#terrifier fanfic

[angeljeonjkk]

the terrifier fandom:

Fandom is not about cancellable opinions it’s about sharing and spreading art and fics and gif sets and poetry and showering each other in praise and tearing up because someone said something nice about a thing you made and writing posts that say reblog to give the person you reblogged this from a kiss on the forehead actually

[cadavercowboy]

O Come, All Ye Frightful

Art The Clown x Reader | WC: 5.3k+ | Explicit Content

Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Santa actually comes way more than once a year. Warnings: 18+ ONLY — Minors DNI. Idk this entire thing feels slightly sacrilegious. Art being criminally hot in the Santa suit while behaving like a Certified Freak. Slightly dubious consent. Handjob. Premature ejaculation. Multiple orgasms (his refractory period is non-existent). Cum as lube. Unprotected sex. Rough sex. Choking & breath play. Degradation if you squint really hard. A/N: In the words of my iconic king...ho, ho, UH OH🎄Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and so on and so forth. <3

The clock hands finally crawl their way past 7pm and you sigh tiredly, knowing you’ll soon be freed from this hellish holiday prison. Christmas music plays quietly from the speaker system and you mouth the words mockingly, tired of hearing the same dozen or so songs repeat over and over during each shift. Between rude, entitled customers and the unruly hordes of children screaming their heads off for a chance to beg a fake Old Saint Nick for crap they definitely don’t need, you’ve just about had your fill of the season.

Outside the store, the rest of the deserted shopping mall has been left in engulfing shrouds of pitch-blackness; the other closed-down and empty shops like a line of pocket-sized abysses. It’s Christmas Eve and everyone else has shut their doors early to spend time with loved ones. You should be home too, but your boss is a heartless prick.

You huff with annoyed boredom, bent over beside the register with your elbows planted atop the counter and your palms cradling your chin. It’s been dead for hours—not a single customer in sight—but you’ve been forbidden to leave until the mall officially closes for the night. A quick glance at the clock says that’ll be in about an hour or so. Just beyond the entryway, a flurry of movement near the floor catches your attention and you lean over the counter to see what it is. 

The dingy strands of an old mop sweep into view and your eyes trace along the wooden handle until they land upon Mike, clad in his loose-fitting uniform. His long legs bring him into view with stuttered steps as he cleans the tiled floors. He spares you a quick glance and a wave which you return, trying to hide your obvious disappointment in the presence of the headphones planted firmly over his ears. You’d kill for some conversation right now. 

Aside from the janitor’s brief visit and the flash of someone dressed all in red in the distance, you’re certain the building is otherwise totally vacant. With that in mind, you decide to pack it up just a little early. What your boss doesn’t know won’t kill him, you muse.

Your back is turned as you straighten merchandise and lock the door to the rear exit, rendering you completely unaware of the noiseless presence lurking and watching you from just around the corner. When you close out the register, your head is buried in the drawer and your attention is too focused on what you’re doing to notice the tall figure which glides sneakily past the shop.

You flip the switches near the door and step outside, reaching over your head to pull down the steel security gate. The heavy contraption slams shut with a resounding clang and you crouch with your key in hand to lock it in place. From your stooped position, you spot a small puddle and several oddly-shaped droplets splashed across the tile floor beneath you; the substance opaque and viscous. You hum contemplatively, knowing Mike had been by not long ago to mop and wondering where the mystery liquid could have come from. With a dismissive shrug, you stand back up and turn to head for your usual exit, the only door you know will still be unlocked at this hour.

A single row of recessed lights remain lit overhead, lending a somewhat spooky atmosphere to the abandoned concourse. You reach up to whip the red-and-green felted elf hat off of your head, the decorative gold bell jingling as you shove it into the pocket of your matching dress. A pair of tight, flesh-toned stockings hug your legs and you long to peel them off. While the uniform is fun and festive, this year you’re feeling decidedly not. In fact, you’d go as far as to deem yourself unjolly. Even as you absently hum along to the tune still filtering through the mall, you aren’t feeling your usual holiday joy.

