hiii, i'm SP! my pronouns are she/her, he/him, vae/vaer <3
i'm new to posting my fanfiction on tumblr, but i'm hoping it motivates me to write more! all/most of my stuff is x readers and i have a soft spot for killers, yanderes, and pathetic men. most if not all of my stuff will be cross posted to both my ao3 and wattpad! hope you enjoy :>
wattpad: fandomsinthevoid
ao3: fandomfloaterxx
moon chain divider at top by @pixopix
cloud moon divider at bottom by @uzmacchiato
i wrote this for my friend <3 it was originally much worse, but i like never write for ghostface so bear w me. plus sized reader, but i think only mentioned briefly
warnings: death warning but not reader and not graphic, more barely mentioned. gn reader.
You stiffly stand by the entrance to the carnival, checking your phone every few minutes to check and see if your ride was on their way yet. There are grinning jack-o-lanterns everywhere, leaving you feeling mocked even further. Laughter and delighted screams fill the air as the machines whir behind you, ironically mocking how you’re feeling right now. Kids and adults alike are running around in Halloween costumes; people always dress up for the fall carnival, even if it isn't technically Halloween yet. Even you had tried to be festive, putting horror pins onto your jackets and bringing a small mask to rest on your waist as an accessory. All of it to waste, you guess. There was no one there to notice. While you try to breathe, you can feel yourself fighting back tears. Despite the happy mood around you, your mind couldn't help but keep going back to that text: heyyyy sorry. we weren't able to make it after all! we ended up not feeling it, hope u get home safe :(( <3
"Fuck this..." you mumble, pissed off as you wipe at your eyes. Glaring ahead, you curse them out in your head while you wait for anyone to get back to you. Your friends knew you couldn't drive; they were supposed to be your ride home, for fucks sake. Shaking your head and scoffing, you lift your head up and ignore the face that you can feel tears trying to fall. .
You snap out of it when your phone begins to ring, frantically wiping your eyes before you put it up to your ear almost immediately. Assuming it's someone here to rescue you, you don't even check the caller ID. You let out a sigh as you lean against a nearby pole, greeting the person on the phone. "Hello?"
"Hello?" a voice responds, making you pause and furrow your brows. Quickly taking the phone away from your ear, you look to see that it isn't your friend but instead, an unknown caller. The voice comes through faint again, quieter now that it’s away from your ear. "Heyyy, you there?"
You shift from side to side, bringing a nail up to chew on it while racking your brain for ideas on how to get off the phone. You aren’t thrilled about the idea of staying on the phone with a stranger and your dry tone attempts to convey that. . "Yeah. Uh. Hi. Who is this? Are you looking for someone? I think you might have the wrong number."
"What number is this? What's your name?” The voice sounds weird, you think. It's dark and raspy. It causes the hair on the back of your neck to raise, even if you can’t place why. There’s a rough crackle towards the end of his words that you don’t understand. .
"What? I don't really want to tell you that. I think you got the wrong number- fuck! Watch where you're going, dick!" You're broken out of your focused trance when a guy shoves past you and heads into the carnival, black robe and a Father Death mask shining in the light. Putting the phone back up to your ear, you apologize. "Shit. Sorry, man. There’s assholes out tonight.
The stranger laughs at that, making you stop talking but feel a bit lighter. He continues, voice unchanging and unbothered. You can hear cloth rustling from the other side of the phone. "No, no. No worries. You said I got the wrong number?"
"Yeah man. Sorry about that. It happens, right?" You shrug even though he can't see it. It makes you feel a bit foolish, but you’re also feeling much calmer with this distraction.
"Oh, all the time.” He pauses for a minute and you almost hold your breath, almost pulling the phone away to see if he hung up. “Hey. You wanna keep me company?"
“Weren’t you trying to get a hold of someone else?” Your heart quickens at the odd request, mouth stretching in distaste at the idea. Pulling your hands away from your mouth and running them through your hair instead, you "Uh. I'm not sure. Not much of a conversationalist, you know?"
"That's alright. I can do the talking. I'll make it worth your while. Not much going on for me tonight. Carnival is more boring than I thought it'd be." The voice is so nonchalant, but there's an edge to it you almost catch on to. Before you can think too hard about it, he continues. “Please? I was trying to call one of my friends. She was supposed to meet me here, but I guess she decided to stand me up.”
"Yeah? You and me both.” You snort, rolling your eyes. “You don’t have to tell me about shitty friends or shitty carnivals. ."
"You're here too, right?" The voice sounds inquiring but not surprised, the pitch not changing much. Too overwhelmed with the lights and noise, you don’t pick up on it; you simply file it away as another strange quirk the person on your phone has.
"Yeah, but hopefully not for much longer," you scoff, letting yourself smile at your shared misfortune. "Haven't even gone in yet. I was supposed to meet some people here, like you, but they ditched me. Because, you know, of course they did. I don’t know why I expected anything else. "
"Wow," the voice breathes out, playful displeasure echoing through the speaker. You feel your stomach fall and cringe. You probably shouldn't have mentioned it, and now you flush a bit in embarrassment. "They sound like a bunch of jerks."
"Well- Well I mean-” You stammer out, scrambling to defend your friends. “Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes they're okay-"
"You need any new ones?"
Freezing, you tilt your head. You laugh sharply, no amusement within it. "What? What do you mean?"
"I asked if you needed any new ones.” The guy laughs as if you're being stupid. It makes you bite your lip, face scrunching up. “We're both at the carnival. You can just… Come see me. C'monnn, it'll be fun. You can see my scary costume. I think you’ll love it. Lots of people like men in masks."
"What, some lame mask is gonna scare me? You got a fake knife, psycho killer?" When you attempt to tease back, your voice falls a little flat. You’ve never been great with banter, and the silence that stretches on the other side of the phone causes you to doubt yourself. Anxiety forms a pit in your stomach as you begin to chew on your nails again . You're about to open your mouth to apologize when he cuts you off again. How does he keep doing that?
