#cornerstore asks

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.