Passing through the food court, you approach the center of the mall where the massive North Pole backdrop still stands, illuminated beneath the silvery halo of a light that never gets turned off. You laugh to yourself, wondering whether a selfie inside Santa’s sleigh in your silly costume might help to prompt some Christmas cheer. You'd deemed yourself too old to take a photo with the man himself during business hours, but you still deserve to have a little fun on your own time, you suppose.

With renewed energy, you traipse towards the yuletide scenery where you find the zig-zagging velvet ropes blocking your way, but easily slip beneath the blockade between two posts. Once you’ve entered the empty queue, you spy a comically large pair of black boots sticking up from inside the sleigh—propped casually on the curled front. Your heart stops at the exact moment the ambient music cuts off and the wide-open space falls eerily silent. It would appear you aren’t as alone as you thought.

A familiar red hat peeks over the back of the cushioned bench seat and you approach cautiously, admittedly hoping to find the rosy-cheeked man who usually occupies the sleigh. Maybe you’ll be permitted to take a photo with Santa after all, as childish as the notion may be. 

What you actually find is alarmingly opposite of what you expected. The face tucked beneath the fur-rimmed hat isn’t jolly or round, nor is it warm or welcoming. It’s harsh and angular, painted in a stark black-and-white motif; seemingly done up for the wrong holiday altogether. A long, lithe body clad in all the trappings of a traditional Santa suit reclines leisurely in the sleigh, crowding the confined space as if he belongs there. Blackened lips wrap around the blunt tip of a candy cane and upon hearing your startled gasp, a pair of pure white eyes—spectral and inhuman—lock onto your face. The darkened pupils shine like two specks of coal.

Art’s expression twists into one of genuine surprise, having not expected you to come across him quite so soon. Your eyebrows flick upwards and he mirrors the gesture, waiting with barely restrained excitement as the wave of confusion contorting your face is swiftly replaced with the tell-tale signs of apprehension he knows and loves. His stomach knots with gleeful anticipation.

“S-sorry,” you laugh, awkward and breathy. “I thought you were Santa.”

The clown immediately hurls the peppermint candy aside and his oversized shoes come down with a loud thud as he hastily sits upright in the sleigh. Art points frantically to the massive banner overhead that bears the namesake, then gestures to himself; seemingly wanting to indicate that he is in fact Santa Claus. You can only chuckle in amusement, but when he emphatically waves in an attempt to have you join him where he sits, you realize he isn’t joking. 

Your smile falters only a little and with a dismissive lift of your hand, you attempt to politely decline his request. Art is not pleased with this response so he childishly stamps his feet and crosses his arms over his chest as he regards you with an exaggerated and churlish pout. When he tries crooking a beckoning finger in your direction, an actual laugh escapes unbidden. His surly expression of disappointment softens slightly at the sound and his hope renews. He attempts once more to entice you, this time patting a velvet-clad thigh with his hand and even offering an inviting if not unsettling smile.

Something about the animated stranger intrigues you and you find yourself compelled to accept the clown’s invitation. You relent with some hesitation, smoothing your palms over the knee-length skirt of your elf dress and shuffling timidly towards the sleigh. Art can hardly contain himself and twists his body, looking swiftly from side to side as if struggling to remain calm and seated. You lift your foot onto the raised platform and slide your way into the tight space with him.

Art continues to wiggle back and forth restlessly, his knees pressed tightly together as he pats them excitedly with both hands before eventually straightening his spine and adjusting himself until his posture is stiff and proper. A rush of air bursts from your nose as you laugh nervously. The celebratory clapping of his palms is muffled slightly by his fingerless gloves as he waits for you to plant yourself in his lap. You do so gingerly, lowering yourself with as much finesse as you can manage and situating your bottom at the very edge of Art’s bony knees.

You’re perched awkwardly only for a moment because Art promptly yanks you in, spreading his own legs so abruptly that you nearly tumble to the floor of the sleigh between his feet. The jarring movement forces you to reach out, grabbing onto his shoulder with one hand to balance yourself as he wraps an arm around your waist and uses the other hand to nestle both of your legs between his parted thighs. Your hip is so close to his body, you can feel the warmth emanating off of him and notice a distinct lack of the customary belly you’d normally expect to find beneath the velvety soft suit.

