*distant loud screeching*

wanna create too tired wanna create cant think wanna create too tired wanna create cant think wanna create too tired wanna create cant think wanna create too tired wanna create cant think wanna create too tired wanna create cant think wanna create too tired wanna create cant think wanna create too tired wanna create cant think wanna create too tired wanna create cant think wanna create too tired wanna create cant think wanna create too tired wanna create cant think wanna create too tired wanna create cant think wanna create too tired wanna create cant think wanna create too tired wanna create cant think wanna create too tired wanna create cant think wanna create too tired wanna create cant think

An Article from Neena Susan Thomas

“Through a rapist’s eyes. A group of rapists and date rapists in prison were interview…ed on what they look for in a potential victim and here are some interesting facts:

1] The first thing men look for in a potential victim is hairstyle. They are most likely to go after a woman with a ponytail, bun! , braid, or other hairstyle that can easily be grabbed. They are also likely to go after a woman with long hair. Women with short hair are not common targets.

2] The second thing men look for is clothing. They will look for women who’s clothing is easy to remove quickly. Many of them carry scissors around to cut clothing.

3] They also look for women using their cell phone, searching through their purse or doing other activities while walking because they are off guard and can be easily overpowered.

4] The number one place women are abducted from / attacked at is grocery store parking lots.

5] Number two is office parking lots/garages.

6] Number three is public restrooms.

7] The thing about these men is that they are looking to grab a woman and quickly move her to a second location where they don’t have to worry about getting caught.

8] If you put up any kind of a fight at all, they get discouraged because it only takes a minute or two for them to realize that going after you isn’t worth it because it will be time-consuming.

9] These men said they would not pick on women who have umbrellas,or other similar objects that can be used from a distance, in their hands.

10] Keys are not a deterrent because you have to get really close to the attacker to use them as a weapon. So, the idea is to convince these guys you’re not worth it.

POINTS THAT WE SHOULD REMEMBER:

1] If someone is following behind you on a street or in a garage or with you in an elevator or stairwell, look them in the face and ask them a question, like what time is it, or make general small talk: can’t believe it is so cold out here, we’re in for a bad winter. Now that you’ve seen their faces and could identify them in a line- up, you lose appeal as a target.

2] If someone is coming toward you, hold out your hands in front of you and yell Stop or Stay back! Most of the rapists this man talked to said they’d leave a woman alone if she yelled or showed that she would not be afraid to fight back. Again, they are looking for an EASY target.

3] If you carry pepper spray (this instructor was a huge advocate of it and carries it with him wherever he goes,) yelling I HAVE PEPPER SPRAY and holding it out will be a deterrent.

4] If someone grabs you, you can’t beat them with strength but you can do it by outsmarting them. If you are grabbed around the waist from behind, pinch the attacker either under the arm between the elbow and armpit or in the upper inner thigh – HARD. One woman in a class this guy taught told him she used the underarm pinch on a guy who was trying to date rape her and was so upset she broke through the skin and tore out muscle strands the guy needed stitches. Try pinching yourself in those places as hard as you can stand it; it really hurts.

5] After the initial hit, always go for the groin. I know from a particularly unfortunate experience that if you slap a guy’s parts it is extremely painful. You might think that you’ll anger the guy and make him want to hurt you more, but the thing these rapists told our instructor is that they want a woman who will not cause him a lot of trouble. Start causing trouble, and he’s out of there.

6] When the guy puts his hands up to you, grab his first two fingers and bend them back as far as possible with as much pressure pushing down on them as possible. The instructor did it to me without using much pressure, and I ended up on my knees and both knuckles cracked audibly.

7] Of course the things we always hear still apply. Always be aware of your surroundings, take someone with you if you can and if you see any odd behavior, don’t dismiss it, go with your instincts. You may feel little silly at the time, but you’d feel much worse if the guy really was trouble.

FINALLY, PLEASE REMEMBER THESE AS WELL ….

1. Tip from Tae Kwon Do: The elbow is the strongest point on your body. If you are close enough to use it, do it.

2. Learned this from a tourist guide to New Orleans : if a robber asks for your wallet and/or purse, DO NOT HAND IT TO HIM. Toss it away from you…. chances are that he is more interested in your wallet and/or purse than you and he will go for the wallet/purse. RUN LIKE MAD IN THE OTHER DIRECTION!

3. If you are ever thrown into the trunk of a car: Kick out the back tail lights and stick your arm out the hole and start waving like crazy. The driver won’t see you but everybody else will. This has saved lives.

4. Women have a tendency to get into their cars after shopping,eating, working, etc., and just sit (doing their checkbook, or making a list, etc. DON’T DO THIS! The predator will be watching you, and this is the perfect opportunity for him to get in on the passenger side,put a gun to your head, and tell you where to go. AS SOON AS YOU CLOSE the DOORS , LEAVE.

5. A few notes about getting into your car in a parking lot, or parking garage:

a. Be aware: look around your car as someone may be hiding at the passenger side , peek into your car, inside the passenger side floor, and in the back seat. ( DO THIS TOO BEFORE RIDING A TAXI CAB) .

b. If you are parked next to a big van, enter your car from the passenger door. Most serial killers attack their victims by pulling them into their vans while the women are attempting to get into their cars.

c. Look at the car parked on the driver’s side of your vehicle, and the passenger side. If a male is sitting alone in the seat nearest your car, you may want to walk back into the mall, or work, and get a guard/policeman to walk you back out. IT IS ALWAYS BETTER TO BE SAFE THAN SORRY. (And better paranoid than dead.)

6. ALWAYS take the elevator instead of the stairs. (Stairwells are horrible places to be alone and the perfect crime spot).

7. If the predator has a gun and you are not under his control, ALWAYS RUN! The predator will only hit you (a running target) 4 in 100 times; And even then, it most likely WILL NOT be a vital organ. RUN!

8. As women, we are always trying to be sympathetic: STOP IT! It may get you raped, or killed. Ted Bundy, the serial killer, was a good-looking, well educated man, who ALWAYS played on the sympathies of unsuspecting women. He walked with a cane, or a limp, and often asked “for help” into his vehicle or with his vehicle, which is when he abducted his next victim.

Send this to any woman you know that may need to be reminded that the world we live in has a lot of crazies in it and it’s better safe than sorry.

If u have compassion reblog this post.
‘Helping hands are better than Praying Lips’ – give us your helping hand.

REBLOG THIS AND LET EVERY GIRL KNOW
AT LEAST PEOPLE WILL KNOW WHATS GOING ON IN THIS WORLD.
So please reblog this….Your one reblog can Help to spread this information.

THIS COULD ACTUALLY SAVE A LIFE.”

