her think that going through the resulting pregnancy and keeping the baby that came from said freaky clown was a good idea, but who the fuck knows with people these days. Some of them were (almost) freakier than him. (Which was saying something, considering his chosen career.)

He also had no idea how she had even found him. He never talked, never gave her his name. Hell, he didn't even know her name. But somehow, a few years later, she had managed to track him down and take him to court. He still wasn't sure how, or how he'd even ended up with the notice that he was being taken to court, considering the fact that he had no known address. But it had happened, and he had shown up, just for a giggle...then found himself being the one giggled at as the judge ordered that he pay child support. He also wasn't sure how this was even legally enforceable, considering the fact that in addition to having no legal address, he also had no legal identification. By all accounts, she should not have been able to do all of this. Unless she made a deal with a demon that was even more crafty and powerful than the one who had resurrected him, which was a somewhat worrying thought. Having a demon patron was great, but having a demon work against you? No thanks.

With a big, almost audible sigh, Art finally fished out a handful of bills and shoved them into his baby mama's waiting hands. She took a moment to count them, not once even glancing at Art's direction as she did so, then smiled and pocketed the money.

"That's a good start," she said. "For this month. Next month, I expect the same. Oh, and like the judge said...you owe me some back payments as well." She gave him a smug grin, then walked away, leaving Art clutching his trash bag in clenched fists.

That fucking bitch...

Art pressed his lips together and rolled his eyes, then rolled his shoulders and let out a breath.

Fine. He'd keep making these payments. But one day, when the kid was older, he would pay them a visit...and show his baby mama why having a homicidal clown's baby was a bad idea. Nurture would fight nature, and it wouldn't work out the way she'd think. He'd make sure of that.

Meanwhile, for now, Art was content to sling his trash bag over his shoulder and go back to scheming and slaughtering. And asking his demon patron some questions about how in the fuck its ilk can interfere with human laws.

He needed, and deserved, an explanation on that.

[clownyclaushoe]

blood red

art the clown x reader 🔞

afab reader, period sex, overuse of the pet name baby, but art is a baby - he's my babie boo. (i know i already added this to my other post and i don't want it to be like i'm spamming the tags but i'm actually really happy with this and i want people to see it. plus i NEVER finish fics this quickly so i'm happy about that. part of me feels like i didn't take this as far as i could have, if that even makes sense idk 😅😭)

you knew you were about to start your period all day. your cycle was always regular and there were the familiar pre-period symptoms like lower back soreness and a particular kind of fatigue. but you swear art could smell its impending presence every time. unsurprisingly, he would become animalistic, unable to satiate the craving over each of the five days of your period. it would've been too much for your drained body, if it weren't for the unshakeable pleasure he gave you each time.

you also appreciated and loved how art wasn't horrified or disgusted, as many men, even friends and an ex-boyfriend, had been at even the mere mention of the dreaded p-word.

art stepped behind you, placing his hands over your hips, moving them around to your bloated belly, his touch firm but gentle. you nearly swooned every time he exerted such restraint, knowing the supernatural strength he possessed, how he could tear your heart out of your chest as easily as one flicks a speck of lint from their sleeve.

you leaned back into his embrace, knowing what was on his mind. "baby, i'm only spotting. i thought we'd just have a quiet, cozy night, hm?" you say, sweetly, looking at him with big, doe eyes.

he nuzzled at your neck, his right hand shifting to the crotch of your sweatpants, fingers flexing just right to press the menstrual pad against your clit. he knew you weren't being truthful. sometimes it was just too much fun not to tease him a little.