"Oh, don't worry. My knife's real. We could be a duo. You know, your ‘psycho killer’, and my victim. How does that sound?" The voice is amused, but the tone has shifted. The conversation has grown darker now, and you find yourself shifting your weight from foot to foot as you scan your surroundings. There’s a certain tension over the phone; it’s almost like he’s flirting. "We'll meet at the photo booth. Get some pictures of your handsome face as I gut you like a fucking pig-"
In a panic you hang up on him, staring at your phone with your mouth and eyes wide open. Trying to rationalize it, you begin to convince yourself he was joking. It was a mean prank, but not serious. It wasn’t an actual threat. You're not actually in danger. Letting out a sigh, you shove your phone in your pocket and cross your arms. Should've known some punk was just messing with you. Glaring out into the dark, you ignore the fact that you can’t get rid of the goosebumps covering your arms.
You zone out again, jumping when your phone goes off again. Your mouth goes dry when you pull it out and realize it's the same number. Pressing the button to ignore it, you watch as a minute later, a notification pops up and the guy immediately calls again. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you swipe and answer.
"I don't find this shit funny, man,” You immediately snap, feeling your patience thin. “I don't like being messed with on an already horrible day."
"Awww, but we were having so much fun," the voice pouts. You can almost hear the cocky grin he must be wearing, and your eye twitches in annoyance. "Why'd you hang up on me? Did I scare you?"
"You wish. Just got bored, I guess." It's a lie, and you can hear the man let out a quiet snort. It makes you narrow your eyes, almost hanging up again right then.
"Look, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Distasteful joke. Whatever, but I meant it. Why don't you come in here and take a picture with me?" He replies, voice smooth. You can hear the speakers crackle as he moves the phone from one ear to the other. "C’mon, it’ll cheer us both up, don’t you think? I'll even keep my knife put away. Please?"
You shake your head slowly, debating on actually doing it and meeting him or running back home before he could find you. Remembering that it’s close to Halloween, you decide it really was just a shitty prank. Your boredom and curiosity overtake your common sense. Looking around anxiously one last time, you sigh and give in. "Gotta promise not to kill me, psycho. You said the photo booth?"
“The photo booth.” The voice sounds giddy, as if they're delighted you agreed. "Oh, cross my heart and hope to die. We’ll keep our hands to ourselves. See you soon."
"Yeah. See you soon.-" You bite your tongue, before nodding. His words set in and your brows furrow. "Wait, we-?"
The guy hangs up, not even letting you finish.
Your nose scrunches as that, a bit irritated that he cut you off before sighing and heading inside. You waste a couple minutes wandering around and wincing at how much louder everything sounded now. Slowly, you make your way to the photobooth; your eyes scan for any trace of your mystery guy. Eventually reaching the booth, you take a minute to breathe. Leaning against the booth, you cross your arms and people watch. Couples with children, preteens in big groups as their parents follow behind, small cliques of teens wandering around as a few sneak off to make out- no one you recognize. No one who sticks out. At least, until you see him.
A man standing perfectly still, you notice. His mask is staring directly at you, slowly tilting when he notices you staring back. Your phone rings again as you look, almost entranced. He’s wearing the same costume as the man who bumped into you: Father Death. He lifts a phone to his ear and something like a box up to his mouth. You startle when your phone rings and you quickly answer, unable to take your eyes away.
"Hey… You made it. Are you ready to take the picture?" the voice asks, not even bothering to greet you this time. There’s a difference in him now, something you can’t put your finger on. However, you know where the crackle came from; the voice changer the man is holding.
"I- I don't know." You curse yourself for your wavering voice, clearing your throat and attempting to steel your nerves when you notice the man getting closer. "I mean- You did promise not to kill me, right? Better keep your supposed knife put away when you get close to me. I won’t hesitate to scream."
“Did I? Interesting. I must like you.” Your stranger goes silent for a moment, and when he speaks again chills run down your back. "We’d never use it on you, don’t worry. There’s more fun ways to make you scream. Hey, maybe one day though, I’ll let you play with it."
“Yeah- yeah? That sounds fun,” you reply, face warming at the innuendo behind his words. The carnival has thinned out a bit due to the time, but the man is still keeping his distance. Shifting nervously, you try to figure out what’s keeping him from approaching. “Why are you still so far back? Thought you wanted to get this picture taken. What, scared of little old me?”
“Why?” He asks, still staring you down from behind the mask. “Should I be?”
“No, no.” You laugh, shaking your head and giving him a wave and a smile. “That is you, right? The guy staring at me? It’s funny. You’re wearing the same costume as that dick who bumped into me earlier.”
“Are you scared?” He quietly asks, voice taking on that inflection of darkness that he was using earlier. The tension you were feeling immediately comes back and you go a bit stiff.
“No, of course not-” You begin, only to be quickly cut off.
“You should be.”
Your mouth grows dry as you watch the man hang up, shoving the voice changer and the phone into his pocket before speed-walking over. It makes you flinch a bit; however, you decide he’s probably pranking you again and you cross your arms. He stops a couple feet away from you, watching you intently.
“Really? Trying to freak me out again? I thought I told you I wasn’t going to put up with that shit tonight,” you scoff, glaring up at him. The person was tall, but a kind of thrill goes through you when you realize that. A shiver runs through you when you see his mask up close, thinking back to what he said earlier. Lots of people love men in masks. That includes you, apparently. “Love the mask. You were right. Give you a knife and you’d be something right out of Halloween.”
He doesn’t say anything, just giving you a shrug. He turns away from you and puts money in the machine before pulling the curtain back for you. Glancing in and then glancing back at him, you feel a lump form in your throat before sliding in. You sit on the small bench and wince when he crams himself next to you, quickly apologizing for how much space you take up while flushing at the close proximity. Not taking his eyes off you, he reaches forward to start the camera. He doesn't speak, but motions towards the instructions, insisting that you pose.
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head slightly as you make a stereotypical peace sign. He shakes his head, insisting you do something better. You pretend to have fainted and the camera snaps. He nods. Excited now, you pick up his hand and place it on your throat, as if he's about to strangle you. The camera snaps and you drop it, quickly apologize for grabbing him and missing the way his body shivers. For the last pose, you both just tilt your heads together and you smile, mask remaining blank.
