Mornings with Art? I think it’s a cute scene to imagine Art eating while reader comes in (all sleepy and groggy and out of it cause they just woke up), wordlessly kisses him on the cheek, and makes her breakfast
Writing this before bed. So if there’s errors, I’ll get ‘em tomorrow. For now here’s some domestic shit. I did add dialogue though, I hope that’s okay! I was trying to think of how to go about it without words but then I just went wherever my head led me.
F!Reader x Art
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Ever since he’d come home one particularly bad night due to a victim that just so happened to be carrying a firearm, he’d been taking it easy on himself. A few bullet wounds here and there, which you helped him patch up with the standard bandages and gauze, but for the most part he took his injuries in stride, opting to lay low and keep indoors for however long he decided. Dying was hard when you were a supernatural force, which you knew he very well was. You let him borrow the spare room to work on whatever gadgets and gizmos he wanted to create for his next escapade–for whatever that might actually entail.
As long as you’re not at the end of his knife, gun, mace–whatever weapon he decides to use, you’re fine with it. Though you know one day you might end up with one of those weapons lodged in your back or in your skull, you pray that it never happens. The first mistake would be to get comfortable around this man and let your guard down, which you never did.
However, it’s moments like this, when he’s sitting at the kitchen table when you head downstairs for breakfast that really make you want to do otherwise. Especially right now.
Art was sitting right at the kitchen table, eating frozen pizza from last nights dinner, and he’s doing it rather politely, you note. One slice on a paper plate, napkin nearby, and another slice being daintily held with both hands as he quietly and gently chews each bite he takes.
You have to remind yourself he killed someone last month and ate a rat last week. But it doesn’t stop you from tiredly smiling as you watch him through your unkempt hair that obscures part of your vision.
He merely regards you with a look, still munching away.
Fatigue whispers in your ear and urges you back to your warm and comfy bed. But whether you’re burdened by school, work, or both, there’s no rest to be had.
“Hey,” You yawn tiredly, walking your way to the coffee machine. It was either that or tea this morning. Art was a tea kind of guy, so you put on the electric kettle for him.
He resumes eating, almost finishing his first slice. He’s now got one leg crossed over the other as he assesses you in your oversized t-shirt, munching away on the crust. He has an aura of sassiness to him this morning with that body language.
“Yeah, yeah, I look rough, I know. Not all of us are divas when we wake up,” You lean against the counter, folding your arms across your chest. “And pizza? For breakfast? Come on.”
Art just responds in kind with fluffing up his imaginary hair and then flipping it over his shoulder. Bad hair day? Couldn’t be him!
“You got any plans for today, or are you just gonna go back to crafting shit in my spare room?”
Art shrugs his shoulders as he reaches for the second pizza slice, this time ripping off parts of the cold sauced and cheesed up flatbread to pop in his mouth in a very prim manner. He’s been very into letting his whims lead his decisions as of late.
“Gotcha.” You remark, not sure where to continue the conversation immediately, but you don’t need to worry about that as your coffee has finished brewing and the electric kettle has heat up the water. You sweeten your coffee to taste, as well as Art’s tea in a timely manner. He liked his drinks sweet. Anything bitter was an immediate no. With the remaining hot water in the kettle, you use it to make yourself instant oatmeal.
You plant a kiss to his cheek which he allows as you put his drink down near him. You take your seat on the other side of the table where your oatmeal waits, coffee mug in hand, watching him eat. Silence passes between the two of you until you finally voice what you’ve been thinking for the past few minutes.
Hmm, imagine knowing Art during childhood and him coming off as this really weird and morbid kid but still like hanging out with him (and him liking to hang out with you) but you having to move away, and coming back years later in adult hood and running into him in his clown fit, but you don’t recognize him (yet) but he does you can gets soo excited
I think that would be QUITE interesting.
Maybe he doesn’t see your FACE right away, and dare I say he’d treat you like you’re one of his next victims. He’s on the hunt, on the prowl for his next target.
