My sister and I watched Stream the other night, and it was SO entertaining!! I'm a massive Would You Rather fan, so it was super cool seeing Jeffrey Combs get his hands dirty as Mr Lockwood in this movie. Also we IMMEDIATELY recognized David Howard Thornton's character from his mannerisms, it was all very Art-coded, which added to the entertainment factor for sure
NSFW ARTphabet Headcanon: The Sacred Clown Porn Manuscript (A-I)
Welcome, faithful deviant, to the Sacred Manuscript of Underground Clown Porn.
This isn’t just any alphabet.
This is a ritual.
A love letter to the character.
A deep, filthy, sensual, and brutal exploration of the soul—and body—of Art the Clown.
Letter by letter, orgasm by orgasm, cumshot by cumshot.
In this chapter, you'll find tenderness, obsessions, bed monsters, cum (lots of it), dirty little secrets, dumb luck, emotional damage, genital torture, period blood, clown-level goofiness, Christmas lights… and yes—even Jesus makes a guest appearance.
Enjoy, my doomed and blessed soul.
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
Sometimes, after the act, he just lies there—completely still, watching you. With those empty eyes that somehow, still say too much. You’re never sure if he’s processing what just happened… or deciding whether he should smother you with the pillow. After all, he’s deeply antisocial, and the idea of affection is something he doesn’t quite get.
But instead of leaving, he clumsily moves closer to you. The only thing he understands is that he likes the warmth of your body next to his, the feeling of skin against skin… it’s something entirely new to him.
It’s not a learned gesture, not romantic: it’s instinctual. Like an animal who doesn’t understand what he feels, but lets it guide him anyway.
All of this confuses and overwhelms him. Since he has no idea how to express emotion, he simply does what his body tells him to do—which is usually to bask in this strange sensation that makes him feel something, close to... peace?
In those moments, you might notice a slight tremble in his hands. Not out of fear, but from sheer sensory overload. It’s all too much. Too much heat. Too much closeness. Too much you. And yet, he stays.
And somehow, he’s warm. Shockingly so. He curls up beside you and pulls you tight against him, like he’s trying to fit two puzzle pieces together—pieces that don’t seem like they should fit, and yet… they do.
Until one day… he just doesn’t stay. Those emotions frighten him, wound him—like an arrow straight to the heart. It hits too hard, and all he wants is to flee back to the cold safety of his solitude (for his sake, and for yours).
But he always comes back—with heart still beating in his hands. As if to say:
“I don’t know how to love… but the idea of losing you scares me more than love ever could”.
B = Body Part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
Your hands. No doubt about it.
He adores your hands. Since he’s mute, he needs to interact with you in the most physical way possible—and that leads him to constantly reach for your hands.
He kisses them like a gentleman kisses a lady, in a gesture heavy with intention.
He takes your hand to lead you places; he likes walking hand in hand with you everywhere.
Even when you sleep together, his fingers search for yours in the dark—especially when you’re spooning.
Before you shared a bed, he used to sleep in the most unexpected places.
One of his favorites: under your bed.
Many times, you’d see his hand timidly crawling up to the edge of the mattress, climbing like a snake... just so you’d grab it.
Even if he was down there.
And you were up here.
(Art: the monster under your bed who just wants to hold your hand.)
And when you make love... feeling your hands clawing down his back while he loses himself in your body, your nails leaving red trails on his pale skin—that melts him.
And don’t even get started on when you go down on him: your hands take him straight to heaven. Stroking his length up and down, massaging his balls, touching his abdomen, pressing into him, squeezing— his eyes roll back in ecstasy.
He can’t help but close them and moan, mouth hanging open in wordless pleasure, submissive under your touch.
(Bonus points if your nails are painted.)
As for the part of his own body he likes the most: His smile—or better yet, his whole mouth.
He’s fascinated by how many emotions he can express with it without saying a single word: cruelty, mockery, satisfaction, sarcasm, affection...
He has a blast doing his makeup. He’s an artist, and when he sees his masterpiece take shape in the mirror—in the worst way possible—he can’t help but grin even wider. He’s a simple, happy man. Just eager to go out and spread some fear.