Don't bet on it

Originally posted by sweetteaa19

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Castiel x AFAB!fem!Reader

Supernatural (2005)

Word count: 9.6K (I'm shocked too dw)

Summary: I have no idea how to describe this I'm so sorry it's just smut. There's also some morning-after shenanigans. Believe me if I could I would but thinking of a title was hard enough.

Content: Just... pretty much 9.6K words of shameless Cas smut because I love him. Only one bed, porn with a plot, friends to lovers (sort of), little bit of hurt/comfort and first aid (?), Cas is a bit of warning honestly. Smut: Cas is a virgin, first kiss, making out, hickeys, blowjob, handjob, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (yikes), fingering, very very light dirty talk, very loving very gentle sex, sharing a bed. Dean is a bit of an oblivious idiot, Sam is less oblivious.

Notes: I wrote this while trying to fall asleep at my friend's house and didn't proof read. I've also only known Cas for six episodes (almost seven), so most of the characterisation for him is based of gifsets, incorrect quotes, and other fanfics (so is the lore/plot because I'm not that far into the series yet but I was impatient so just ignore any mistakes or plot inconsistencies if you find them, although I did try). Hence it's probably bad. But oh well, this wouldn't leave my brain until I wrote it and like I said I'm impatient and also I'm a little bit proud of the smut alone and he's fucking hot I mean come on. Dean Winchester is a better man than me because god damn I would've jumped his bones the second he looked at me and I have no idea how he didn't. Be nice.

Keep reading

The people who dismiss the Terrifier films as nothing but torture porn are seriously doing a disservice to David Howard Thornton’s acting as Art the Clown. Man is so good at physical acting and making faces that he doesn’t even need to speak to command attention. His acting is what I believe absolutely makes the series, and what I believe separates it from the typical slasher film. Also Sienna and Vicky are incredible characters for different reasons, some of the best female characters in horror

Art the clown x femreader

“Silence” chapter two

Chapter Two is here! Thank you to all who waited patiently. This is a slow burn, folks, but we're getting into the smut. Art doesn't necessarily need sex to be fulfilled or function, so he's navigating that.

All comments and likes are so very appreciated. Let me know what you think!

Originally posted by rotten-bread

It had been a year since then, and returning to normalcy felt surreal. You drifted through each day, numb to the passage of time as the months, weeks, and even hours melded into an indistinguishable blur, an overwhelming haze you were reluctant to face. The weight of your silence pressed heavily on your chest; you hadn’t confided in anyone about the events that transpired and wouldn't; it was as if you shared an unspoken bond with Art, who had stood between you and danger, shielding you and preserving your life, his motifs still unknown to you, driving you to insanity.

The rape was the most challenging experience to process, leaving you feeling utterly shattered and hollow. You found yourself swearing off sex entirely, grappling with the anger and betrayal that came from that night—each moment replayed in your mind, filling you with a deep-seated resentment toward the very existence of men, vowing never to let another in your bed. Jen had tried to reconnect with you multiple times, but you had made the difficult decision to end the friendship. It seemed she couldn't grasp the weight of that choice, which felt incredibly selfish to you but wasn't surprising. One day, in a moment of honesty, you laid it all bare, telling her in no uncertain terms that her actions had left a lasting impact on your life. You knew you couldn't blame her entirely, you were intoxicated but the what if had she stayed with you that night ate away at you, decaying the friendship.

But most of all, a twisted and dark part of your mind longed for the solace of art, even though you were painfully aware that it was misguided. You found yourself pondering his absence, questioning where he might be, the memories of him clinging to you like a shadow, an echo of a connection that once felt profound. It wasn’t as if he owed you anything; rationally, you understood that. Yet, the remnants of that peculiar and intoxicating night lingered in the recesses of your thoughts, a connection forged in your own trauma that felt both dark and irresistible, compelling you to reflect on the inexplicable ties that often bind people together in pain.

You constantly and obsessively replayed the memory of that night when you let him into your home. The shadows had danced around the room as he stepped inside, his presence both unsettling and oddly comforting. You had been exhausted, the weight of the night pressing down on you, an unbearable weight to hold, but he had allowed you to lean against him. The notorious Miles County Clown, a figure of local legends and fears, giving you the rare privilege of touch. You found yourself harboring a growing attraction to him and his peculiar mannerisms. A feeling that initially caught you off guard and prompted a battle within your mind. He was a killer; it should be taboo to think such thoughts, yet, as time went on, that inner struggle faded, replaced with acceptance.

*********

Present day.

You settled into the familiar embrace of your couch, your legs elegantly crossed over one another, seeking comfort in the gentle curve of the cushions. Your teeth gently clamped down on your bottom lip, holding it captive, a nervous habit you had picked up in the last couple of months when you felt anxious. It was nearly midnight, but the allure of the 1,000-piece puzzle sprawled across the coffee table kept sleep at bay. Its vibrant depiction of a serene garden, filled with blooming flowers and lush greenery, beckoned to you. A scene of relaxation that was right in front of you but just out of grasp, unobtainable.

You reached for your wine glass, carefully balancing it between your fingers, the rich crimson liquid sloshing slightly against the sides of the glass with each movement. The night was quiet, save for the soft rustle of puzzle pieces as you desperately tried to piece together your vision of tranquility.

“Fuck this,” you murmured to yourself, blowing air through your lips before taking an overzealous sip, wincing at the taste of cheap cookie-cutter wine. A few weeks ago, a coworker casually shared how she coped with stress by immersing herself in the intricate world of puzzles. Her voice was light and enthusiastic for assembling frustratingly small, colorful pieces into a coherent picture, so much so that it was hard not to believe her. However, it was clear she was unaware of the depths of your inner turmoil and the cacophony of memories and thoughts that relentlessly swirled in your mind. For you, the idea of a puzzle felt futile, a mere distraction that did nothing to quiet the chaos that marked your daily existence.

You flicked on the television, fighting the urge to spill the pieces onto the floor and

Trash it. You began to scroll through the endless stream of channels mindlessly; occasionally, you paused to refill your cup, the rich liquid cool on your hand through the thin glass. Gradually, you felt the familiar embrace of intoxication wash over you, wrapping you in a soothing haze that dulled the edges of reality. This blissful, now familiar state shielded you from the haunting memories that played behind your eyelids, tormenting you. It was as if the wine was a knight in shining alcoholic armor. You fought heavy eyelids for half an hour before letting your body sink into the warm comfort of your couch, the cushions and pillows an ocean swallowing you whole.