"You're kinda quiet, yeah?" The man shrugs, getting out before opening the curtain for you again. He walks with you towards the entrance, and you relish in the comfortable silence. Letting out a sigh, you’re about to thank him before your eyes widen. Frantically patting your pockets, you reach confirmation of what you feared. "Fuuck I left my phone in the booth. I'm so sorry. I'll be right back."
The man nods and you rush off, quickly throwing the curtain open and freezing. Right there, where you were sitting, was your phone. However, the small glint of silver is what catches your eye. Shaking, you grab your phone and quickly turn away. A sick feeling in your stomach settles permanently once you realize your new masked "friend" has been carrying around some kind of hunting knife covered in what looks like fresh blood.
Relieved when you don't see him at the entrance, you check and see that someone has messaged you back about picking you up. After confirming that they’re already here, you find them and have them rush you home. Filling them in on the events of the day, your voice trails off when you notice red and blue police lights parked outside of your dorm building. Trembling, you get out of the car and stare at all the body bags being carried out. A policeman comes up to tell you they’re your roommates. Your friends. The same friends who had ditched you at the carnival earlier. The cop walks away and you’re struck numb, frantically trying to process everything. You let out a small scream when your phone rings. You already know who it is as you cover your mouth and raise the phone to your ear.
"Do you like my surprise? Thought I'd teach those friends of yours a few... manners. Hey, when were you wanting to see each other again? We really liked hanging out with you tonight. We think we’ll keep a real close hold on those pictures."
Your breath hitches in fear and you feel yourself tear up.
"We promise we’re good company.” He says, before there’s the rustling of cloth and the second voice chimes in. “We'll take your fucking breath away."
A pair of deranged laughter is all you hear before dropping your phone in shock, silencing the voices as your ears ring.
this is just the continuation of my fic, roses :)) plus sized reader!
warnings: minor of violence against reader, not to hurt you but more to scare you. choking and maybe slightly getting hit in the head with a hammer. art is slightly ooc bc realistically reader wouldn't have even survived the FIRST halloween, much less the second. feminine reader, no pronouns.
You don’t get to see him again until the year after.
The news the day after had been full of gruesome reports over your “friends” and the rest of his victims. Apparently, he’d retraced your steps and gone back to the party. The crime scene photos were so gruesome that they had to be censored when shown on the TV; still, you avoided food for the rest of the day. You couldn't keep anything down for almost a week when you found out his body had gone missing. The survivors' guilt you felt lasted for months, eating you alive from the inside out. Would he have gone to that party if you hadn’t complained about your friends? Would he have killed you if you hadn’t accepted the flower? How did he know whose head to bring back to your place when you hadn’t told him? What did you do right so that he didn't do anything to you? The guilt got worse every time you remembered the little box in your closet- and how warm the memory still made you feel. Somehow, though, it managed to fade a bit. You reached a bit of a truce with yourself, trying to erase the blame you felt. So you’re a little bit fucked up and serial killing clowns turn you on! That’s not a crime- even though you suppose withholding evidence is. It’s also not like it’s a requirement to mourn the dead, and if you were honest? It was a bit freeing. If they didn’t care about you in life, why should you have to care about them in death? You enjoyed how you got to coast through the rest of the year, everyone else too busy giving you their condolences to realize how you were actually feeling. But grief works in weird ways and no matter what, it'd always manage to creep back into your mind and slowly, it changed you.
While people did feel bad for you, there was no one really willing to be your friend. It was almost as if you were surrounded by a certain stigma; they feared you almost as much as they feared the clown. Once you found yourself isolated, there were little distractions on those quiets nights with only one thing to think about. You’d break your stuff by throwing it at the wall, scratch at your arms until they bled, or even just do nothing but stare at the mirror for hours on end. You wrote letters upon letters cursing yourself and the clown out, shoving them all towards the back of your closet. During one of your nights of rage, you had ended up tearing apart the costume you wore that night. Scraps of colorful fabric surrounded you when the sun came up and you spent the day sobbing, packing what you could salvage away in the shoebox.
Now, a whole year later, you’re busying yourself with preparation for Halloween night. You contemplated shutting yourself in and not celebrating at all, but your therapist told you it might be a healthy way to confront the events of last year. Your uncle needed a house sitter for a couple days and you were almost desperate to get out of your dorm. The costume you picked this year was a bit basic but comfortable: a red devil costume with various shiny, black accents. A decorative bowl of candy is set on the counter (admittedly missing a few pieces), all ready for you to hand out to trick-or-treaters. You decided to keep the TV off tonight; every horror movie you used to watch just reminds you of the fucking clown. The doorbell rings as you’re zoning out, snapping you out of it as you grab the candy and plaster a smile on your face, opening the door to face the night’s ghosts, ghouls, and witches.
There’s a thumping noise against the back door a while later, which makes you pause. Your heart skips and you slowly straighten up, glancing over your shoulder towards the noise. Taking a moment too long, the teens you’d been offering candy to clear their throats in an attempt to gain back your attention. They cheer and thank you when you shove a handful towards each of them, taking the hint you want them gone and running off. You rush off towards the back door- heart thumping quickly in your chest. Rationally, you understand that it was probably an animal or maybe even a different group of kids deciding to pull a prank on you. That’s why it’s a surprise when you reach the kitchen and nothing is amiss. You scan the room, hesitantly and sharply looking around for any sight of entry. The tension you’re feeling dissipates slightly when you notice the door is still locked, making you scold yourself for being so overly paranoid. No one is coming for you. No one is seeking you out. No one is messing with you. You’re okay.
The door creaks from the entry hall and a couple voices call out a faint “hello?” With a start, you realize that you must have left it open in your rush. Frantically, you rush back with a large smile and the candy bowl. When you reach the group of small children, they seem to be giggling at something that you missed. You get a feeling that something’s gone wrong but you bury it down, ignoring it.
“Hey guys! I love your costumes, I bet they’re getting you lots of free candy,” you coo in a light voice, placing a couple pieces in each of their buckets. You can’t help but notice the way they’re glancing off behind you- almost as if looking for something. It makes you glance over your shoulder, your brows furrowing when you don’t see anything. .