“Sorry,” you apologize a second time, clearing your throat with a smile and another awkward chuckle as you fold your hands in your lap. “This is probably weird...me sitting on a grown man’s lap.”

Art responds with a scandalized, open-mouthed frown and a firm shake of his head that makes the white pom-pom sewn at the end of his hat flop back and forth. He blinks his eyes rapidly and swishes a gloved hand in your direction, effectively batting away your concerns. It’s clear he finds little issue in having you perched on his thigh. 

When Art leans uncomfortably close, you stiffen, though he pays it no mind and peers around your shoulders to look at one of the props which comprise the festive scene. It’s a crooked sign whimsically nailed to a red-and-white striped pole that begs the question: What Do You Want For Christmas? He sweeps his hand towards the signage—inviting and expectant—prompting you to provide an answer.

“Hmm,” you stall, having not expected the creepy clown to go through all the motions of the mall Santa experience. You shift with a huff and his arm tightens around you as his other hand pats the outside of your thigh in what you suppose is meant to be some semblance of encouragement. It only serves to distract, filling your head with a disorienting buzz at the near-intimate closeness of this complete stranger. “Guess I haven’t really given it much thought.”

He considers your admittance for a moment, his face slack and pensive before he shrugs. Art releases his hold on your thigh in favor of diving a hand into a pocket in the pants of his red suit. To your surprise, out comes an artfully weathered scroll of paper that he unrolls with a quick flick of his delicate wrist. Evidently another prop, it contains names written in two columns—apparently a naughty and nice list. Art tips his head towards the paper and regards you inquisitively, as if asking which side you belong on.

“Well, I think the nice list,” you offer, happily playing along. “But I’m not entirely sure what it would take to end up on the naughty list.”

The clown tilts his head and regards you like a predator, grinning salaciously and wagging his thinly-drawn eyebrows in a way that causes an undeniable heat to stir low in your belly. You squirm in the clown’s lap and he playfully squeezes your leg just above your knee. Your cheeks prickle with something you’d rather not acknowledge and suddenly you can no longer meet Art’s pale gaze. Endeavoring to assuage your growing discomfort, you redirect your attention back to why you’d come over here in the first place.

“Would you mind if I took a picture of us?” you inquire politely. 

Art acquiesces quite gladly and frantically nods in agreement, his obvious enthusiasm making you smile. You shift your weight to access the deep pocket of your costume and his colorless eyes follow your every move. 

“You don’t talk very much, do you?” 

The conversational question somehow sounds more invasive out loud than it had in your head and you turn to dig around determinedly in your pocket so as to disguise the way you cringe. Luckily, your phone slides out and brings with it the floppy elf hat you’d shoved in there earlier, leaving no time for Art to respond. Not that he would.

The clown moves swiftly, snatching the crumpled felt hat and violently unfurling it with a loud jingle. His mouth forms a perfect circle of delight and he gives the hat several more shakes just to hear the musical tinkling before lifting both arms to gently fit it over the top of your head.

“Oh, yeah. Thanks,” you say, bending to allow him better access and smirking when he playfully flicks the little gold bell sewn on the end.

He adjusts the hat to his liking, then taps a single long digit on the tip of your nose. You duck your head bashfully, though he doesn’t allow you to hide for long. Two slender fingers hook under your chin and he lifts you by the jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes in a silent stare that stretches on until your pulse increases and your entire body grows hot.

Turning your attention to the phone clutched in your fingers, you beg your hands not to shake as you open the camera app and lift the device to align both yourself and Art in the frame, making sure to include the beautifully decorated tree in the background. The clown is so large, you have to extend your arm to its limit in order to fit him. As you do, his eyes meet your own in the image reflected on the screen and he draws his body even closer to yours. One of his hands drop into your lap and the other rests gently against your lower back. You swallow loudly. 