The way he snuck up on you, grabbed you by your shoulders. Turned you around violently to face him and you’re HORRIFIED. Horrified because you HAD heard about the Miles County Clown and knew it was a risk coming back home, but perhaps you had family you needed to see.
And as his face is inches away from yours, his hot breath hitting your face, Art’s expression shifts from something holding nothing but maliciousness to a kind of familiar tenderness. His hold on you loosens. You’re still too much like a deer in headlights, up until Art does this secret handshake you both had when you were kids that you liked to do since he didn’t talk in his youth either. It was one of the few ways you reached out to him.
He even takes your hand with his to help him complete that secret friendship handshake you both had, and when you look in his eyes, you catch that familiar gleam you remember seeing when it was the both of you as kids. That look was more often present when he was about to do some sort of fucked up prank or he had an idea.
The Miles County Clown is still smiling wide at you, and dares to even pull you in for a hug, which you accept—but you’re still shook.
Man, how fucked up would that be. Imagine. Imagine knowing that your childhood ‘friend’ is now the killer and the only thing that stopped you from being on a t shirt is because you decided to befriend the weird quiet kid.
Imagine trying to figure out if Arts features are his own, or prosthetics and face paint?!
Staring at him too long and eventually breaking- poking and rubbing a finger at his face☝️☺️
Your wish is granted.
Gender neutral reader x Art the clown, tryna touch this man's face, not yet proofread.
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Both of you are coated in blood--mostly him. The blood covering you was a result of getting caught in the crossfire between Art and his victim. You just happened to open the door to see it at the wrong time as he was brutalizing someone in their own home. You came along out of curiosity. Handed him stuff from his trash bag from time to time. This is all still sorta new to you, but you can feel yourself being indoctrinated into this … Madness. It’s shown.
You don’t flinch like you used to when observing his kills. Now you observe and marvel at how much the human body can withstand before the fragile chord connecting the soul to the physical shell is severed. It’s like looking at your biology textbooks in school all over again in the most fucked up way. You’re relearning human anatomy now in a whole other way that’s allowed you to commit to memory when you’ve seen him rip someone’s skin right off their body.
Yep, that’s the trapezius muscle you see exposed. And that’s someone’s flexor tendon he just cut through. That’s a metatarsal he’s got between his teeth. That’s a bile duct he’s drinking from. That’s an eyeball with an optic nerve he’s putting in his trash bag. Aaaaaand that’s a molar he’s gifting you and putting in your palm.
So yeah. You’ve seen it all. He’s tried to get you involved a few times already, but you’re not ready for that yet, much to his annoyance. You’ve assured him you’re working on getting there.
Now you sit in the silence of the aftermath, a trachea sitting right across from you, as he’s relaxing after having completed his newest magnum opus thanks to an unwilling participant. He’s sitting next to you. Both of you aren’t smiling, but he was earlier. Now he’s just neutral, staring off into the distance at nothing in particular, almost like he’s zoning out in thought. You wonder what’s going on in that head of his.
As you stare at his face, attempting to pick up any approximation of where his mind might be, you take in his features. His dark eyes. Pointed chin. Sculpted face that looks a little skeletal near the temples and then gaunt around the cheeks.
Then there’s that nose of his. That beautiful, beautiful nose.
There's no way that it's real. No one's got a real nose like that, you tell yourself. It’s a nice nose, regardless of its legitimacy. You’ve had it between your thighs plenty of times before and it’s bumped against the most intimate parts of you, but the nerves you feel between your thighs and the nerves on your fingers work a little differently. They help you receive and register way differently. Maybe he just super glued it on? What if he WAS born with it? What does he look like without the makeup? Did people make fun of him when he was a kid? Did he ever get to be a kid? Did they make fun of his nose?
You extend your hand out slowly, reaching out to try and touch his nose with the tip of your finger. You’re inches away now–
Your hand is smacked.