The kids smile proudly at your comment and then thank you for the candy. Quickly, they rush off, laughing to themselves before rushing to the next house. Once they’re gone, the night goes by much quicker than you thought it would. It’s around seven when the knocks at the door start to slow, and around 8:30 when they stop almost completely. By 9, you’re laying on the couch. You fight the urge to throw up- way too much candy, you decide- as some sort of comedy plays in the background. The movie serves as white noise that lulls you into the trap of sleep, your eyes feeling increasingly heavy as you attempt to focus on the fuzzy screen in front of you. A knock at the door, though, snaps you awake. It makes you frantically scan the room for anything dangerous- even spinning around to check behind the couch. You’re just settling down again when yet another knock comes from the door. You stare at it for a long time, a pit forming in your stomach. How long has it been, anyway? Why would anyone still be out trick-or-treating? Despite that, you shake the fog from your brain and stand up anyway, wobbling towards the door. You grab the bowl and resolve to turn the porch light off afterwards to turn in for the night. A small yawn escapes you and you open the door, the feeling of something like ice water suddenly pouring down your spine. .
There on your porch is a little girl dressed like… a clown. Her ragged, dirty hair is half up and half down, as if she’d been rolling around in the dirt. In the dark, her eyes shine yellow and she’s wearing a black and white costume, looking all too familiar. Staring at her makes you extremely nauseous, but you can’t exactly place why. She’s just a little girl playing dress up on Halloween. Some people- especially kids- love scaring people, and her shitty parents probably just… dressed her up as a serial killer. Even though you try and think about this logically, you realize with a start that it’s terror. Pure, unadulterated terror. She grins up at you and you feel as if you’re going to die tonight. You’re going to die and this little girl is going to be the reason why. After a moment, she finally moves, tilting her head and holding the large garbage bag out to you. The silent ask for candy startles you and you urgently fight off the urge to vomit, but you end up smiling down at her despite that. It’s cold, not very much warmth in it, but it seems to please the girl anyway.
“Hey- Hey, sweetheart. Cool costume,” you choke out, clearing your throat a moment later. Wiggling the bowl in front of you, you stare at the amount left before deciding to give her a full handful. An irrational thought, but maybe you can stave off your inevitable fate if you please her with enough candy. “You look- …it’s very impressive! Good job.”
She nods, following the candy with her eyes before snapping her head back up to look at you. Or… not at you, you notice. Behind you. The feeling of being watched creeps up your neck, overwhelming you until you break and look back, only to see nothing. A small rustle of the girl’s trash bag makes you pull your head back towards the girl, but she’s already making her way to a black van parked down the street. She skips silently, the bag now completely missing from her hands. You watch until she gets in, waiting for her and whoever’s driving her around to leave. However, the van doesn’t move and you eventually slam the door shut, locking it again immediately. A shudder runs through you as you stand there with your chest heaving, staring up the stairs and wondering if something was going to come rushing down them to get to you. You stand there for a moment before the goosebumps on your arm fade and you begin to feel silly. Every door and window in the house is locked; you checked and then double checked once arriving. Nothing could’ve gotten in. No one could’ve gotten in. Not without you knowing. Not even him.
“Fuck-!” The thought brings you back to the present and you feel yourself getting angry again. You switch the porch light off before proceeding to do the same with the TV. It plunges the entire downstairs into darkness and the sick feeling you get only fuels your growing fit. With an irritated shout, you begin a rampage that tears up the entire downstairs. Doors are yanked open, closets are emptied, blankets are lifted and tossed around. Anywhere you thought someone could be hiding; no corner left unturned. By the time you finish trashing the downstairs, you feel like crying. You can’t tell if it’s disappointment or relief. The mess does nothing but overwhelm you and you simply storm upstairs, resolving to clean it up tomorrow. Your makeup is ruined again, you numbly realize. The second year in a row. Without even changing, you collapse into bed and pull the covers around yourself. You’ll feel better in the morning, you think. Maybe. Checking the time, you realize it’s almost one in the morning. It’s almost funny. That means the little girl was out trick-or-treating around midnight.
The thought upsets you again so you ignore it. You shove it down and turn on the TV to drown out your thoughts, watching it glow and listening to the quiet music from whatever show is playing. It’s almost like you’re being pulled into sleep, like something is making you drowsy outside of the chemicals coming down in your brain. It doesn’t register as a solid thought enough for you to panic, so you fall asleep yet again. The moment your eyes close you’re lost in a dark, dreamless sleep. If anyone had walked in, they might’ve thought you were dead.
You stir naturally a couple hours later, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. It smears the makeup even further into your eyes, causing them to sting and forcing you out of bed to clean it up. Unknowing of the time, you figure you’ll just wash your face, drink some water, and head back to bed. Just to feel cleaner. A rumble in your stomach reminds you that you went to bed without dinner, so maybe you’ll have a snack, too. Climbing out from under the blankets and shuffling into the attached bathroom, you strip out of your uncomfortable costume and into an old graphic t-shirt with some pajama shorts. The glitter from your face has made its way all down your neck and the black that was around your eyes leaves a dark grey halo, even after you try to wipe it off. It’s a simple routine, just trying to make yourself feel a bit better about the tantrum you threw however long ago. You flick the light off and head out to the hall. It’s almost pitch black now, forcing you to feel your way down the stairs with your fingertips. The bottom of the stairs leads you to the kitchen while you hum a small tune- one from some kind of weird commercial. All music dies in your throat once you flick on the light and freeze.
He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. Oh my god. Your mind races as you try to take in what’s \currently in front of you. The clown- Art the clown, as you had learned from the news- was sitting at your uncle’s small kitchen table. There’s a couple sweets on the plate in front of him that you had collected for your night in and he’s peacefully chewing away on what looks like chocolate covered pretzels. When he notices you staring, he gives you a large grin and the same cartoonish finger wave he first gave you last year. It makes your face red and causes your stomach to flip. Tensing up, you can’t tell if it’s because you’re repulsed or something arguably worse. The fact that he’s here at all poses a couple dangerous questions: How did he find you? Why would he find you? Isn’t he dead? You try to answer as many as possible as you yank your hand away from the lightswitch, cradling it to your chest with the fleeting thought that he was going to spring forward and cut it off.