“Smile,” you command softly, struggling to make your lips lift in a gesture that doesn’t reflect the conflicting feelings of trepidation and attraction brewing within you.

Art’s grin slashes across his face in an instant, a wide set of teeth suddenly emerging from behind his inky lips. His ghostly eyes burst open and his eyelids all but disappear with the exaggerated stretch of his face. The abrupt appearance of the severe expression makes your stomach curl with unease, but you cannot deny the way the thrilling glimmer of fear settles somewhere a little further down.

You snap a couple of photos, then switch the angle to capture a few more. When you drop your arm slightly, Art repositions himself as well. With the hand that had settled in your lap, he reaches up to cup your chin and draw your face nearer to his. This close, your senses cloud with nothing but the clown: the earthy scent of grease paint mixed with something spicy, the warmth of his nearness and touch, the subtle whisper of his steady breathing.

His painted skin is unexpectedly soft when it rests against your own and he goofily purses his lips against your cheek like a teenage girl taking a silly selfie. While the pose appears playful, the painful way his fingertips pinch the flesh of your face against the firm edge of your jawbone is anything but. Shock zings through your body, though the heat it carries isn’t due entirely to surprise. Art holds you with unrelenting force and your smile weakens even further as you fire off several more snapshots.

Before you can lower your phone, Art’s hand ventures from the small of your back until it settles between your shoulder blades. Its counterpart finally falls away from your face, instead reaching for the illuminated screen and switching over to a video before returning to firmly encircle your throat. Your breath catches and you suddenly feel as though you may overheat. The furry cuff of his suit presses against your cleavage, the synthetic material quickly absorbing the warmth that rolls off of your body in waves. Your hand shakes so much, you doubt the recording will even be watchable.

When Art turns his head, the tip of his pointed nose drags sensually along your jaw and his grinning mouth opens with an audible slickness. Humid puffs of breath skitter along your hypersensitive flesh, a prelude to the wetness of his tongue wriggling lasciviously along your cheek and up towards your temple.

You’re paralyzed—arm still hovering parallel to the floor—frozen beneath the disbelief of Art’s seductive attention and held still by the increasing pressure surrounding your neck. You know you should tell him to stop or push him away, but you just can’t bring yourself to put an end to the suggestive way he holds you prisoner and samples the saltiness of your skin.

As quickly as he licked your face, Art stops and you cease filming with your phone, hardly able to comprehend what you’ve just recorded. His mouth snaps shut with force and his hands slip away from your body as if burned by the contact. To your surprise, he carries on as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened and steadies you in his lap as he pitches to one side.

Reaching into a bag stashed near his feet, Art presents you with a single candy cane. Your head is still reeling from the hot, wet drag of his tongue across your skin and it takes a moment for your brain to catch up to what your eyes are seeing. The hooked confection is waved tantalizingly in front of your face before you manage to raise a hand and accept it.

“T-thank you,” your words emerge barely a breathy whisper. 

The cellophane crinkles slightly in your grasp and you robotically stuff your phone back into your pocket. Your body moves on autopilot as you plant your feet and shift to stand, but Art’s sinewy arm bands around your waist and crushes you right back into his lap. It seems to jostle you from your stupor and you blink several times before turning to face the mysterious clown. He reaches out and snatches the candy cane from your hand, causing you momentary concern that you’ve done something to offend him by trying to leave. 

He proceeds to methodically unwrap the candy with theatrical flair, then holds it out to you, indicating a desire for you to eat it here and now. You hum in understanding and attempt to take the candy cane, however Art pulls it away with a chiding look and instead directs it towards your mouth himself. Staring incredulously, you watch with niggling suspicion as the clown nods in encouragement, a glint of something sinister flickering in his white irises. 

Your lips part obediently and though you do so somewhat clumsily, you lean forward and—as requested—allow the candy to slip into your mouth. Sweet peppermint flavor bursts across your taste buds and your mouth instantly begins to water. Art studies you with unflinching and steadfast attention as he feeds you, his pupils expanding into deep, dark pools of hunger. While the act is bizarre and slightly humiliating, you find yourself inexplicably turned on; exhilarated by the pleased way in which Art’s open-mouthed expression seems to silently praise your compliance. 