“Ow!”
Art startles you when he intercepts you. He’s still staring forward. He can see you in the corner of his vision. The man hasn’t blinked for ten whole minutes. Still hasn’t.
Curiosity killed the cat, and it might kill you if you’re not careful.
You pull your hand back for now. You’ll just have to try again later. When he’s not deep in thought. If that’s what he was even doing, anyway.
How about reader cleaning those nasty teeth for him? Given he’d allowed it-😉
Consider it done. Gender neutral reader x Art, trying to brush this man's teeth.
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This is the third time he’s shoved you off his lap. For the past five minutes, you’ve been fighting the Miles County Clown with sheer determination, spite, and a toothbrush. Who was winning at this point, you weren’t sure. What started off as a simple ambush when he was sitting on the couch watching your TV became a failed plan within seconds the very instant he caught wind of what you were trying to accomplish.
There were three truths that could coexist peacefully:
The first one was that you loved this stupid clown. The second truth was that he was fucking disgusting and often smelled like he came out of the goddamn city sewers, and god have mercy on your soul if you caught a whiff of his breath after he finished eating something–or someone. And the third truth follows on the tails of the second one…
Which is that your standards are absolute dogshit. The bar is in hell! Literally in this case, considering WHO you’re dealing with.
Absolutely no way in hell that anyone else in the entire world would be able to get away with this. No one. They’d get a free lobotomy with how far that toothbrush would be jammed up their nose. You’re actually surprised that he’s not yet gotten up out of his seat, but you did catch him at a time where one of his favorite shows was on. That was all a part of your grand scheme.
You’re back in his lap again, toothbrush with a little bit of toothpaste still somehow miraculously attached to the bristles.
He moves his head away from you again, like a defiant child, and he’s starting to wear down your patience and piss you off.
“Art.” You firmly tell him, trying to get this brush near his face, and so far, the closest you’ve gotten is within a few inches of his mouth. You use your free hand to try and tilt his head back to keep him from moving, leaving him to respond in turn with a scowl, baring his teeth in the form of a threat.
Which was fine for you.
With enough dexterity, you manage to get a few brushes in on the top row of his teeth, feeling a bit of satisfaction until he elbows you in the face and then pushes your head away so you can’t see.
“Fucker!” You say through grit teeth. “Art, come ON! Let me HELP you!”
You don’t feel the pain when he hits you in the face. Anger and frustration run deep in your veins now, guided by nothing but pure adrenaline as you’re both locked in battle with each other, pushing at the other. You both look like siblings at this point. That’s about how it fucking felt.
You fight against him pushing your head away, and catch a glimpse of a horrid sight–
His gums are bleeding.
His teeth are coated in blood.
You knew that his oral hygiene was bad, but you didn’t know how bad, and it becomes apparent to you that everything was way worse than you thought.
Then he stuns you, zigging when you were expecting him to zag as he switches it up, grabbing your wrists and staring you right in the face, his snarl twisting into a smile. You don’t get a chance to react.
Well, you sort of did.
“Art–”
You’re cut off as he presses his lips to yours, forcefully kissing you and sloppily giving you the nastiest fucking makeout ever. His tongue pushes past your mouth and goes in, shamelessly sharing whatever taste he had leftover from the mystery dinner he ate the night before, but not without the sharp taste of iron from his bleeding gums first. You gag, the pungent taste hitting your tongue, leaving you to immediately try to back up off of him, and he helps you further by once again shoving you off, this time flinging you to the floor at the foot of the couch.
The toothbrush, your so-called weapon of the day, has been dropped and rolled away from where you landed flat on your back.
Art wasn’t having it. The show he had been hoping to watch tonight? Ruined, as he gets up off the couch and leaves you on the ground. He had half a mind to kick you in the side on the way out.
You’ll just have to try again some other time. Maybe.
I feel like I’d miss Art way to much when he’s gone. I mean, come on we need our clown! Just imagine being able to jump up into his arms when he gets back and he holds you.