"oh, art," you whimper, eyes rolling closed, imagining the grin spreading across his face at hearing you sound so needy for him already. but the truth was no matter how tired, sick, or busy you were, you always were needy for every part of him - and he damn well knew it too - his fingers caressing every inch of your flesh; his mouth pressed against your pussy; his tongue fucking so deep inside you; and his cock -- his long, thick cock, thrusting inside you at an unrelenting pace, able to hit your gspot with ease.

he walked you over to your shared bed, tugging down your sweats and underwear to the floor, pausing for you to sit on the bed for him to remove the unwanted clothes, taking a moment to notice the mess you'd made and to sniff at it, the intoxicating metallic scent filling his nostrils all the more. you lie down and art gets on the bed, kneeling between your legs, gripping your thighs and gazing down at your pussy, blood collecting between your folds. art licked his lips and wiggled his brows.

you laugh, shaking your head at your ridiculous clown boyfriend. "don't make me wait any longer, baby. i know you love how my blood feels, how it tastes."

he nods, tilting his head, his right hand moving to gaze along your puffy pussy lips, fingertips pushing between your folds, and down to slip the middle and ring digits inside you, your wetness and blood making the motion smoother. he curls his fingers to stroke your gspot while thumbing at your clit.

"oh fuck," you circle your hips to meet his hand. "another finger, please, baby, please." art obliges you, knowing how much you love feeling so full of him.

he slips the index in along with the other two, stretching you so much as he continues to fingerfuck you, pushing you closer to orgasm.

"you're so fucking good, baby, ahh. don't stop -- don't you dare fucking stop." you gasp, gripping his shoulder.

he pauses his hand deep inside you, continously pressing against your gspot, and you swear you feel just a fraction of his supernatural strength - the slight pain adding to the pleasure - his face contorting to a snarl with the effort.

you come, your body thrashing - not unlike art's victims- as he resumes thrusting his fingers inside and out, watching his blood covered digits. as the warm flicker of your climax passes, you lie back, catching your breath in the afterglow, orgasm helping ease your cramps.

art pulls out his red soaked fingers, raising them to show them off with a wave, and you can't help but be reminded of the song, red right hand. you tell him and he silently laughs, throwing his head back and smacking his knee. then he brings his fingers to his mouth, licking and sucking at the blood, and shimmying his shoulders.

"why don't you put that mouth to better use, baby?" art goes wide eyed, gaping at you, and it could've been mistaken for genuine coyness, but you knew better. it was apparent from your first time together that he knew exactly what he was doing.

he leans down, nearer to your pussy and sniffs the even stronger scent of your menstrual blood, then ducks down to attach his mouth to your pussy, sucking and licking at your labia, ravenous and rough.

"oh, art," you exclaim, on the verge of tears, "you're so good for me, baby. the fucking best."

the praise urges him on, and as much as its true that art does what he wants, when he wants, you've come to learn he also loves following direction and seeking approval - at least from you, laps up appraisal like a puppy.

he flicks his tongue over your clit while staring up at you, the intensity of his gaze almost too much to bear.

"i'm close, baby, you're gonna make me come all over your sexy face."

you let out a squeak as art closes his lips around your clit, sucking hard.

"oh my -- fuck," you gasp, your back arching as your second orgasm grips you like a vice. art's hand trails up your body to squeeze at your tit, and you moan like a whore for him, only for him.

his tongue plunges into your pussy, fucking your hole, and your orgasm intensifies somehow, in a way that only art could do, and you're gushing into his waiting mouth.

art tilts his head up enough to grin and show the smears of blood all over his face, and dripping from his mouth. you giggle at the sight, somehow falling even more in love with him, he endears himself to you so much. he gently nibbles and kisses at your inner thigh, as a sign of gratitude.

"you're welcome, baby. and thank you."

---

hope you all enjoyed! 🖤❤🖤❤

© angeljeonjkk 2024

[phoenix444ee]

Weird way of proposing ig

[lupin-bun]

Blood and Oil - An Art the clown x Male S/O story

CW (Story as a whole): Art is a warning in and of himself! Blood, gore, murder, torture, smut, sex (M/M), filth, weapons, stalking.

CW (This chapter): Firearms, intimidation, torture, blood, injury

Chapter 1 - An Evening's Hunt

It was supposed to be a clean kill.

Well...

Not clean. But quick.

Well...

Not quick. But the point was, Art had simply been on the prowl for a meal when he met him. A nice, quick, five to thirty minute torture, slaughter, flaying, and ripping apart of a still-warm corpse so he could get some wet brains and guts in him for the evening. Delicious!