Perhaps it’s how intimately close you are to his monochrome face or the way he shamelessly watches the lewd swirling of your tongue with such rapt, appreciative awe, but you find yourself clenching your thighs in an attempt to quell the sudden wetness blooming between your legs. Art takes notice of your restless predicament and his body responds in kind, blood rushing to his loins where he begins to harden against you.

Without warning, Art yanks the candy cane from your mouth, giving no thought to the way the sharp, hard sugar scrapes painfully along your bottom lip. He plunges the spit-sheened end of it into his own mouth, savoring the taste of you and coating it with his own saliva before carelessly shoving it past your now-bleeding lips once more. 

You’re unsure what possesses you to behave so wantonly, but you lock eyes with the clown and practically swallow the narrow cylinder of candy whole; being mindful of the slight point your sucking had formed, but taking it deep into your mouth until your lips meet the tips of Art’s fingers where he holds the curved end of the candy cane. For good measure, you even let out a throaty moan that shatters the quiet of the empty mall. 

His drawn-on eyebrows raise so high, they disappear behind the furry brim of his hat and his mouth rounds into a humorous circle of facetious astonishment. This time, he removes the candy cane from your lips more gently, ignoring the thin strand of saliva that follows it. With the list he had procured earlier back in hand, Art takes the pointed end of the candy cane and uses it as a pencil, pretending to add your name to the naughty column. He smiles proudly and fakes a hearty laugh before blindly tossing the props over his shoulder.

You lick your sticky, bloody lips and try once more to slide off of Art’s lap. When he latches onto you this time, something noticeable shifts in his demeanor. Whether it is the darkening of his eyes or the muscles in his body growing taut and coiling like a beast prepared to pounce, it is blatant and frightening. Your skin prickles with apprehensive awareness, though your aching center doesn’t seem to receive the same message. 

A breathy cry escapes you when Art harshly twists your body around, pulling you away from his thigh and settling you directly over his pelvis where you immediately feel an unmistakable ridge of firmness through the thin material of his suit. You have no choice but to allow all of your weight to rest against him as Art holds you down and begins to grind against your ass. He isn’t testing your reaction to his advances like you might have expected, rather the distinct lack of shyness in the unhurried rotation of his hips indicates something more like a warning of what’s to come.

Unsure what else to do with your idle hands, you reach behind yourself and brace either palm on the clown’s writhing hips. Your biceps quiver with the effort to ease at least some of your weight off of Art’s lap, but he’s having none of it. He yanks you down fully and even parts his thighs wider to facilitate more contact between your body and his painfully hard erection. You’re overcome with your own bout of carnal need and reciprocate his enthusiasm, swiveling your hips with determined precision.

Art has only known physical contact though the occasional struggle of a terrified victim’s body against his own and this new sensation is totally foreign to him. The stimulation is overwhelmingly pleasant—a particular faction of indulgent self-gratification yet unfamiliar to him—and he leans into the strangeness of it. His body’s reaction is swift and imminent. Art’s arms twine around you with disconcerting strength that renders you immobile, practically squeezing all the air from your lungs as a powerful shiver wracks his trembling body.

The clown makes no sound, but he hotly exhales the relief of his release against the back of your sweat-dampened neck. His hold is unrelenting, trapping you close to the solid heat of his lanky frame for a moment longer until he recovers. However, his composure does not return and instead he’s burdened with a new and curious hunger which instantly begs to be sated.

Art presses both hands to your lower back and shoves you forward onto his right knee, creating enough space between your bodies to access the elastic waistband of his crimson costume. His gloved hands move with grace and speed, easily freeing himself from the suffocating velvet prison. The consuming fire in your belly beckons you to turn and look at him and in doing so, you fan the flames into a raging inferno of desire.