He loves pulling faces at you, watching your every reaction. Most of the time it’s to make you laugh, but sometimes... he likes to scare you.
He doesn’t want you to get too comfortable—he likes reminding you who he is… and that you’re never completely safe around him.
But above all, he loves playing with his victims: laughing maniacally as they bleed out on the floor, begging for help in vain. Watching them freeze when he opens his eyes wide and shows all his teeth… He knows exactly what kind of nightmare his face is.
Though to you, it’s a dream.
(And needless to say… he’s very skilled with it. Every inch of your body can confirm.)
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
Hot, thick, and absolutely obscene in volume.
He cums with force—shooting white ribbons of pleasure with abandon throughout his orgasm —which, by the way, is far from brief—, painting the walls of your pussy as you milk him dry.
He loves cumming deep inside you. At the height of climax, he presses his body against yours with desperate intensity, like he wants to fuse with you—like he wants to slam through your cervix and spill straight into your womb.
It’s his way of claiming you—because he’s going to be the first and last man you ever fuck—and he’ll make damn sure to own you in every possible way.
Of course, cumming inside isn’t the only way he marks you.
When you’re going down on him, he’s not letting you off easy. You’re going to swallow everything.
He’ll hold your head in place, press your face against his pelvis, savoring the way your throat tightens and gags around his throbbing cock as he unloads down your throat.
He’ll fuck you until you say stop.
Until his balls ache.
Until his cum turns almost clear…
And eventually, the only thing coming out of his cock sounds like a cry for help—if you listened closely, you might hear it whisper: “Help me…”
The only reason you’re not pregnant is because his sperm are so violent, they probably kill each other while still inside his balls.
But beware: if one of them does reach your egg… it’s only because it murdered all the others.
And whatever creature you give birth to… will definitely be worse than its father.
D = Dirty Secret (pretty self-explanatory—a dirty secret of theirs)
Total submission.
Art is dominant. Possessive. Aggressive.
Sometimes he acts submissive—like when you ride him or suck him off—but he’s always in control. He can put you in your place at any moment, and you know it.
But there’s a part of him—buried deep inside—that craves losing control. Completely.
He fantasizes about you tying him up. Wrists and ankles, bound and helpless. His mouth gagged. His eyes blindfolded. Whether it’s in bed or strapped to a chair—handcuffs, duct tape, rope… whatever it takes to keep him from touching you—or touching himself.
So obedient.
He’s obsessed with the idea of ruined orgasm:
You riding him, stroking him, sucking him—bringing him to the very edge and then… stopping.
Leaving him panting.
Twitching.
Desperate for a friction that never comes.
Dragging him back down from climax, again and again, for hours, until he’s nothing more than a trembling mess of nerves, aching for release.
And when you finally let him cum… it doesn’t end there.
You keep going.
Jerking him off without a second of rest. Not letting him breathe, not giving him his refractory period.
You punish him past the orgasm—milking him to the limit.
Chasing as many orgasms as his body can take, one after another, until he doesn’t know whether it’s pain or pleasure anymore.
And just to top it off: a Venus 2000 locked tightly onto his limp cock—sucking him relentlessly, with no mercy, no rest, no purpose but to break him.
Not for pleasure.
But simply to ruin him.
He imagines you using all kinds of toys on him.
Because that’s the other thing: secretly, he wants you to fuck him.
He wants you to peg him.
You, in a strap-on, setting the rhythm—pounding his prostate—while you jerk him off… or maybe not even that.
A chastity cage would be perfect too. Tight. Uncomfortable.
Making him feel… nothing.
His skin bristles just thinking about it. His cock leaks precum, twitching with each forbidden fantasy, trembling for a touch that never comes.
Sometimes, when you’re asleep, he watches you.
And he imagines what it would be like if you tied him to the bed.
If you said: “I’m going to turn you into a slut.”
And he hates it.
And he loves it.
And he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with any of it.
Just once… to be the tortured, instead of the torturer.
But then he gets up. Frustrated.
And digs his nails into his skin—punishing himself for having such weak thoughts.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
He has no experience at all—at least, not with living human beings.