You awoke hours later, a hoarse scream escaping your lips as your body convulsed in panic, only stilling when the dim contours of your living room sharpened into focus, anchoring you back to reality. A sheen of sweat glistened across your skin, drenched and clammy, while your hair clung uncomfortably to your neck and forehead. Overwhelmed by the heat surging through you, you quickly shed the suffocating fleece robe, leaving only the cool embrace of a silk slip, the fabric sliding against your burning skin like water

With a reluctant sigh, you pushed yourself off the couch, frustrated with the third nightmare of the week. The soft creaking of the old wooden floors reverberated in the house's stillness, each step sending a shiver through your bare feet. The sweat that once clung to you now felt like ice, urging you to move faster, your arms wrapping tightly around your stomach in a pathetic attempt to stay warm. You came to an abrupt halt as you stepped into the kitchen, feet tripping over each other, your hand frozen on the light switch. Your heart thumped loudly against your ribcage, and you swore you could hear it outside your body. Panic gripped you tightly, sharp pins and needles and blood rushing in your ears. Run. Flee. A scream threatened to erupt but instead escaped your lips as a soft, helpless whimper.

Art was perched on a stool, bathed in the gentle, warm glow of the light above your stove. The shadows illuminated his features and created an almost ghostly appearance. He had to have known your presence was there, but he didn't acknowledge it. You looked down, the movement of your head jerky and unsteady, and saw he had a weapon in his hands, his fingers slowly and quietly moving over the weapon as if reminiscing.

You shook your head in disbelief, feeling a wave of confusion wash over you. This couldn't possibly be real. How had you not heard him enter the house? How did he get in? It was as if he had materialized out of thin air. A cold shiver ran down your spine as you struggled to grasp the situation. Was this some cruel hallucination, a manifestation of your fractured mind? The boundaries of reality felt hazy, and you began to wonder if you were still caught in a dream, too entrapped in its bizarre grasp to awaken. The air around you felt electric, charged with the weight of unspoken words and unresolved emotions, leaving you questioning what was true and what was merely a figment of your imagination.

He shifted, the fabric of his suit rustling, bringing you back to the present. He was already staring at you, a wicked smile spreading across his face, animating him and making you flinch. You watched, frozen in place, as he lifted his hand in a wave—the same gesture you recalled vividly, each finger moving gracefully through the air as if he were stroking the keys of an imaginary piano.

“Art?” you murmured. He nodded, eyebrows raised, and gestured to himself with both hands, ‘That's me.’ His unfamiliar appearance left you feeling somewhat unsettled, but you couldn't quite articulate what it was. He was clean, the fabric looking almost too perfect as if it had never encountered a speck of blood or a wrinkle. His gloves were equally immaculate, starkly contrasting the blood you had seen on them last time.

“You're not real,” you scoffed, the sound echoing jarringly in the small space.

He rose slowly from his seat, the harsh sound of the stool scraping against the wooden floor sending a jolt through your body. You felt an overwhelming urge to run, but your legs felt as though they were encased in concrete, heavy and unresponsive. Once a natural reflex, the instinct seemed to have frayed beyond repair long ago, taking your mind with it.

As he drew nearer, you could feel the weight of his gaze. His eyes bore into you with unsettling intensity, and his smile stretched across his face—a twisted grin that hinted at secrets you dared not unravel.

“Art,” you breathed, the name slipping from your lips like a whisper, and you noticed a flicker of burning intensity in his eyes—something dark and all-consuming. He stopped a few feet away, his body so close that you considered reaching out to bridge the distance between you, make sure he was real, but a wave of fear held you back, anchoring your hand at your side.

He lowered his head slightly, bringing his piercing gaze to your level as he bent at the hips. His eyes were strikingly unusual. The sclerae were stark and unnatural white with hints of blue that contrasted vividly with the black, dilated pupils that seemed to float within them. They looked as if they were suspended in an icy expanse, their depth captivating, drawing you into a strange and eerie embrace.

You acted on your impulse, extending your hand slowly, watching as his gaze tracked the movement with intense curiosity. With a mix of hesitation and an overwhelming urge, you gently brushed your fingers against his cheek, fully aware that you might regret this moment. At first, he flinched at the unexpected contact, his body tense with surprise. But then, as if a switch had flipped, his eyes grew wide, transforming into wild, manic orbs filled with unsettling excitement, his grin spreading across his face further, expanding beyond the limits of what seemed humanly possible, illuminating his features, making him look horrifying. He snatched your wrist suddenly, making you yelp, and pushed your body back until you slammed into a wall, your head bouncing off the door frame, making you hiss.

“Don't hurt me, art, please. I'm sorry. I'm

Sorry,” your breathing now shallow pants, tears stinging your eyes as they threatened to spill over. He let go of your wrist, threw an arm on the wall beside your head, and reached his other out, feeling the silk fabric that clung to your hip, sending butterflies to your stomach. You gasped when he moved it back up, putting it around your neck, pointer finger gliding over your pulse point before squeezing firmly, enough to elicit fear. It was a loud but simple message of ‘I could crush your throat.’

“Okay. Okay, it's okay, art,” you breathed softly, your voice barely above a whisper. His head jerked up, and his piercing white eyes locked onto yours, filled with a fierce, almost ravenous intensity. In that moment, a fleeting thought crossed your mind: perhaps he had never heard his name spoken aloud by anyone before, only terrified screams as they were brutally murdered by his hand.

“Where have you been?" you asked, trying to shift the conversation away from death. Your voice trembled slightly, betraying the anxiety that had settled deep in your chest. Your eyes darted around his face, searching for reassurance. "I… I thought you'd come to see me," you stammered, the words escaping your lips in a shaky whisper.

He laughed, his shoulders rising and falling stiffly, and stood back up to his full height. He made a crude hacking motion at his neck, then stuck his tongue out, eyes closed momentarily as he played dead.

“You…died?” you asked, utterly perplexed, struggling to comprehend how such a situation could unfold while he remained right in front of you, seemingly unfazed. The unsettling thought crept in—what if he wasn't entirely human? The very idea sent a jolt through you like electricity, twisting your thoughts into a tangled mess. You reached your hand out again, but this time, you hesitated, fliting your gaze upwards to meet his eyes, letting your lashes brush softly against your skin. A spark of expectation flickered in his gaze as he nodded with eagerness. Without hesitation, he captured your outstretched hand, pulling it firmly against his chest, right above where his heart would be. You flinched instinctively, attempting to retract your hand from his grasp, but he held it firmly, refusing to let go. Your heart raced, eyes widening in disbelief. Instead of the warmth you had anticipated, a strange, unsettling coldness emanated from him, sending a cascade of tingling sensations through your fingers, making them numb. You remembered now when he grabbed you all that time ago, quieting you with his hand. He had pulled your back to his chest and was so cold and unmovable.

“Fuck,” you breathed out, the air rushing from your lungs as if you’d been holding your breath.