“What the hell are you doing here?” You demand, immediately flinching at your tone. His face falls from his excited grin to a look of exaggerated surprise when it seems you aren’t exactly happy to see him. He places his hands on both sides of his face, mouth forming an ‘o’ as his brows raise as high as possible. It morphs into a frown with a mock pout, head hanging. The display makes you swallow and your voice comes out a bit warmer than before. “I thought- I thought you were dead. They said you were dead- that you died and some freak stole your body from the morgue.”
The clown ditches his silly look and grins again, shrugging cartoonishly. He rests his chin on his hands and his elbows on the table, posed as if trying to look innocent. It seems like he’s being vague on purpose; your stomach twists and you feel the annoyance begin to creep in, eye twitching.
“But you did… You are dead?” You ask directly, voice growing huffy again. Glaring and crossing your arms, you try to remain firm despite how conflicted you’re feeling.
He nods dramatically as if he’s excited to tell you. Forming a finger gun, he places it in his mouth, pulling the “trigger.” You flinch and frown even deeper, looking over him again for any signs of the aforementioned injury. He’s sharper than you remember, you realize. His skin is pulled a little too tight, his eyes a bit too shiny; it almost reminds you of the little pale girl that was on your porch. You wrack your brain trying to remember: Was he always this demonic looking? Or was that a result of being brought back from the dead? He brings a finger up to tap his cheek, grin widening as he silently asks for a kiss.
You can’t help but scoff at that, not missing the way his face immediately drops into a grimace. It’s almost a challenge in a way- one neither of you can miss. One you don’t want to miss. Jerkily, he drops his hand, swinging his arm as if saying “damn it” out loud. It makes you smile slightly before you catch yourself, rubbing your hand down your face to try and remain calm. Silent as always, he motions for you to join him at the table instead, his eyes never leaving you once.
“...Fine,” you say a moment later, sighing. Slowly and carefully, you maneuver your way further into the kitchen. You know he carries guns around. A couple of the victims last year had been shot to death and the last thing you need is to end up just like them. Laughing at yourself internally, you recognize how fucking stupid you’re acting. The Miles County Killer is in your kitchen right now- brought back from the dead due to some dumb demonic curse, even. Something in the back of your head expects him to pull out a tommy gun and shoot you until you’re beyond recognition, but he doesn’t. You reach the table safe and sound, settling in your seat as the clown shoves the snack plate towards you. “Thanks, Art. So. What’re you doing here?”
His glare deepens as he stares at you, as if it’s obvious. He rakes his eyes down your attire appreciatively before snapping back up, gesturing exaggeratedly towards you just to make sure the point comes across. Again, he rests his cheek in his hand, but this time it looks more like a genuine pout, puzzling you. You can’t help but think it’s a trick to make you let your guard down, but it feels… wrong for some reason. It makes you feel bad, even, and you feel your walls weakening.
“What, you’re here to kill me?” You scoff, your lame joke falling flat There’s only a small bit of humor within your voice and it’s the dark, resolved kind. His eyes are the most intense you’ve ever seen them. You stare back at him just as hard. He hadn’t scared you last year, and it seems like he’s not scaring you this year either. Why not? Neither of you know the answer and it’s almost satisfying, seeing him just as skeptical of you as you are of him. Despite that, you feel your face warm, and you shake your head to cool it down. “You killed all those other people. Figured I was going to be next whenever you came back. I… I wondered if you ever would. It really, really fucked with me.”
He stays silent, just staring at you. His pout is gone and he seems to have reverted to something a bit more neutral- the lack of emotion giving you pause. There’s a sparkle in his eye and slowly, his grin comes back. It makes you shiver. Shaking his head, he crosses his heart with his pointer finger, promising not to kill you. His body begins to shake in silent laughter, pointing at you before dramatically slapping his knee. Adding salt to the wound, he even pretends to brush away a tear. You shove yourself back away from the table harshly which finally makes him pause.
“Fine. Whatever. I get to live knowing I’m special.” Your voice comes out as an angry snap, all your emotions from the year finally releasing. To distract yourself, you stand and head for the cabinets, grabbing a glass and filling it at the sink. Despite the knowledge that you’re acting silly, you find it too cathartic to stop. His actions put you in an even worse place than you were before and you feel it more than fair to send it back to him.
It’s almost frustrating how calm he’s being in return. All it does is make you want to dig further, to slash deeper and hit for his core. He’s unhuman- borderline demonic- and you struggle with the idea that he might feel hurt like that at all. However, you’ll never let anyone say that you didn’t try.
“I got your present last year, by the way.” You hiss, practically hearing the way he cocks his head as if asking you what you thought of it. Taking a drink of water helps calm you down a bit, but you’re still high on disbelief and the pure rage that’s built up over the past year. “Oh! Thank you for that. It was fucked up. Really fucked up, actually. I had to call the police, and I’m definitely not going to get my fucking deposit back-”
You step back to spin to try and face him but you’re stopped when something- no, someone- shoves you forward, making you gasp and drop your water in the sink. The glass shatters when it lands and you flinch even closer. He’s curled himself around you, hands firmly behind his back. His chin is practically right next to your ear and you can just barely see his cold grin out of the corner of your eye. It makes you freeze almost immediately, words dying in your throat just as fast as they had formed. You can feel the chill of his skin through his suit as he looms over you, making you shiver against him involuntarily. His grin widens even further when he brings his right hand up, dramatically flourishing the small scalpel he’s holding. It seems to please him when your breath hitches. Waving it in the air, he silently brings it to your throat, straightening slightly up so that he can see your reactions. He begins to trace it lightly over your skin, not seeming to care too much if he pricks you.
You grab onto the sink to stay stable, gritting your teeth. You know that if you try to run or fight it’ll probably only set him off and there’s a real chance he’ll kill you for real. Instead, you silently lean your head back to rest it on his chest, exposing more of your neck while you close your eyes. It’s an intimate position, you know; if anyone walked in on you two, they might think you’re a couple just into some really weird shit. Maybe that’s not super far from the truth.