A light sheen of sweat decorates the narrow sliver of skin that is visible between the disheveled halves of the rumpled Santa suit. Beads of cum still ooze from the tip of his length and evidence of his orgasm smears messily along the pale skin of a thick and still visibly hard cock. With lust-driven bravery, you reach for it, desperate to feel the solid heat of the turgid flesh against your palm and yearning to quench a lecherous thirst of your own.

The tacky streaks of Art’s release wet your skin as you grip his swollen dick and give him an experimental squeeze. You slide your fisted hand from the reddened, shiny tip all the way down the veiny shaft until your knuckles meet the cum-matted thatch of hair at the base. The engorged appendage throbs noticeably in your grasp and Art’s shoulders drop as he throws his head back. His white irises roll and disappear behind his hooded eyelids, his body thrashing with stilted, stuttered jolts as your fingers tighten and you take advantage of the glide of his slick spend to begin steadily jerking him off. 

When your thumb sweeps over the sensitive head, Art flinches at the stimulation and a milky rope of cum spills lazily from the slit. The warm strand of seed splashes across the back of your hand and in a flash, he’s rudely batting your sticky fingers away from his cock with a sharp slap. 

You’ve barely recovered from the harsh contact when his spindly fingers delve under your skirt and tear at your tights until the delicate threads come apart and allow him access to your panties which he yanks unceremoniously down your thighs, the garment tangling in the torn stockings still wrapped around your legs. Art’s hands dig claw-like into the flesh of your upper arms, brutishly twisting and turning you as he pleases; dragging you back into his lap so he can lift your hips high enough to notch the tumescent head of his cock at your center. 

A grating cry rips from your throat and echoes through the cavernous building when you’re violently yanked down and stretched with sudden force around Art’s erected cock. Though unprepared for the size of him, your cunt swallows the clown’s length with little trouble. As your lips part with an unbridled cry of ecstasy, your cheeks sting with shame at how the flood of moisture leaking from your core eases the harsh penetration, the momentum of you taking Art’s cock halted only on account of his considerable girth.

Finally managing to get your feet under you, you scramble to escape the dizzying pressure and overwhelming penetration so you can catch your breath, but Art refuses to allow you a single second of reprieve. He stands abruptly without ever pulling free of your relenting body, sinking his cock unbelievably deeper as he bends you over the curved front of the sleigh. Your elbows crash painfully into the hard surface when you attempt to catch yourself before your face makes contact. As you adjust your position, your hips drop in a way that forces the bulbous head of Art’s length to grind against you with blinding pleasure and your knees grow weak.

With your eyes pinched shut against the onslaught of sensations, you can’t see Art reaching towards the massive Christmas tree to unravel a length of perfectly-strewn ribbon. He yanks the metallic gold material free and gives it a dramatic twirl through the air before lashing it across your back the same way Santa whips his trusty team of reindeer, ushering you to continue writhing so willingly along his slippery cock.

Art quickly grows bored of that and instead takes the ribbon between two fists with a flourish while he continues to thrust leisurely; burying his cock to the root then slowly, tortuously, and teasingly dragging it back out until only the tip remains within your spongy walls. He reaches over your head with the ribbon, taking advantage of your parted mouth to wedge the scratchy material between your lips. It pulls taut and settles between your teeth, becoming the perfect means for Art to wrench your head back at an uncomfortable angle. His eyes widen comically when they meet yours upside down in a taunting stare, holding your gaze hostage as he starts to fuck you mercilessly.

Mounting you like a feral animal, Art becomes desperate with the need to wreck you wholly; driven by the desire to possess and consume you. His hips surge with unforgiving and powerful thrusts that have his heavy balls slapping your clit with each stroke.

You call out on every deep drive of his cock, the unsteady and unpredictable rhythm sending you into a tailspin of pleasure that robs you of the ability to breathe. Drool and tears spill down your face, the harried sounds he forces from you catching in your throat as you gasp for air. The hat crammed down on your head falls sideways, its cadenced jingling a derisive reminder of the depraved things the clown is inflicting on you.

Before long, the frenzied push and pull of his cock isn’t enough for Art and his lips split with a snarl, his teeth bared in a savage display of greed. Nothing but complete surrender will satisfy him and only total ruin could fulfill his recently unmasked libido. He wants to watch you fall apart and the evil motive shines brightly in his unsettling eyes.