He looked at you intently, his gaze piercing through the haze of your thoughts, trying to gauge your reaction. Then smiled, giving you an exasperated look as if to say, ‘Tell me about it,’ waving a gloved hand through the air dismissively, making your lips pull up in a hidden smile.

“Art,” a breath of his name. You didn't know

How many times you had spoken his name tonight, but it was as if every time you did, he grew softer, less chaotic towards you. His eyebrows shot up, and he tilted his head in a silent reply to his name. “I just- I need to know why you're not killing me. You asked an answer you craved ever since he brutally murdered Maverick a year ago in front of you

He shifted so he stood even closer, making a wave of warmth wash over you and heat rise to your cheeks. He pointed a finger at your chest, the movement scorching your skin despite his icy fingers, and then pointed back at himself. He nodded, rather proud he had communicated effectively, but you began to shake your head, not understanding at all, to which he let his arms fall to his sides dramatically as if saying, ‘I give up,’ an accusatory look on his face that made you laugh softly.

“I know, it's just. I don't understand what you're saying,” you whispered, your eyes unable to leave his.

He shrugged, defeated, and leaned back up, returning to sit on the stool. You watched from the wall for a moment in a trance, his large hands carefully putting together some kind of metal rod with small chains hanging off the top, and it appeared he was fastening your knives to the end, making some evil whip. You shifted awkwardly, arms crossing over your body, a chill in the room kissing your exposed skin, making you shiver. He looked up, noticing you hadn't moved, and beckoned you over to him, icy eyes trailing you as you got closer. He scooted the stool back, giving enough space for you to fit between his legs and the counter.

“There?” you said incrudeoulsny and pointed between his legs, yelping when he grabbed you and placed you on his knee, his body shifting to accommodate you.

“Art?” you squeaked, turning your head over your shoulder to look at him.

His fingers stilled, and he stared, his face devoid of any emotions, his smile gone, his black lips closed into a grim line. He was expecting you to speak.

“It's very hard to know your intentions. It's…unsettling,” you said, keeping your voice quiet so as not to disturb the closeness between your bodies.

He looked offended, his brow lowering making him look menacing before he began to work again, long fingers carefully boring holes into the end of the knives. You sat in silent company for a long time before your eyes grew heavy, leaning your back into his shoulder, your head resting agaisnt his neck. He didn't seem to mind, effortlessly adjusting you on his lap every so often. Then it dawned on you he wasn't able to communicate with words; what if he was trying with actions instead? He had spared you, let you touch him, and now was letting you sit on his lap, but why? He was a heartless serial killer, his hands doing unspeakable things. It didn't make sense, but you basked in the moment regardless.

“I’m getting tired,” you murmured, sitting up slightly, trying to balance on his knee.

He ignored you at first but then set his tools down, a metallic thud echoing in the kitchen. He placed both hands on your hips and picked you up, setting you on the floor, and turned to face you, legs spread open. Something you had difficulty not focusing on, finding it attractive.

“Do you ever… sleep?” you inquired, your eyes locked on him as he responded with a slight shake of his head, indicating a firm ‘no.’ You turned your gaze toward the clock on the wall, its hands creeping close to 4 a.m., the wave of fatigue washing

over you, threatening to take you. You nodded, your body swaying slightly as you tried to maintain your coordination.

“Well, um, I don't think I can stay up much longer without passing out, so. I guess you could stay here…for as long as you need or..” you trailed off when he rose from his seat and stood in front of you, grinning wildly. Your heart began to thump in your chest, some untold anticipation in the air building like thick electrical static.

“Art,” you exclaimed, your finger jabbing toward him in an accusatory gesture, the tremor in your voice betraying the anxiety you helplessly tried to mask.

He jumped toward you, oversized clown shoes slapping the wood loudly, making you gasp. He began laughing silently, pointing a finger at you as he threw his head back. Everything was funny at your expense.

“Stop it,” you said firmly, his gimics boring through your sanity. His movements stopped, and he stared down at you, a smile absent from his face; something you were starting to realize was his way of indicating he was unhappy, as best he could while being mute. He bolted towards you, the small space of your house not providing much room to hide. You screamed, the veins in your throat straining, making your head burn as you ran into your bedroom, slamming the door closed with both hands,

but he caught it, one hand resting in the middle before he peaked around it, raising his eyes brows playfully ‘ive got you now,’ before he shoved, making the wood creak on its hinges, threatening to spilt apart.

“Stop it, art!” you shouted, your voice coming out broken. In a spur-of-the-moment decision, you spun around, snatched up the nearest object—a sturdy wine bottle—and brandished it like a weapon. He halted, eyes widening at the sight of the bottle you wielded, his expression shifting dramatically. With an exaggerated flourish, he threw his hands up theatrically, his mouth forming a playful ‘oh no’ as if he was caught in a comedy skit rather than a confrontation.

“I'll use it. I thought we were….. friends,” you said breathlessly, unsure what you actually were to each other. Maybe a toy until he grew bored.

Logically, you knew if he wanted you dead, you would be, which was deeply unnerving. He had an uncanny ability to leave his silent conversations shrouded in ambiguity, making it exceedingly difficult to grasp his true intentions or thoughts. Every interaction felt like a puzzle; the pieces seldom fit together clearly. As a result, you often found yourself relying on your assumptions rather than any concrete understanding of what he meant, which was dangerous with a man like him.

He jumped towards you again, making you scream, pointing a long finger at you as if to say, ‘Got you.’

“You're an asshole,” you whined and stared at the bottle, letting out a frustrated huff of air as it shook unsteadily in your hands.

He put both hands under his chin, blinking his eyes bashfully as if to say, ‘Why, thank you.’ Then he began walking over to you, grabbing your wrist firmly and tossing the bottle aside. The glass shattering and hitting your legs and feet, the residue left in the bottle staining the floor.

A high-pitched scream rang through the room when he picked you up and carelessly tossed you onto your back, air leaving your lungs momentarily. You looked up at him, catching your breath, processing what just happened.

“Don't. Don't,” you whispered, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You were terrified, panic making the edges around your eyes blur.

His sharply defined chin angled downward, causing his eyes to vanish into the shadow cast by his prominent brow bones, giving him a distinctly menacing appearance.

You awkwardly pushed yourself back on your elbows, the sound of the fabric rustling beneath you cutting through the oppressive silence like an unwelcome intrusion. Your eyes darted to him as he approached, his figure looming larger as he came to a halt beside your bed, the dim light casting shadows across his face and highlighting the intensity of his gaze. You curled up, tucking your feet tightly against your body in a protective gesture as if trying to make yourself small and inconspicuous. It was a posture that echoed the instinctual behavior of a child, huddled on the edge of their bed, desperately trying to shield themselves from the imagined monster lurking in the shadows beneath.