The act of submission obviously confuses him and he pauses, expecting you to scream or maybe even fight back. You feel his head tilt above you and it almost makes you laugh. His grin is still there when you open your eyes again, but it’s different; almost angry but still affectionate- as if he’s pleased but furious at the same time. He drops his hand away from your throat and tosses his scalpel on the counter. So quickly it’s hard to really process it, he steps back and grabs your shoulder. He uses his harsh grip to spin you around right before wrapping his hand around your throat and squeezing.
“Art-” you strangle out, reflexively wrapping your hand around his wrist. The look he’s wearing is hard to read, but there’s a smile on your face as you catch a glimpse of something in his eyes. His grip tightens around your throat and you reflexively try to take in another gasp of air, digging your fingernails into his arm so harshly it begins to draw blood. You don’t know if it’s the loss of air or the extremely absurd situation you’ve found yourself in, but you finally let out the laugh you’d been holding in once spots begin taking over your vision. He’s crowded against you almost completely now, and your half-lidded eyes end up meeting his as you feel your laugh turn into a cough. “Fuck- I kept it- Your present? The rose, the cleaver- I kept as much as I could. I thought about you. I- ha- I waited for you to come back.”
His grip loosens and you immediately start coughing, trying to get air into your lungs as you slump over. You feel yourself begin to cry, overwhelmed from the night (and if you’re honest, the year) and now the pain. When you can’t stop, he pulls his hand away completely and only stares down at you. His left hand slowly comes from behind his back and reveals his horn- as if brandishing it proudly. He begins to honk it multiple times in your face. It makes him grin again; it makes you jerk away and break eye contact, face flushed and hot as you try to regulate your breathing again. You can already feel the small bruises forming on your neck; a red and purple nightmare that’ll last for a long reminder of tonight. He keeps watching you, still honking with a large grin, gauging your reaction. It almost seems like he’s trying to cheer you up.
“I kept them. For a whole year, inside- inside a tiny little shoebox in my closet. I kept it because I never got to thank you,” you eventually get out, frantically wiping your eyes as you try to regain your pride. You clear your throat before looking back up at him, eyes red and teary as you grab his wrist, silencing the horn. His eyes glance towards your hand before settling on your face. Dropping the horn- which lands on the floor with a loud clang- he opts to hold both of his arms up as if in surrender, leaning down so your noses are practically touching. You press your thumb against his pulse point, swallowing down the lump in your throat when you don’t feel anything below it. When you find yourself not wanting to let go even after everything, you decide that you are most certainly a special kind of fucked up. “I don’t know if you did it as a favor or not, but- but I don’t really care. Thank you.”
He doesn’t do anything for a moment, not until you drop his wrist. He watches with a sort of clouded gaze as you cross your arms over your chest, lowering your head yet again. Roughly, he grabs your jaw and forces you to look up at him. Slowly, he nods, hands letting go as he mimics a box in the air before “handing” it to you. His smile brightens before repeating his earlier look of innocence; he taps his cheek again, expecting a kiss now that you’ve managed to understand his intentions. It makes you laugh sharply, almost in disbelief.
“You’re a fucking creep, you know that right? This isn’t- This isn’t how most people would act if they liked someone. Fuck- most people wouldn’t have even let you stayed. There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there? I’m insane. I gotta be insane.” He grins cheesily, almost as if pleased before nodding happily, telling you that he knows he’s creepy and enjoys it. Now that you’ve admitted it out loud, you don’t seem to feel as bad about it. Sure, it doesn’t mean that you’re not going to hell, but you think it might be worth it despite that. Giving in, you place a hand on his chest to steady yourself before giving him a short kiss on his cheek. You lower and meet his grin, brows raised while you wait for his reaction.
He stares at you for a moment, head tilted. It almost seems like he’s processing it. The first thing he does is lean down to meet your eye, dramatically fanning his face as if he was flustered. The weird look he was wearing earlier is back making you doubt yourself for a moment. It disappears when silently, he leans down to get in your space, so close it’s almost uncomfortable. When you go to take your hand back from his chest, he grabs your wrist. He leans down even further and buries his face into your neck. You can tell he’s not breathing- something you struggle to get used to- when he begins to practically nuzzle you. It’s weird for him, you realize, and remain still to let him finish. He doesn’t end up moving back but instead up, making eye contact with you right before painfully grabbing the back of your head and yanking you into a brutal kiss. It makes you gasp and your eyes water, but you shift and try to return it anyway, matching his freak.
He presses himself against you almost completely, his tongue somehow managing to slip into your mouth. It tastes a bit odd at first- almost reminding you of sour meat- and you have to clench your fist to keep from gagging. It seems to delight him, from the way you feel his smile widen. His other hand runs up and down your side, eventually landing to rest on your torso, right below your chest. He grips onto the skin there and kneads it almost absent-mindedly. In the back of your mind, he reminds you of a cat; a dirty, mangy stray who seeks out affection when he needs it but disappears when he doesn’t. The thought makes your eyes burn, so you squeeze them shut and deepen the kiss yourself as a way to silence it.
He’s not soft in any way and he tastes like dried blood, but despite that it’s over much too soon. Stepping back, he frees you and watches with a smug smile as you take in a large breath of air. He walks back towards his trash bag like a cartoon character who’s floating on cloud nine, mimicking the action of whistling as he takes out a hammer. In your confused, hazy daze, all you can do is furrow your brows and slightly open your mouth before he hits you with the butt end of it. Crumpling instantly, he catches you, silently carrying you back upstairs and tucking you in bed. He stands there for a couple hours and just stares at you, watching you sleep. There’s no smug smile on his face, but no grimace either. He’s completely unreadable and if you were awake, it’d probably be the first time he’s ever truly scared you. When the sun starts coming up, he vanishes.