He was taught not to see people as potential partners.
Literally, when he saw an “attractive” woman—say, one with big tits—his first thought wasn’t “I’d fuck her.”
It was: “I want to rip those off and hang them on a clothesline.”
Like someone might hang a bra.
He’s always seen people as meat. As toys for his amusement. As prey.
“Can a wolf feel sexual attraction toward a rabbit?” That’s what it felt like for him.
But then you came along.
And no—it wasn’t love at first sight.
There was no miraculous, romantic awakening. Not even close.
You just had the dumb luck to cross paths with him at a moment when he was too weak to kill you.
Normally, he wouldn’t have hesitated: He would’ve sliced you open and eaten your body from the inside out.
But you got lucky.
And that, combined with the fact that you never asked questions, never challenged him… meant he started to tolerate you.
To use you for his own benefit.
And yet…
Turns out he did eat you after all—face buried between your thighs, not your organs.
F = Favorite Position (this goes without saying)
Art is very flexible when it comes to positions.
Literally—he can do them all.
He even invents new ones, like the inverted scarecrow (see under 'O'), his personal signature.
But he has a favorite.
Fucking you from behind.
(And no—we’re not necessarily talking about anal… though that’s certainly on the table.)
Whether it’s in bed, standing, bent over a counter, on all fours, against the wall— he doesn’t care, as long as he gets you like that.
And if there’s a mirror in front of you? Even better—watching your whole body as he takes you is an art form.
And if you’re on your period…
That’s the cherry on top.
Seeing your blood drip down your thighs, smearing it across your body like he’s painting his favorite canvas… it drives him insane.
From this position, he can do everything that unhinges him:
—Bite your neck, your shoulders, your back…
—Yank your hair back to expose your throat, watching your veins pulse beneath your skin.
—Grab you wherever he wants: hips, tits, neck, ass…
—Pin your wrists behind your back—or chain them above your head, anchored to the ceiling.
—Spread your legs open, sometimes with a spreader-bar.
—Stimulate your clit with his fingers and your G-spot with his cock at the same time.
—Kiss you and swallow the way your moans break against his mouth.
Sometimes it’s brutal.
Sometimes it’s slow and devastating.
And sometimes… he just wraps around you.
Like he doesn’t want anything in the world to touch you—except him.
It’s a simple position. Primal. Possessive. Intimate…
Because from behind, he can hold you. Push into you. Devour you.
And make you feel that—even when you can’t see him— he’s always there.
And that’s the most revealing part.
You can’t see his face.
You can’t witness the kind of pleasure that undoes him. The kind that shakes him from the inside out.
The kind that leaves him trembling.
The kind that doesn’t match the image of the irredeemable monster he wants you to believe in.
Because if you did see him— If you really saw his face when he moans, when he cums, when he softens with love he didn’t ask for…
He might lose some of his power.
Or worse: You might actually love him.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Art is a clown.
And not just a clown. A professional one—he never breaks character.
So yes… expect him to be goofy in bed.
The horn is coming into the bedroom—whether you want it or not.
Since he can’t moan out loud, he uses it to simulate moans, perfectly timed to his thrusts.
Honk! Honk! Honk!
He’ll also bring in every kind of toy imaginable to recreate every sound possible—Art will make you question if stepping into that pet store was ever a good idea.
And of course, it always makes you laugh.
When he strips for you, he gives you a full-blown striptease.
He encourages you to play music—just don’t let him pick the playlist, unless you want a bizarre remix of crying babies and static noises.
He’s shameless when it comes to playing with “sexy outfits.”
“Is that a wig, Art?” you ask, barely able to breathe from laughing.
He shakes his finger at you, pops it in his mouth, then winks— while still doing the helicopter (with full sound effects).
Let’s just say: Art’s not a fan of synthetic hair. He likes it… natural.
He’s obsessed with roleplay.
So get ready for full theatrical productions between the sheets.
Since he got that Santa suit, you’ve already played an elf, a reindeer, a snowman, an angel, a bow-wrapped gift, a cookie (remember that scene with Lord Farquaard?), even Jesus (he literally wanted Jesus to suck his dick.)