And he had decided he’d found the perfect target when he spotted a youngish man dressed all in black, sitting by himself at a bar at around ten-thirty. The bar was small and hidden down a back alley on a starless evening, all celestial bodies hidden by a veil of cloud cover. Even they hid from Art. He’d been strolling by the window in the unnervingly carefree way he always did, when he’d momentarily turned his head to the side and spied the lone drinker.

He wore black jeans, black leather jacket, black boots. Even his flawless fin of a mohawk was ink black, save for a white chunk stretching back three inches or so at the front. His hand with painted, black nails rested, curled around a glass full of black cola on the dark wood of the bar.

Art slunk in the door and placed himself in the corner, staring holes into the back of the man’s head from where he sat.

The young man didn’t seem to notice, but the barman did.

“Hey, Soda,” He murmured, “you see the state of the guy who just walked in?”

Art’s eyes flicked to the barman’s face. The barman shifted uneasily, glancing away momentarily, before looking back again.

Art’s face stretched itself into its usual, unnaturally wide grin as he continued to stare, unblinking, in the barman’s direction. The barman visibly shuddered and he looked down, occupying himself with some form of busy work beneath the bar, out of Art’s line of sight (but, judging from the clinking sounds, he was arranging glasses).

The man called Soda turned in his seat and looked over at him too.

Art kept his grin in place, but lowered his head so he was glaring up at him from under a heavy, marble white brow.

Soda merely raised his mostly-drained glass in greeting and turned back to the bar, apparently unperturbed by the monochromatic clown that sat ten feet behind him.

Huh.

Ok. Not the reaction Art had expected (or wanted). But it was early in the game yet. He had all night to sit and sneer and grin and unnerve, whipping his prey into a frenzy of anxiety. It made the meat taste so much better!

So Art sat, grin still on his face, sitting in his corner, staring with all the focus of a sniper’s crosshair at the back of Soda’s head.

And he stayed that way for a good ten minutes, apparently being ignored by the man in black.

Eventually, Art lost patience, stood up, indignantly, picked up his trash bag, and closed the gap between himself and Soda with just a few paces. He reached the bar stool next to him, dropped the trash bag heavily on the floor with a metallic clatter, dropped himself into the stool next to him, and dropped his head into his hand, his arm propped on the bar by his elbow. He stared, blankly for the most part but with eyes wide, at the side of Soda’s head this time.

Soda turned his head casually to look at him.

Art cracked that grin again, blackened and bloodied teeth glinting in the light from the lamps that hung above the bar.

Far from being unnerved, however, Soda cracked a small smile of his own.

“Everything alright?” He asked, benignly, still smiling.

Art Shrugged his shoulders dramatically, flicking his gaze to the ceiling as if to say “Oh, you know..! Can’t complain.”

Soda chuckled.

“Don’t talk much?”

Art didn’t react to that.

“Want a drink?” Soda tried.

Still no reaction.

Soda gave a small shrug and turned back to his glass, draining it.

“Same again please, Joe,” He said to the barman, who was now crouched on the floor and throwing wary glances Art’s way.

Joe was easy prey. His heart rate was through the roof already, and adrenaline was coursing through him. Art could smell it. But he was working and wouldn’t be going anywhere for now, so perhaps Art could come back for seconds after he was done with this guy.

“...and I don’t know what this guy wants so just give him the same.” Soda concluded.

“You sure?” Joe asked, looking, uncertainly at Art.

Now Art snapped his head towards Joe, staring at him. He straightened up on his stool, made a big show of straightening his little black hat, put one hand on his hip and tapped the bar aggressively with the index finger of the other a few times, with a hard stare at Joe.

“I think that means “give me my drink.”!” Soda laughed.

Art nodded, grinning, and clapped his hands in Soda’s direction in over the top congratulations.