The next day, you wake up with a killer headache. You almost blame the pounding that you feel on the late night that you had, complaining about being old internally before you wake up a bit and actually think about it. With a wince, it all hits you like a truck and you sit for a minute, stunned. Silently cursing him in your head, you rush downstairs to see if he’s still there and inevitably, your heart falls a bit when he isn’t. Knowing that he was there but disappeared again almost sends you into another fit; however, you realize with a small laugh that everything you had already torn up had been straightened up. When you wander into the kitchen, you notice that even the dishes he had used were washed and placed in the dish drainer. You tear up and begin to laugh, slumping down into the same chair you had sat in last night, relieved that you hadn’t imagined it but still feeling crazy.
A little while later, you’ll turn on the news and realize what he got up to when he wasn’t here with you. Now, though, you sit and relish in the glow of his affection.
this was the first art the clown fic i wrote lmao and i started it before i watched the movie. even still im lowk proud of it, even if i'm rusty when it comes to writing. plus sized reader!
warnings: he's not as bad as in the movies, but minor warning of badly written gore at the end. feminine reader, though no pronouns are used.
You sniffle, clutching your arms tightly around yourself as you walk through the cold, damp streets. Your outfit doesn’t provide much warmth, the scandalous clown costume leaving hardly anything to the imagination. Makeup runs down your face, leaving tracks of colors from your ruined face paint. It’s almost funny how much effort you put into tonight only for it to end like this. Your friends had wanted you to match with skimpy costumes; you wanted to do your best to please them, but you figured you could still be something you wanted . Clowns had always been a soft spot of yours, and what better night than Halloween to show that off? You tug at the bottom of your outfit as you sulk your way home. Thinking over the events of the night, you scold yourself for thinking that it would be different. Just because they invited you out as a group doesn’t mean that they like you as much as they like each other. You know better. You knew it was going to happen.
You feel almost sick as you keep walking, tears pricking your eyes again. It was cruel of them, you decide. Making you dress like that to take you to some random party where you didn’t know anyone. You know that you’re bigger and you’re not ashamed of it; however, you’re also aware that it’s something not everyone looks for in a partner. Especially not at the kind of party they brought you to. Once your friends ditched you, you felt yourself get too anxious to even drink. It felt like everyone was staring at you, though logic attempted to tell you otherwise. You realized you were right when you eventually found your friends all sitting together and laughing. You really were the butt of the joke. They were making fun of your hair, your makeup, your costume- everything. Wondering loudly where a person who looked like you would find the nerve to show so much skin.
You squeeze your eyes shut and pause your walking for a moment, desperately trying to block out their words. You jump a second later when you hear a loud clang from the alley beside you. It makes your head snap, struck by a feeling of confusion when you hear more noises coming from your right. When you look over, you’re immediately struck cold when you notice a costumed man staring you down from a dark alley. He seems to be in a black and white clown costume, cosmetic features covered in monochromatic face paint staring you down from halfway through the alley. You make eye contact, and he grins with awful, bloody teeth before raising his hand, giving you an almost cartoonish wave. It makes you giggle- even though you can’t tell if it’s out of fear or amusement- and you sniffle before raising your hand to wave back in a similar fashion. The clown begins to hobble towards you, lugging his giant trashbag over his shoulder like a fucked up Santa. You can make out the slightest spots of blood covering him once he’s a bit closer to you. Taking a step back to give him more room, you watch as he slams it down at your feet with the rattle of what sounds like… rusty metal?
“Hello,” you say quietly as your eyes flicker across him now that he’s closer. You’re no stranger to the sights of strange men, and you figure it’ll give you a fun story later; a fun story once your heart quits racing.
Theatrically, he tips his hat at you in greeting before giving you an exaggerated wink. He mimics a wolf whistle when he takes in your outfit, making you smile at the odd display despite yourself. His eyes widen and his finger flies, pointing at you and then him repeatedly to recognize the fact that you’re both dressed as clowns. His mouth is open in a sort of shocked look and you respond with a small laugh. He’s almost like a living, walking cartoon character. You nod and offer him a curtsy, playing along with his behavior. When you raise your head, you find him fanning himself as if he was flustered. His smile widens before falling into a mock frown. Head tilted in confusion, he pouts at you while his finger makes a run down his face, asking about the tear tracks in your makeup.
“Shitty friends just took me to a shitty party, you know?” you reply, voice slightly hoarse. It makes your smile falter a bit, but you clear your throat and try not to notice the played up look of shock from your strange companion. His frown deepens and shakes his head, wagging his finger at your words. Sighing, you lean down to pull your tights up, not noticing the clown’s eyes zoom in on your movements. His grin is momentarily wiped; dark, dead eyes stare at you with an emotion no one could place.e. You come back up, crossing your arms to put an end to your toying. “Just- Just a rough night, honestly. Not really a big deal. I’ll probably be over it by the morning, need to sleep it off.”
His frown remains, making a crying motion with his fists before perking up with an idea. Raising his finger as if telling you to wait, he bends over and starts rifling through his bag. Without thinking you lean over to follow him, slightly curious to what he’s doing. Before you can see anything however, there’s a loud honk in your face and you flinch back. The clown holds the black bicycle horn out to you, squeaking it a couple more times when you reach out to take it. Hesitantly, you grab it and give it a small honk, making the man grin and clap his hands giddily. You match his enthusiasm and let out a small laugh; it’s almost as if he knows you’re still skeptical and revels in trying to convince you to think otherwise. To trust him. He continues to dig in the bag, throwing various items behind him. Your smile slowly falls into a puzzled frown when you notice the saws, whips, knives, and other weapons. It’s almost like a bit, him holding everything up for a moment before he tosses it to the side. Before you can ponder it too much, he pops back up to take your attention while hiding something behind his back.
His twisted grin grows as he tilts his head, eyes gazing over your figure yet again. You notice them linger on your stomach for a minute longer than normal, as if he was inspecting the patterns and puffballs decorating your suit. It makes you shift before pulling your arms across yourself. It makes him pout, eyes falling from your legs down to your heels, right before snapping back up to meet your eyes. You can’t tell why he gives you an enthusiastic nod until he uses his hands to trace your figure in the air. There’s the soft noise of something hitting the ground behind him- whatever it was seems to be abandoned until later. His hands move down and so does he. Kneeling on the ground by the end of his little show, he sends you a wink before offering out his hand like a prince.