And who knows what comes next…
Of course, you love every second of it.
You two joke about going to Broadway someday— maybe you’ll win a Tony… or kidnap one.
Either way works.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
He has no body hair at all. Just a fine layer of pale fuzz, almost imperceptible—after all, his body is still human.
(He used to have hair on his head, too… until he died.)
Any other man might feel insecure about that. Might think it makes him look too feminine.
But he doesn’t care.
In fact, he likes it that way.
Hair would itch. It would get in the way. He’d have to shave constantly, and that would be a pain in the ass.
He doesn’t have time to worry about things like that.
He has more important things to do…
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
There’s an invisible line Art never crosses.
And while he loves pushing you to the edge—making you tremble, cry, scream his name like you’re about to shatter—he never actually breaks you.
He’s the kind of man who can drag you to the cliff’s edge… but he never pushes.
Not because he couldn’t.
But because he won’t.
Art wants you in a way he wants no one else: vibrant, happy, alive.
He wants you laughing between moans, begging him to stop and not stop at the same time.
He’s obsessed with watching you suffer from pleasure—and he knows that for every rough moment, he’ll make up for it with the best orgasms of your life.
But if the suffering stops being pleasure—if it ever becomes true pain—he stops.
He watches you with a terrifying level of focus.
Even when he seems distracted.
Even when he’s laughing.
Even when he’s completely absorbed in stuffing a 1000-watt string of Christmas lights up your ass so he can light you from the inside and turn you into a disco ball possessed by the spirit of holiday cheer…
He knows.
Your breath.
Your eyes.
Your pulse.
Your voice.
And when something changes—when the spark in your pupils flickers for even a second (yes, even with the lights inside you—it’s hard to see, but he sees it)—he stops.
He caresses you.
He kisses you.
He holds his personal holiday decoration abomination like it’s something sacred.
And he looks at you, with sincere tenderness and a crooked smile, as if asking:
“Am I still your worst best decision?”
If you say yes, he finishes decorating you with a star on top of your head.
If you say no, he takes the lights out.
He makes you laugh.
He makes you a post-sex milkshake.
Or he cleans you with a damp cloth, absurdly gentle—like you’re a marble statue.
Because at the end of the day, beyond the chaos, the sadism, the prop addiction… Art adores you.
And everything he does is to watch you enjoy yourself.
To hear you laugh.
To make you shine (literally).
Like you’re his favorite performance.
His light.
And when it comes to sex, there are days when Art gets unexpectedly soft—so sweet it takes you off guard.
You never know if he’s about to ask you to do something deplorable—like kidnapping children, fattening them up, and cooking them for next Thanksgiving—or if, by some miracle, he’s become the most romantic, domestic man on Earth.
He takes you in missionary.
Because he loves your mouth.
Because he loves kissing you while he fucks you like a desperate lover.
His arms wrap around you completely.
Your bodies melt together.
There’s no telling where one ends and the other begins.
You can hear him panting in your ear, breath wild—a faint whisper, almost imperceptible, that still says so much.
You can’t help but touch him the whole time—his scarred back, his soft arms, his beautiful face…
And you look into his eyes.
And he looks back.
And he doesn’t need words to tell you he loves you—in his way—but he does.
He doesn’t need words to thank you.
Thank you for surviving him.
Thank you for surviving his love.
Thank you for reading all the way to the end. I hope I made you blush, laugh, horny, suffer, or scream to the sky.
I'd love to know if you'd like to see any of these letters developed into future fanfics.
Would you like to see Santa Art spanking someone dressed as a reindeer, as if urging his sleigh forward?
Would you like to live out Art’s total submission fantasy?
Would you like Art to shove Christmas lights up your ass and turn you into his human Christmas tree?
I'm open to all kinds of requests, of course. Though I seriously doubt anything you suggest will top what’s already here… (and we still have a whopping 17 letters to go).
For those who just can’t wait, the full alphabet is already up on AO3. You’ll recognize it when you see it.
gracieabrams
romaincrisis
origamiaround
dailybridgerton
gummygunk
ellievsbear
theartofmadeline
blakekathryn