He clicked his tongue at you, but no sound came out, his eyes narrowing as he shot you a fiercely disapproving glare. As if to emphasize his point, he waggled his finger back and forth in front of his nose, each deliberate motion punctuating the silent reprimand that hung heavily between you.

“Okay. Okay. I'm sorry.” you breathed, although you weren't sure what to be sorry for—resisting him, being scared?

He made a motion you took as ‘stay here’ and walked into the kitchen. A moment later, he returned with a large kitchen knife, twirling the handle in his hand, a playful bounce to his step.

“Nononono. No,” you said frantically, turning over on your stomach and crawling across the bed. The metallic sound of the knife being set down distracted you, his large hands wrapping around your ankles as he yanked your towards him. You managed to kick him in the stomach, to which he violently flipped your body over, yanking you down further so he was standing between your open thighs. His face contorted into anger as he pinned you to the bed by your throat and gave you an accusatory stare as if saying ‘that hurt.’

“I'm sorry, art—imsorryimsorryimsorry,” you chanted, the words bleeding together.

His eyes met yours, eyebrows raising as he took the hand holding the knife and pulled your slip up, exposing your stomach and black lace underwear. The cold blade of the knife kissed your skin, making you shudder violently, an involuntary whine tumbling free from sore, bitten lips.

He looked back down, head cocked to the side mechanically, and held the blade up, making you squirm. “NO,” you screamed, but he silenced you, his fingers squeezing around your throat. He smiled, his shoulders shaking on a laugh, a subtle one that hardly moved his body. He playfully dragged the knife down your thigh, stopping where your hip met the crease of your clothed core. You began to pant, heat pricking up your scalp, feeling cornered and helpless.

“I don't want to die, I don't want to die,” you whimpered, eyes squeezing closed as fat tears spilled over.

He released your throat and slapped your cheek, enough to sting slightly and get your attention.

You looked up at him, his body seeming to cover all you could see. He pointed to his eyes and then proceeded to tap your eyelids, the sensation uncomfortable, making you try to tear your face away from him. He grabbed your chin firmly, pointing it down as he began to press the tip of the blade into your flesh at your hip, the burn as your skin protested and spilt making you scream, your throat burning, making him laugh again. The warmth of blood tricking down your thigh was a strange sensation, hot, warm, and wet. You were surprised when he picked it up and placed It again, dragging it across the soft skin as if he was drawing or writing something, but you couldn't make it out, eyes blurred with tears. He released your face suddenly, shoving you back onto the bed, your hair spilling around you like a halo.

Fear and pain began to spill into each other, creating a nauseating cocktail, your eyelids fluttering open and closed as you fought to

Stay conscious. You felt him place the knife next to your head on the bed, but before you could react, you felt heat and wetness where the blade once was. Your head snapped back up, a loud gasp escaping you as your watched Art sucking on the bloodied red flesh he had maimed. You struggled under him for a moment, his hands coming down to grip your hips, blooded fingers digging into the delicate skin, keeping you still. Some dark, deep, sinister side of you knew it felt good, the sore open skin and feel of his lips and tongue intoxicating.

He stared up at you, still bent over, his tall frame leaning over you, daring you to resist. Your eyes darted from his eyes to mouth, your blood covering the lower half of his face.

“What did you do?” you asked, keeping your voice quiet to avoid disturbing him like some feral cornered animal.

He began to smile, a slow movement this time, and grabbed the knife, slicing his palm. Blood dripped onto your leg first, making you cringe, the muddled crimson liquid trailing up your stomach and then between the valley of your breast as he held it over your face.

“No,” you protested, turning your chin up, whining loudly when he grabbed your face into his hand and squeezed, making your mouth slack open at the pressure. Blood spilled past your lips, making you gag; the fluid, tangy and filled with copper, saturated your tongue. You knew how powerful and dangerous he was; he could end you now regardless of how much you struggled and fought back, the clarity of that making your body finally submit to him, the fight gone from you, replaced with some kind of sick and demented arousal. He grinned and nodded, some unspoken understanding. He opened his eyes wide, his black pupils still blown open, giving him a psychotic, manic expression. He bared, his bloodied teeth at you, your life force smeared across his chin and mouth. He pointed to you, making an expression you could only describe as saying, ‘I know what you're thinking,’ making you blush deeply. What was wrong with you?

“Please,” you murmured. He raised his eyebrows, looking at you questioningly. ‘please, what?’

“Don't make me say it, art, " you said, closing your eyes to hide, wanting to disappear into yourself.

He stepped back from your body and raised his now bloodied hands in the air before crossing them over his chest dramatically, a sort of bored expression on his face as if he was fed up.

You sat up, sitting onto your arms, quietly admiring him, too scared to say the words and what it meant you were admitting. You were attracted to and lusting for a serial killer, possibly the worst one ever to exist. What kind of person would that make you?

“I don't know, I don't understand how I'm

Feeling. I-” you stopped yourself, a feminine whine tumbling from you as he bridged the short distance and stood between your thighs again, hand grabbing your chin firmly. You closed your eyes and tried to look away, but he yanked your head back to center, his pointer finger tapping your cheek persistently.

“I want you to touch me, art. Everywhere,” you finally admitted, frustrated with yourself, eyes looking anywhere but at him. He jerked your head again, a strong message of, ‘Look at me.’ You met his eyes, and he smiled. It was a new one you hadn't seen yet, his teeth hidden but lips pulled up.

You gasped, a choked sort of sound as if it had been repressed, and watched as he knelt down on the floor, his height still

Impressive as he balanced on one knee. He traced bloodied fingers lazily over his work on your hip, the feeling intoxicating.

Your back arched off the bed when his head lowered and licked your sore hip, his mouth closing around the raised flesh, a long finger pulling the edge of your underwear, effectively snapping the fabric until it fell open. You tried to close your thighs at first, feeling too exposed, but he slapped them open, the sting making you whine. He was otherwise gentle, although you knew he was capable of much more. He had to learn the human body well enough to cause the most harm and damage a body could endure, both physically and mentally, for his sadistic pleasures, but that also meant he knew how to make a body feel good, Pleasure, ironically, going hand in hand with violence.

Where he gripped your bare skin, felt like fire, his fingers close enough to tickle your inner hip. You felt his face lower, his breath ghosting over your lower abdomen, before he paused, looking up at you, his face looking sinister as if battling thoughts of badly harming you, mostly because he was. His lips were pulled into a serious frown; his eyelids lowered, the black paint on them casting them in darkness. Then you realized he was asking for consent, something wildly contrasting to the man he was.