Soda flashed him a genuine smile. His teeth were perfectly straight and white, and his hazel eyes glittered beneath long, dark lashes. He had a pretty face. Clear skin, straight nose, peachy lips, and Art felt an overwhelming desire to destroy it completely, leaving nothing intact. To gouge out those hazel eyes. To bash in those pearly white teeth. To aggressively wreck it beyond recognition, like jumping in a perfectly settled blanket of new snow, and kicking it everywhere. That was the fun Art found in his slaughter. That same rush of ruining perfection. Like a small child kicking down a sandcastle, or pulling the petals off roses, or clapping his hands in a fresh mound of bubbles in the bath and delighting in the mess. Nice, whole things were just fun to destroy, and when you were a demon inside the body of a grown serial killer, messing up sand sculptures didn’t cut it. They had to be living, breathing, full of blood and bones and organs.

Art was pulled out of his musings with the dull thunk of a full glass being placed in front of him. He looked at it for a moment, then up at Joe. At length, that same, sinister smile spread across his face and he nodded.

Joe swallowed and nodded back, curtly, before making his escape down the bar.

Art waved goodbye, waggling his fingers patronisingly, grin still in place.

“You like trying to scare people, huh?” Soda said to him, swigging from his refilled glass. “Is that what all the…” he gestured vaguely at Art’s face, “...is all about?”

Art pointed at himself with a look of feigned offence, before shaking his head side to side, cartoonishly, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin on them, head cocked and fluttering his lashes with a sweet smile.

“Pfft. Right. Yeah. Proper angel, you are!” Soda chuckled, unconvinced.

Something about this interaction was staying Art’s hand somewhat. Despite how he looked and how he’d invaded Soda’s space, Soda was far too comfortable and casual about the whole thing. He hadn’t even flinched when Art had dropped the bag on the floor with a cacophony of metallic clanking. No, something was… wrong. Off. It wasn’t just that he wasn’t scared. No. He was actively connecting and being friendly. That didn’t sit well with Art. It was alien to him. He was far too used to his appearance alone making people shifty and uncomfortable.

As it happened, Soda gave him the perfect in to test his intimidation tactics again.

He gestured with his head at the black trash bag by Art’s stool.

“So, what’s in the bag, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Art stood up quickly, holding up a finger as if to say “Oh boy! Wait until you see!” He bent and rummaged melodramatically in his bag, choosing what he thought would cause the most alarm the quickest. He settled on a hand gun. He withdrew it, and brandished it with a theatrical flourish, gleeful grin all over his face.

The few other patrons that were in the bar all gasped, horrified, and most of them immediately made a panicked dash towards the door, falling over each other on the way out. One woman sort of… sob-screamed as Art wiggled the firearm at her menacingly. He guffawed, noiselessly at the instant pandemonium he’d created in this small bar, slapping his knee with his free hand, doubled over with mirth as Joe himself made a bolt for the back door behind the bar, fishing in his pocket (no doubt searching for his phone) as he went.

Art spun on the spot, his face an insane mask of grinning malevolence, to look at where Soda…

…was still sitting.

The guy hadn’t moved! His elbow was up on the table, the glass held by the rim from his hanging fingers and he looked with gentle amusement at the clown.

Art’s grin faltered somewhat.

“Terrifying.” Soda remarked, almost sarcastically, with a small huff of amusement. He brought the glass to his lips.

Now Art was just getting annoyed. Maybe Soda thought he was joking about using this thing. Without much grace, he pointed the gun at Soda, one handed, and took a pot-shot at his glass. The glass exploded in fragments. Soda blinked as he was sprayed with a mix of glass shards, rum and coke. But the only additional movement he made was to put the tip of his index finger in his ear and twist a couple of times.

“Warn a guy, would you! That was loud.” He chastised Art, lazily.

Dumbfounded, Art could only watch as Soda stood, took a couple of notes from his jacket pocked, dropped them on the bar and turned to leave through the door the other bar-goers had rapidly evacuated through.

Unable to help himself out of sheer curiosity, and not wanting to let this challenging quarry go, Art grabbed his bag and strode from the bar in Soda’s wake.