Using your tongue, you force the spit-soaked material from your mouth so it falls around your neck. Art gathers it in one hand and pulls tight, fashioning the glittery ribbon into a sort of noose that begins to choke you out. While the position of your head is more comfortable, the lack of oxygen certainly isn’t.

Your grow light-headed both from the inability to breathe and the unrelenting grind of Art’s fat cock. With his unoccupied hand, he grabs your waist with bruising pressure and pins you in place so he can curl his towering frame over top of you. Blanketed beneath the heat and heft of the impassioned clown, your ribcage presses agonizingly against the edge of the sleigh and you can do nothing but accept Art’s brutal usage of your body.

Bending his knees, he leverages his height to fuck up into you with rapid and shallow thrusts before he cruelly buries every inch of himself inside you. Your slick walls spasm around the thick, veiny intrusion as an orgasm slams through you. Art cums with you as your pussy ripples and squeezes, but he has no intention of relenting. He ruts wildly against your ass, fucking you harder and faster until your juices spill around him and your combined fluids form a creamy ring around the throbbing base of his cock.

You bite back a scream when Art pulls out of you with a vindictively mimed laugh. The sudden termination of your pleasure sends you tumbling to the ground on unsteady legs that refuse to hold you up any longer. Twisting as you fall, you’re met with the sight of Art looming tall and ominous above your crumpled form. With his thickening cock in hand, he fists himself like a madman, crowding over you just in time to paint your face with yet another burst of cum. Ropes of opaque fluid splatter messily over your features.

The clown gives his length several harsh shakes, managing to flick a few more measly drops of his release onto your stained skin. Your face twinkles and sparkles in the light coming from overhead, appropriately looking like flecks of snow melted on your cheeks and lips. Clapping happily above you, Art offers you a rather proud thumbs-up of approval, deciding you fit in rather perfectly with the rest of the festive decor.

David Howard Thornton Masterlist || Writing Masterpost

[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.

[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

[angeljeonjkk]

art 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 2 | part 3

---

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

[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. ~~

[phoenix444ee]

His serious and angry face>>>

[nickyraah]

“SWEET OBSESSION” (part. 1)

•It’s the first part of my first ever fanfic posted online😭 I wish y’all gonna like it🖤

•English is not my first language so ignore the mistakes or something🤗😝

It was a cold, autumn evening. Halloween evening. Everyone around was wearing costumes, drinking, partying. But not Nicole. She never liked parties nor dressing up in some stupid, childish costumes. Nicole Blossom, twenty years old girl. Green eyes, medium brown hair and her always messy bangs made her look kind of sweet and kind.

Her best friend Sienna, who was also her housemate, organised a big party for people from their university. Of course, Nicole wasn’t happy about that, she was studying criminology, which isn’t a piece of cake and had a lot of exams, the party definitely won’t help her with studying, that’s why she decided to spend the evening at the park and read her notes in peace.

She left the house, completely ignoring Sienna’s complaining about how “boring” she is and walked slowly to the nearest park. Miles County was a peaceful town. There were never any problems with people living here, everyone was friendly and polite. Streets were crowded, full of different costumes. Some of them were basic but there were few of them which impressed her a lot. She smiled to herself when she saw a group of little kids dressed up as ghosts, they looked incredibly sweet and reminded her of how she loved Halloween when she was the same age as them. What changed her attitude towards parties? She didn’t know, she just hates the idea of being drunk, dancing with some random people.

When she finally arrived at the park, she sat on one of the benches, put in her earphones, turned on the music and started reading her notes. The evening was windy so she was wearing her usual, black coat, which kept her warm. The surroundings were quiet which caused her to smile a little, she was grateful that places like parks still exist. Immersed in her notes, she didn’t realise that someone was watching her. A man in black and white clown costume, with a painted face was walking around the park, glancing at her with a wide smile. He carried a big, black trash bag, only God knows what was inside.