“Please,” you whispered, your head thrown back as he wasted no time, his tongue plunging to explore your folds, his nose constantly nudging the sensitive bundle of nerves. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you into his face, driving you to insanity at the flare of dominance. Your soft whimpers filled the cozy corners of your room, a stark reminder that you couldn't remember the last time a man was in between your legs like this, the feeling cathartic and overstimulating, mainly because it was art. He slipped two fingers in you next, sliding in with embarrassing ease, the wet sounds of his fingers pulling in and out of you corrupt. His mouth found your clit, and began his assault, focusing all his time slowly dragging his tongue all the way up before sucking on it. You felt the familiar tingle, a sensation starting at your toes and running up the back of your thighs like electricity.

“Art, fuck. Please,”’you whinned, all self respect thrown out the window. You'd beg this man in the most shameful ways if he wanted you to and a time would come that he would.

His fingers stilled inside you, your arousal leaking around his fingers onto your bed as you clenched around them. He kept the same slow pace with his tongue, making it seem as though he was torturing you, dragging out your impending orgasm for his own sick pleasure.

“Art,” you moaned, desperate, a sheen of sweat coating your chest. He removed his fingers from you, ignoring your needy, bratty whine, and stuck them in your mouth, silencing you. Your taste mingled on his fingers with dried blood as you swirled your tongue around them, protesting when he removed them and placed them at the top of your silk slip, ripping it down the center. The fabric spilled open, cooling your overheated skin.

Surprisingly gentle, his hand rested under the swell of your breast before lowering it, dragging it down your side, painfully slow until it reached your hips, wrapping it with his other so that they fed under your ass and wrapped back around your thighs, locking you onto his mouth again. You yelped when he stood, his grip firm as only your upper back rested in the bed, the rest of your body suspended in the air. His eyes met yours, staring down at you as he sucked your clit into his mouth, the intensity in his eyes making you clench, a loud moan slipping from your lips.

Your body became hot, the coil in your stomach reaching an unbearable tightness. Then he smiled, a devious one with his mouth still buried between your legs, his eyebrows shooting upward as if commanding you to come apart on his tongue. That's all it took. You screamed, eyes rolling into the back of your head, your legs and thighs tingling as you fell apart, the sensation soul-shattering. He dragged it out painfully until you felt hollow, keeping you on his mouth a moment more, lapping up the slick between your thighs before dropping your legs unceremoniously, letting you fall back to the bed, tired legs open around his hips.

You stared up at him, his white eyes meeting yours, his mouth covered in a mixture of your release and blood.

“Thank you,” you murmured, casting your eyes away, embarrassed, unable to look at him anymore. Of all men, to be in your room was art, giving you the most intense experience in the bedroom you've ever had. There was no going back now.

He tapped your nose a few times, making you glance up at him, your eyelids fluttering. Your body was still coming down from the intensity of the orgasm, making you crave sleep. He grinned, the new smile you were starting to admire, his eyes squinting at the corners. He examined your body a moment before slapping your inner thigh firmly, one you took as a sign to move so he could step away from you. You tried to sit up, but he pushed you back down and glared at you.

He jabbed a finger in your direction, then pointed at your bed, seeming to demand, ‘Sleep.’ You nodded slowly and shamelessly let your eyes wander around his body; there was no point in hiding your attraction any longer. You considered yourself a selfless partner in the bedroom, so it was gnawing at you that he hadn't received pleasure yet, but you weren't sure how to go about asking someone like him.

He smiled in mock bashfulness, noticing your wandering eyes, then looked down at his body, pointing at his chest before staring back at you, wagging his eyebrows and waving a hand at you dismissively as if saying ‘aw shucks’ before he dropped the smile, gesturing for you to ‘get some fucking sleep’ You obeyed, allowing your body to relax fully, vowing never to test his dominance again if given a chance.

Sleep enveloped you quickly after that, regardless of whether you wanted it to. You wanted to stay up longer to watch him leave, but your exhausted mind drew you away from the room’s soft light. In your drowsy state, you caught a fleeting memory of murmuring some half-formed plea to him, begging him not to leave you again for so long.

Art the clown x femreader.

“Silence” chapter one

Several part slow burn with eventual copious amounts of smut. Mentions of sexual assault and gore in this chapter.

Will be posted shortly on a03 under same username 🫶

The wind nipped at your knees, its icy breath making you shiver as you instinctively tugged at the fabric of your Halloween costume, only to find it stubbornly uncooperative. The chill in the air felt like a mockery of your choice, a playful reminder that perhaps dressing as a slutty cat might not have been the best idea for October.

“Aren't you the most seductive cat I've ever seen,” she cooed, walking backward as she mocked you. “Oh my god, I can't wait to meet the man that steals your morbid dark heart,” she laughed breathlessly, arms jutting out above her head as she spun back around, making dramatic flair to sway her hips back and forth. “You need to get laid tonight, seriously,” she called over her shoulder. She was right, but you couldn’t shake the growing frustration of navigating the dating scene. In Miles County, it seemed like every man you encountered was nothing more than a superficial himbo, charming yet vacuous, leaving you yearning for a deeper connection. The few who seemed promising were often more interested in games than genuine relationships, making it feel nearly impossible to find someone who truly understood you.

“Right, but I don't want to fuck random guys like you do, Jen,” you murmured, remembering in high school when she would bring a new boy home every week.

“Maybe you'll meet your Romeo tonight, and fuck you; I'm a dick connoisseur, not a whore,” A light-hearted giggle escaped her lips, bubbling up with a sound that danced through the air.

As she pushed open the heavy metal door, an overwhelming rush of pungent odors assaulted her senses. The sharp, unmistakable scent of marijuana mingled with the acrid tang of spilled alcohol, creating a thick atmosphere that hung in the air. Inside, the room pulsed with the vibrant energy of dozens of voices, laughter and conversation intertwining in a chaotic symphony of sound. Dark indie grunge music thumped from hidden speakers, its deep bass resonating through the space and merging seamlessly with the animated chatter. Jen gestured to the bar, words useless in such a noisy room, and held her fingers up, making a Square, letting you know to grab your ID. At some point, someone had taken this worn-down warehouse and turned it into a bar, having to know someone who knew someone to get it. After showing the masked bartender, you ordered straight whiskey, earning a nod of appreciation. Jen noticed the subtle interaction, nudging your ribs, and leaned over, shouting over the music

“He's hot; you should fuck him.”

“He’s not really my type,” you shouted, your voice barely cutting through the pulsing beat of the music. She turned her head slightly, rolling her baby blue eyes in a dramatic fashion. While you didn’t despise overly muscular men, there was something about their chiseled physiques that struck you as off-putting. You'd noticed that many of them tended to carry an air of arrogance, their confidence spilling over into egotism, making it hard for you to feel attracted to them.