“You owe me for that.” Soda called over his shoulder, immediately aware he was being followed. “I know I bought you a drink, but you didn’t even touch yours.”

Soda cut down a back alley.

Perfect.

Art strode up behind him and, without even giving him a chance, spun him on the spot, grabbed him by the jaw, and slammed him into the wall of the alleyway with a grinning snarl on his face.

“Oof! Wow. A bit forward. Shouldn’t we exchange numbers or something?” Soda sniggered to himself, but that was soon cut off with a small choking noise as Art tightened his fist around Soda’s throat, just beneath his jawline, and pushed his head up higher so he was on his toes, almost being hanged by Art’s iron grip. Art felt Soda’s trachea beneath the silken skin of his throat ripple as he attempted to swallow past Art’s fingers.

And yet, his pulse still hadn’t quickened any.

In fact…

Art looked down at Soda’s chest, bemused. He couldn’t detect a pulse at all, now he thought about it. And it was only now Art was so close and took in Soda’s form that he realised. There was a hole in his jacket sleeve just under his shoulder. The bullet had hit him! And still he hadn’t reacted.

What the fuck was this guy!?

Art raised his gaze back to Soda’s face. With a smug wink from the man he had pinned to the brickwork, Art’s confusion and anger boiled over. Releasing him, he bent and grabbed a filthy broken bottle from the ground, wasting no time in straightening up again and jamming the jagged toothy edge of the glass into Soda’s stomach. The glass pushed forcefully through his leather jacket with a muffled pop Soda, one again pinned to the wall, threw his head back with a hiss, eyes squeezed shut.

Not wanting to risk this being another dud, Art’s grin widened, sadistically, and his pushed in harder, twisting the bottle, no doubt ripping a circular lesion into the man’s stomach.

Still with his head back against the wall, black hair pressed against the vaguely wet bricks, Soda groaned as Art gave the broken bottle one last little shove for good measure, and stood back to admire his handiwork, and watch for Soda’s inevitable crumple to the floor.

But it didn’t come.

Soda righted his head to look at the clown, panting slightly, eyebrows knitted, eye somewhat misty, still upright but supporting himself with one hand on the wall behind him.

This had to be it. The pain and fear that Art was after.

Soda looked down at the bottle neck protruding from his front and raised his free hand. Shakily, he gripped it, pulling it out and letting it fall to the ground. He gasped, swallowing hard as he reached for his jacket zip. He pulled it down, slowly, the metal teeth sliding apart to reveal (big surprise) a black t-shirt underneath. Once done with the zip, Soda pushed his T-shirt up to inspect the damage.

Art’s gaze followed his, and landed on his exposed body.

What spewed from the gaping hole in Soda’s gut was not the deep, satisfying fountain of red that Art had been expecting. It was black and thick like tar, and crept down Soda’s body slowly in gooey lines.

Soda chuckled, and Art raised his gaze from the sticky black substance to look, instead, at his face. The bright smile and perfect straight white teeth were gone, replaced by lips as black as his own, grinning madly, with rows of sharp, yellow teeth within that were somewhat reminiscent of an angler fish. The same thick, black blood was seeping from his eyes, formerly hazel, now completely black. The corners of his mouth too.

“Nice try,” Soda laughed, voice incredibly clear, despite the mouth full of daggers, lips sliding over them, glazing them in saliva so they glistened, “I’m immortal, you idiot. Just like you.”

Just like you.

Just like you!!!

Just… like… you…

Those final three words echoed and repeated in Art’s mind, tolling like church bells. Could that really be true? Were they so much alike?

Soda was still panting, shallowly, and he quirked an eyebrow at the killer clown.

“Well?” He said, questioningly, “Are you going to finish what you started, handsome? Or are you just going to tease me all night?” He ran a hand through the sticky black mess that ran down his body, pooling slightly above his waistband, before bringing that hand to his mouth, parting those lethal teeth, and licking it from his fingers, languidly, never breaking eye contact.

Oh.

That wasn’t pain he’d felt!

...

Tags: @strangererotica