He lets you seek him out and doesn’t rip you to bloody shreds🥺
Oh absolutely. He’s a bit of a lanky guy but I’d like to think there’s a good chunk of supernatural strength in there running through him that lets him hold you with ease.
Doesn’t rip you to bloody shreds either when you see him, but he DOES fuss over you.
He’d be giving you a once over, circling you, taking note of ANY changes of you while he’d been away. He’d be content to see that you’re doing well. If you’re not taking care of yourself, he’d be… very disappointed, however, I would NOT suggest letting him take care of you because I don’t trust him and you shouldn’t either—that man would bring you home someone’s liver to eat if you say you’re hungry. So if ANYTHING, to NOT attract his ire and run the risk of him bringing you some sorta fucked up excuse of a meal he’d be shoving down your throat because you skipped dinner, you DO take care of yourself for when he comes to visit.
This is, of course, in theory if he’s the type to come and go. And to me, he is. He’s kinda like a cat. You don’t know how long he’s gonna be gone for. But when he comes back he’s coming back on his own time, mentally ready and affectionate. And when you seek him out, you find him because he lets you find him.
You don’t know when you’re gonna see him. Only he knows. Days? Months? Years? So far after all 3 movies we can see he’s not bound by strictly October.
So be on your best goddamn behavior and take care of yourself.
Idk if can this be counted as a request, feel free to ignore it if you're not comfortable, but I'm having a hard time with depression and, believe it or not, my Art hiperfixation is truly helping me (especially reading your fics, thank you btw!) so I was wondering... How would Art deal with a depressed reader?
Hmmm… For a depressed reader? Funny you say that because guess who has two thumbs and ALSO has depression? Me.
If you had Art as a partner and you were down in the dumps—as in not getting a shower, not brushing your teeth, feeding yourself… I’m not so sure HOW useful that murder clown would be. He’s… not exactly the comforting type.
I think his language of caring for you in that regard is just being there for you. And, well, not killing you. Tucks you in at night when you’re asleep. Tosses packaged snacks at your head from a distance across the room. He’s not gonna make you shower or brush your teeth though—the man prolly usually smells like he comes out of the fucking sewers when he’s not smelling of blood, viscera and death. So that part is gonna have to be all you, I’m afraid.
But hey, sometimes when he kills someone he’ll bring you back a trinket or a gift to show he thought of you! Tucks it in with you when you’re sleeping that night. Might be a bit blood stained, might not. Lil stuffed bear or bunny. If you’re even into stuffed things. And if you’re not, too bad! You’re getting it anyway.
A lot of your depression is something you’d have to fight on your own with meds and/or therapy or just rawdogging it out, but Art’s at least there to be with you throughout it. I’d like to think his willing presence alone counts for something.
Helooo agaain :P this is not really a request (but feel free to write anything you want ) is more of a "how do you see this" i wanted to ask if you see Art capable of being vulnerable with the reader. Or even showing the itty bittiest amount of affection. I love to explore his character and not only read about the shallow exterior, but to explore a bit more than meets the eye yk? I feel like you capture that essence of him really well thats why i like your writing so much (sorry if i went off topic lol) bye bye 🫶🏻
Always glad to see you! And you truly have a way of flattering me. (It’s working 🙈❤️)
I do see Art as being capable of being vulnerable with the dear reader. I think that it really depends on their personality overall, but vulnerability with Art … It’s reminded me of a quote about Harley Quinn and Joker I read somewhere years ago in my teenage years.
Everyone’s seen the Joker laugh, only Harley has seen him cry. Now, I’m not saying Art has the capacity to cry, because I don’t think he has any functional tear ducts—crying here could be more figurative. Sadness does not always have to involve tears.
Everyone’s only ever seen Art smile and silently laugh. You have the privilege of seeing him when he’s not smiles. The reader has seen his other array of emotions that harken back to his humanity. Whenever he had it. Now how much of said humanity there was is up for debate.