“"You’d probably find yourself drawn to a serial killer or something equally twisted, you freak,” she teased, laughter dancing in her eyes as she tugged you toward the crowded dance floor. The music thumped wildly around you, each beat pulsating with energy. Her gaze quickly shifted, locking onto her next target—a man clad in a striking Ghostface costume, the mask gleaming under the neon lights.

“They probably fuck good,” You shrugged off the dark thought that had briefly crossed your mind, letting it dissipate as you took a long swig of the amber liquid in your glass. The high-quality liquor burned delightfully as it slid down your throat, leaving a warm trail in its wake. Your gaze flickered over to Jen, who was ensconced in the man's embrace. She smiled up at him playfully, her thick lashes framing her eyes like the delicate petals of a flower. You scoffed, honestly, it was impressive how fast she moved, like some otherworldly sex fiend. You were jealous of her ability to Flirt, something you were never good at.

You called out her name uselessly and pointed toward the bar regardless of whether she saw you and began weaving through the sweaty crowd, occasionally bumping into inebriated, faceless bodies. You inhaled deeply, allowing the cool air of the dimly lit bar to fill your lungs. Leaning forward, you rested your elbows on the slick, damp wooden surface, feeling the chill of the bar top against your skin. You signaled to the bartender and ordered three more shots of house whiskey, the amber liquid gleaming enticingly in the low light. You figured if you weren't getting fucked tonight, you could at least get shit-faced. You downed the first two, watching a couple of people start fistfights before you began to feel the effects, becoming more carefree as you nursed your third. As the warm glow of the whiskey coursed through your veins, it enveloped your body like a comforting blanket, dulling the edges of reality. The room around you now felt stifling, the air thick with the mingled scents of smoke and spilled drinks. You needed to escape, to find a breath of coolness to soothe the rising heat.

With a sense of urgency propelling you forward, you weaved back through the crowd, brushing past oblivious patrons lost in their own revelries. Finally, you reached the back of the room and flung open the nearest door, hardly registering its appearance or what lay beyond.

The moment you stumbled outside, a rush of crisp, cold air washed over you, a stark contrast to the sweltering atmosphere indoors. It kissed your skin like a refreshing embrace, instantly easing the sweat that had begun to bead at your neck and exposed breasts. You stood there for a moment, eyes closed, relishing the sensation. You finished your third and looked up to the sky, the large air plume from your lungs materializing like a cloud, swirling hypnotically. Lost in a fog of thoughts, your mind drifted through a haze, blurring the sounds around you. Suddenly, the deep blare of a horn shattered the stillness, piercing through your reverie. The jarring noise felt like a cruel wake-up call, catching you off guard and eliciting a startled scream that echoed in the air.

“Fuck” You gasped sharply, feeling the adrenaline surge through your body as you stumbled backward, the cool, unforgiving wall pressing against your back. Your heart raced as you turned your gaze to the source.

Standing before you was a tall man, cloaked in a striking black and white clown costume that hung off his lean frame. The silk fabric shimmered slightly under the dim light, contrasting sharply against the shadows that danced around him. His face, disturbingly painted in a ghostly white, was adorned with intricate black accents that framed his large, expressive eyes, giving him an unsettling yet captivating appearance. Atop his head rested a small, perfectly arranged hat that added a touch of bizarre elegance to his ensemble, making him look both regal and menacing.

“You scared me,” you laughed breathlessly, taking in the fake blood that saturated his fingerless gloves and the top portion of his costume. He tilted his head to the side and grinned, showcasing black teeth, seemingly stained with old blood.

“Nice costume, I like the,” you circled him with your finger. “Blood,” you finished with a hiccup, cursing yourself for being a lightweight. He pointed to you and then held up his hands behind his head, making ears. Then he bent at the waist, clutching his stomach, his body shaking in strange silent laughter.

“Oh, yeah, I'm a cat,” you trailed off when he stood back up, towering over you by at least a full head or more. You suddenly felt uneasy under his unwavering stare. His black grin was plastered in place, and his eyes had an unsettling glimmer that your foggy mind couldn't place.

“Are you a…mime?” you asked, the silence uncomfortable. He shook his head, no, a frown marring his sharp features, and pointed to his unusually growing smile. “A clown then? Are you mute or something?”

he nodded excitedly.

“That's pretty cool, actually; I mean, I don't know why you're mute; maybe there's a reason, like trauma…or,” you shut your mouth and looked up to the sky again, sighing loudly. Why would you say that? The drinks were clearly sinking into your nearly empty stomach. “Do you want to come inside with me? Get a drink?” you couldn't believe the words as they left your mouth; he was creepy and didn't seem to reciprocate your flirting if you could even call it that. He bent over again in silent laughter, wiping an unseen tear from under his eye. Even scary men didn't want you, great. He saw your face contort and mocked your micro expression, pouting his lips and crossing his arms dramatically.

“Right,” you smiled weakly, “well, it was nice to meet you,” you said, breaking him out of his mock impression of you. He reached down and picked up a large black

Trash bag and threw it over his shoulder, making it seem weightless despite its bulging appearance. You hadn't even noticed it before and became curious about its contents but decided not to ask after embarrassing yourself enough for one night. He held his hand and waved his fingers under his chin, making you giggle. You threw up your hand in a wave and turned around, opening the door, the sound of chaos filling your ears again.

“Where the fuck have you been,” Jen shouted over the music, barging right into you, making you sway on unsteady feet.

“Jesus, Jen. I got some fresh air,” you said defensively.

“Well, tell me next time, I got worried. My

Pal here,” she gestured behind her to the man in the ghost face costume, “has a friend who wants to meet you,” she gave you a look as if to say, ‘I'm helping you get laid’. You cast a fleeting glance at the man standing behind her, offering a feeble smile that lacked any true warmth or sincerity. Then, you turned your attention back to her.

“Whatever. I'll need at least two more drinks,” you finished, irritation clear on your face, but Jen was oblivious, squealing loudly. She linked her arms with yours, pulling you along like a lost puppy.

“So, he's charming, and I think your type. I don't know, though; your taste in men is questionable,” her lips pulled up in disgust.

At the bar, she ordered you two more drinks, this time fruity, overly sweet ones with little colorful umbrellas in them.

“Cute,” you rolled your eyes, plucking one from the drink and tossing it onto the ground.

“So, this is Maverick, Maverick, this is my super hot friend,” you heard her say. Turning slowly to face them, you eyed him from the floor up. He possessed a certain rugged charm that could easily be considered attractive, with strong features and a confident posture. However, the moment he flashed his self-satisfied grin, an air of smugness enveloped him, casting a shadow over his appearance.

“A cat, huh? Cool,” he smirked, sipping his drink. You glared at Jen before looking back at him. “Wanna walk around and chat?” he asked. He seemed nice enough, and you can't remember the last time you didn't have a hollow orgasm, your fingers only doing so much.