Meanwhile, Nicole felt that… she was observed? She slightly raised her head from the notes and looked around. At first, she hadn't seen anyone. “Calm down stupid, you’re being paranoid.”- she scored herself. But suddenly she noticed the clown guy. His smile grew even bigger when he saw her, he waved at her happily.

Nicole was stunned by his costume, it was quite an original one. She hesitantly waved back and looked back at her notes which slightly annoyed the clown guy. He wanted to keep her attention on him, so he decided to relax next to her on the bench. He adjusted his trash bag, which caused a loud noise, kind of metalish. It was loud enough for her to hear it through the music. She quickly glanced at him, seeing he was approaching her. She sighed slightly, she wasn’t in the mood to talk with anyone.

When he approached her bench, he waved right in front of her face which made her flinch a bit. She quickly pulled out one earphone.

“Can I help you somehow?”- she asked as politely as she could. He nodded quickly, pointed at himself and then on the bench a few times as if to ask if he could sit next to her.

“Um, yeah sure, you can sit there.”- she said, a bit confused. Clown clapped his hands a few times, threw his trash bag next to the bench and sat down, leaning back to the bench. Now, she was even more curious about his trash bag.

Clown guy seemed pretty relaxed, he was observing the sky, from time to time his gaze landed on a young woman beside him. Suddenly, he patted her shoulder. Nicole slightly rolled her eyes.

“Yes?”- she asked with a small hint of annoyance. She was done with studying but she had to pass those exams. The clown pointed at her notebook as if he wanted to look at what she was reading. She sighed slightly and passed him her notes. He took it and looked closely on every page, sometimes he chuckled soundlessly. After a while, he returned her the notebook.

“Boring, isn’t it?”- she smiled slightly. He shook his head vigorously, it seemed that he found it interesting.

“If you think so you can learn that for me, I have no motivation to do it.”- he laughed at her words, not making any sound like before.

“You don’t speak a lot, do you?”- Clown, nodded and pointed at his throat as if to say he was mute. Then, he leaned to his trash bag making a big noise again, looking for something. He pulled out a small notebook and a pen. He quickly wrote something and showed her the note.

“ART”- said the note. Then he pointed at himself. It must’ve been his name. She smiled softly.

“I’ve never heard that name before, it’s cool.”- Clown mimicked the blush, bowed a few times and tipped his small hat a few times to show her gratefulness. What a gentleman.

Then he pointed at her and then at the note. He wanted to know her name.

“I’m Nicole, not as original as yours.”- she chuckled. Art quickly grabbed a pen and wrote something in his notebook. He wrote her name in the middle of the heart and smiled sweetly, showing up his black teeths. The whole situation seemed crazy but she found that cute.

“I’m glad you like my name.”- she smiled softly. Her phone rang, Art’s smile faded away. It was Sienna, she quickly picked up.

“Girl, where are you?”- she yelled to the phone.

“Sienna, you’re drunk again.”- she sighed annoyingly. Nicole knew that drunk Sienna ment sleepless night for both of them.

“Just a… only a few drinks I swear bae.”- Sienna said innocently.

“I’m coming home. You better not drink anything or you’re gonna sleep in the garden tonight”- she rejected the call. Art laughed at her words.

“I have to go.”- she packed her notes into her bag. Art quickly lifted his index finger, he wanted her to wait a minute. He quickly leaned into his bag again and pulled out a white rose. He gave it to her with a big smile.

She smirked and accepted that small gift, which she put in her bag. She stood up and looked at him with a smile.

“It was nice to meet you Art.”- he also smiled, bowed a few times and waved at her. She turned around and left the park.

Art was left by himself, still smiling widely. He leaned back, grabbed his notebook and looked at her name again. Nicole Blossom was supposed to be his next victim. A victim of a murderous, cruel clown. When he saw her for the first time, he already had a plan on how to kill her but… something was different. She was different. Even Art didn’t know why he let her live this time, she seemed so pure, so calm, so… innocent. He couldn’t stop thinking about her face and her name. He must see her again.

[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. 

[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.

[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…🩸

[angeljeonjkk]

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 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