And especially given the most recent movie? DHT believes that Art is now more dangerous than ever and I’m inclined to agree with him. Art is scared now. He’s now physically vulnerable. Our reader would get to see him scared. To the rest of the world he’s a cornered animal and willing to pull out all the stops to survive. And he will. But you’ve seen the fear in his eyes, that primal drive that lingers in every living creature that kickstarts us and fills us with the will and desire to live.
Affection with Art involves being able to share a space with him and not get your skull cracked in. I do see him as more on a grey ace spectrum as he’s primarily motivated by murder and mutilation, but you get intimacy every once in a blue moon. It’s not important to him compared to the joy and euphoria he gets in harming and eviscerating and killing others, but he’ll humor you—so as long as you’re okay with a little pain. Intimacy with him involves a bit of give and take. You can get some moments of tenderness and romance in exchange for your blood and pain and occasional suffering. It’s a very… sadomasochistic relationship and he’s going to drag you down into the deepest depths of hell with him. It’s about ruining you. He will literally be the end of you, but I suppose there’s something to be said for that level of devotion and love to jump for him, knowing what doom awaits you on the other side. You’re going to sacrifice every piece of yourself.
He’s a parasite who will devour you from the inside in the most thrilling, delicious, yet agonizing way possible. But at least he’s funny.
May I like, request a blurb or something that’s describing a moment between art and reader in the little childhood friends au the other anons were talking about 👉👈 Can be anything! Maybe it’s just them reminiscing about their past. It’s up to you
Sure, I can build off of this one! Gender neutral reader x Art, childhood friends au. Since this seems to be a popular one among y’all which has shocked me. Not proofread because it’s 12am and I gotta be in an office tomorrow.
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After dessert, that night you and Art spent hours going through that scrapbook he’d thumbed through earlier and stained with blood. He seemed a little more… Content? After some cheesecake.
Still didn’t make up for you ditching him all those years ago, and he’s certain to continue to hold that against you as leverage to get what he wants until he’s milked it dry.
With his hands now clean because you politely asked him to, you’re watching him take his time with each page. You’re curled up against him on your comfy couch, body leaning into him, your head resting against his shoulder. He supports your weight.
The room around you provides ambiance when you’re not speaking. The sound of your clock on the wall, and the television in front of you both at low volume, playing some old black and white romance movie that neither of you cared to actually watch. The news was an option, but you didn’t want to listen to whatever was going on in the world when all you cared about was right next to you, encased comfortably within these four walls that you could call a part of your home.
As he flips through various pages, there’s all sorts of memoirs of both your youth that ranged from photos to drawings to letters you’d send him. He was older than you. You were younger. But you grew up close together within proximity. You remember digging up worms in the dirt together, observing unlucky dead baby birds that fell out of their nest, watching the seasons as caterpillars turned to either moths or butterflies, and throwing bugs in spider webs just to marvel at the way nature could be so beautiful yet so cruel.
It was a constant cycle of life and death. That’s the way the world works, isn’t it? You think to yourself, as Art is still coated in now dried gore that fortunately won’t stain your couch, but may very well make it stink. He smells like death. And sulfur. He is death.
And he’s warm. So comfortably warm. You don’t have central heating system money, and fall is here. So he’s quite nice. A warm living furnace. But a stinky one. You wrinkle your nose.
“I kept a lot of our memories.” You confess as he’s nearing the end of the book, now looking at the pictures you cut out of your yearbook and slapped between the pages. He doesn’t look at you. It’s almost as if the clown is entranced, enticed and curious about a life that he almost doesn’t seem to recognize, like it’s the first time seeing them. But they’re all him, alright.
Art wraps an arm around your form as he continues to go through the contents of your blood, sweat and tears all pressed between leather and bindings. He pulls you in closer, attention never leaving the pages.
He appreciates the effort of documentation. And, you think, he appreciates you.