“What are you doing?” You ask softly, staring at him in disbelief. Allowing him to take your hand makes your smile grow again, forcing yourself to keep in your laugh. You shake your head when he leans down to kiss your hand. To your (almost) disappointment, his lips don’t actually touch your skin. Internally, you assume it’s because he’d smear his makeup. He suddenly lets go, making a big show of reaching behind himself to grab something. His hands feel across the ground before he finds it; springing up, he holds the item out to the side while his open palm motions towards it. Your eye is instantly caught- as expected- but the item itself makes you gasp. Chin up with pride, he hasn’t even looked at what he’s offering to you. The rusty, bloodied cleaver shines against the moonlight, instantly putting a pit in your stomach. His eyes peek open to see why you haven’t taken the gift yet, following your skittery gaze to his “gift.” When he sees the cleaver, his grin falls into another dark grimace. You stand in silence for a minute as he offers the cleaver out to you to hold, making sure you take it before spinning around to search for the right item. Pull the weapon skeptically closer to your face, it’s clear most of the gore on it is from a long time ago. A little voice in the back of your head wonders briefly if it’s human. Tucking the bicycle horn into the crook of your elbow so you can study the item closer, you’re brought back to attention with a small tug to the hem of your dress. You manage to tear your eyes away only to be met with the clown back on one knee. The scowl is still there, but he’s offering his hand out to you for the second time.
“Again?” You ask, shifting to place both of your objects into the same hand. It makes you feel a bit funny, face growing hot when you see how committed he is to this “performance.” Biting your lip helps bring you back down to earth enough to respond. “Isn’t your suit getting dirty on the ground like that? You didn’t have to kneel twice.”
He waves you off with jerky movements. With a small sigh and a large smile, you give him back your hand. He goes through the motions yet again, placing the fake kiss to your hand before standing dramatically, throwing his arms out in presentation with an ever present glare. You quietly gasp when you see what he’s holding. This time, however, it was for a different reason than before. It makes you choke out a laugh as you shake your head.
“Really? For me?” You reach for the wilted black rose, taking it gently to avoid pricking yourself. When he nods, you inspect it the same way you did the cleaver. The man’s face shifts from a grimace to a more neutral expression after you accept the gift; it’s the same weird look in his eye as earlier. You manage to ignore it as you juggle the objects in your hands around, offering him his horn and cleaver back. He lights up, snatching the horn back before honking it wildly. It makes you laugh and clap similar to how he did earlier, bringing the lively smile back to his face. The cleaver weighs heavy in your hand next to the lightness of the rose, but you find yourself not caring. You appreciate both anyway. Things calm down and he stops, tossing his horn into the bag again before beginning to clear up the rest of his things. You begin to bend down to help him but remember your costume and stop. Instead, you clear your throat while wiping your eyes, mirroring earlier in a much lighter fashion. “Thank you. Really. This did amazing at cheering me up. And- And I appreciate the gift. I’ll make sure to keep it, put it in a vase or something.”
He finishes gathering up his things and turns to you as he slings it over his shoulders. You offer his cleaver back out to him when you remember you’re still holding onto it. He takes the weapon almost mindlessly, too occupied with staring at you. You feel almost entranced as you gaze back up at him, face heated. When he moves even closer, your fronts almost touch. It’s like a staring contest, you think; a contest that he breaks when he grins and tips his hat down at you. Snapped out of it, you clear your throat and step back, allowing him to pass. He begins meandering down the same way you had just came, the peculiar rattling noise you expected from his bag nowhere to be heard. It’s almost eerie how silently he’s moving, but you shake off the feeling in favor of continuing on your way. A honk sounds out from behind you, making you turn and look. The clown is standing there to wave goodbye. It’s the same finger wiggle that he had given you when you met, making you giggle again as you raise your hand to wave back.
Later, when you’re talking to the police, you’ll describe the night as a bit of a blur. A warm feeling settles in your stomach afterwards and you practically float until you reach your building. Before that, though, you definitely take your time getting there. Halloween didn’t seem so bad anymore and now you didn’t feel so ostracized. There was no reason to end the night early. You stop for some dinner- or breakfast, depending on perspective- and end up chatting with the workers who got saddled with the overnight shift. After a while, you bid them adieu and continue on your way. Passing by a park, you stop and stare out at it for a moment. A swing can be heard creaking somewhere in the fog and you think you see the silhouette of a little girl. You briefly debate stopping, but you ultimately decide not to. Continuing, you blame it on the chilly temperature, rubbing your arms to chase away the goosebumps that formed there. The odd feeling you get eventually sends you home, even if you’re taking the long way. You assume that’s what gave him ample time to stage his little scene.
Once you do finally make it back to your apartment, you don’t pay any attention to the guard sleeping (or that’s what you thought, initially) in his booth. You just continue up your way, humming a random song as you unlock your door and step in. All music dies in your throat when on your kitchen counter you find the severed head of one of your friends, the skull seemingly hollowed out completely. Within it is a bouquet of black roses covered in still warm blood. Black roses that strongly resemble the one you’re holding in your hand. You shakily walk forward, too terrified to even scream. Your eyes land on the word ART written on the wall in shiny, streaky blood. Your friend’s blood, it finally hits you. Backing up, you stave off the urge to vomit, breath quickening before rushing to call the police.
That is the story you will give them, more or less. That you called the police almost immediately after walking in on something so gruesome. That you left the scene exactly as you left it. That you’re terrified, angry, and so, so sad from the loss of your friend. You’ll be questioned about the rose he had given you- you lost it on the way home, sadly. Probably somewhere around the park- and about the puddle of blood on the counter. It has an odd pooling pattern, as if it had been surrounding something- you obviously don’t know, officer. There was nothing there on the counter when you got home. Maybe you leave out that the warm, fuzzy feeling you got from the clown didn’t even really go away. Maybe you leave out that you had always secretly wanted your friend to die, to face consequences for everything she had done to you before.
No one but you needs to know about the newspaper lined shoebox tucked away on the top shelf of your closet, though. You know that for sure. No one will ever know about what’s inside, either: one withered black rose and a rusty cleaver, covered in fresh blood.