“You know what, sure,” you smiled tightly and began walking away with him before Jen grabbed your wrist, “Hey, me and ghostly are gonna head to my place. Will you be okay for the rest of the night with maverick? Just make sure to call an uber. Don't. Drive.” her mothering tone back in place. You had a flare of anger for her ditching you, but it was nothing new. It created a rift in your friendship, nonetheless. “I'm fine,” your voice took on a harsher tone as you ripped your wrist out of her hand. You heard her mumbled something to her boy toy of the week about you being an insufferable bitch, making you wish you never met her, the state of drunkenness in you both drawing real feelings to the surface. You turned back to Maverick, letting him lead you.

“A little quieter back here,” he hummed, downing the rest of his drink. You smiled as way of answering and looked around, taking in your surroundings. You were in an unfinished area of the building, the music faint but still seeping through to where you were. You awkwardly sipped your drink while holding the other, the condensation threatening to take it from your hand. You were too drunk.

“So,” he stepped toward you, your feet clumsily shifting back, stirring up dust. “You look real slutty. I love Halloween.” he chuckled, proud of himself. You couldn't believe what he said at first. It was all too much, and you regretted following him immediately. He stepped forward again, your back bumping into a cool steel beam.

“What are you doing?” you questioned some ire in your tone.

“I mean, you're asking for it wearing that, right?” he scoffed, taking a drink from your hand and sipping it.

“Hey asshole-” you protested before being cut off as a sharp slap across your cheek stung your face, stunning you into silence.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hissed, slapping you again, this time much harder. Making your face feel like pins and needles.

“Fuck you,” you yelled, voice taught with pain but cut off; again, as he put his hand over your mouth, you struggled against him, but he was too strong, and you were too intoxicated. He began pulling your costume up, exposing your thighs, stomach, and ass.

“Fuck yes,” he growled, tearing your underwear off with one hand and discarding it to the ground, his other hand moving to your throat, gripping firmly.

“Girls are so easy,” he said darkly, and it hit you that this wasn't the first time he's done this. He dipped his fingers in between your legs , only to be met with resistance and no lubrication, which seemed to anger him, another firm slap across your face, so hard it would bruise. Fat tears fell from your eyes dripping onto his hand as you shook your head no. You watched in fear as he pulled out his erection, stroking himself a few times before he let a despicable glob of saliva fall from his mouth onto his waiting erection. You struggled under him, but were held in place, your muffled screams reaching no one. He removed the hand around your neck and wet his fingertips, inserting them Into you, making you scream at the intrusion, your legs kicking out to land a blow, but it was useless.

“Fuck, yes,” he barked, flipping you around, your face slamming into the beam, nearly knocking you unconscious, a cruel, sinister thought crossing your mind that it would be better than being awake for the rape if you were just dead. He hiked up your dress again, pulling your waist so that your ass was presented to him, the head of his dick probing your entrance as another wracked sob left you, this time unhindered, as his hands were busy on your hips. You took it as an opportunity to yell for help and attempt to pull yourself free, hoarse screams leaving you.

“HELP…. Please, someone, HELP,” you begged to anyone who would hear.

Warm liquid spilled onto your back, making you flinch. You cried out, hoping he had finished already, meaning the worst would be over until you felt the warm fluid again and again. You turned your head, a guttural scream leaving you as you saw an old, rusted axe brought down onto his head repeatedly, the exposed bone of his skull and brain matter making you spill the contents of your stomach on the ground. You tripped over your feet and fell to the floor onto your knees, crawling on the dirty, unforgiving concrete. You turned in time and watched in horror as his body fell with a thud, splattering blood all over your face. Behind him, the monochromatic clown from earlier stood, chest rising and falling rapidly, a chaotic gleam to his black eyes, and wearing more blood than he was earlier. He looked at you then, sending adrenaline to your limbs, but you were frozen in place. He tilted his head, then smiled, his bloodied hand that was holding the axe raising in a seemingly harmless wave.

“Hi,” you said, your voice no more than a whisper. He seemed pleased you acknowledged him and turned back to the body. He pointed at the man's exposed genitals and raised his bloody pointer finger and thumb together, leaving little to no space between them, as if to say, ‘look how tiny’, throwing his head back in silent laughter, bloodied hand clutching his stomach.

“Please. Please don't kill me,” you began to cry again. He seemed annoyed at the sound and grimly looked at you with his chin pointed to the floor. Not seeing a smile on his face was most unsettling, making him look like a demon straight from the depths of hell. You scooted across the floor further away from him, watching as he took dramatic over, exaggerated steps toward you, smile back in place.

“Nononono,” you whimpered, looking up at him, shaking your head vehemently at his outstretched bloody hand. He offered it again, more persistent this time. You took

It but mostly out of fear of what would

happen if you didn't and allowed him to pull you up from the floor easily, quietly admiring his strength for only a moment. He motioned to your dress that was still hiked up around your waist, making you gasp at being so exposed in front of him. He laughed again, pointing at your face before mocking your expression like earlier.

“Stop, you're scaring me,” you told him, voice hoarse. He pouted and waved a hand at you dismissively as if to say, ‘no, I'm not.’ You watched as he crouched down and shuffled around the body, finger tapping his chin as if thinking what else to add. He dragged his black trash bag over and began to dig through it, ultimately settling on a dull, rusty butter knife, his mouth forming Into a perfect ‘O’ as he examined the dullness with his fingers. He smiled at you from the ground and began to hack away at the body's genitals. You gagged and turned just in time to spew the rest of your undigested drinks from your stomach. He stared at you, rolling his eyes before continuing. You began to feel dizzy, your brain spinning around in your head until you started to slump over. The last thing you saw was him waving to you, his dark smile lulling you away.

**********

The constant drip of water by your head startled you awake, your bare legs thrashing around on the ground until you sat up, your body buzzing. Your memories from last night came back at a neauseating speed. You were drunk, raped, and almost murdered in the span of several hours. You held your hand in front of you, willing it to stop shaking, although you weren't sure if it was from unanswered emotions bubbling over or the frigid temperatures you were currently exposed to. You stood, straining on your legs, remembering your badly scrapped knees. A clumsy hand reached out to support yourself on a nearby shelf. This wasn't the same warehouse from last night; you were moved. The room started to spin; next, muted browns and black from the room mixing together, disorienting you further. You reached a hand to your forehead and felt around until your fingers trembled over a large cut. That fucking clown, he saved you, but for how long you'd be spared, you didn't know, spurring you into action. You turned to leave the room but met a chest first, strong hands gripping your shoulders to keep you from falling. You opened your mouth to scream, but he clapped a hand over your mouth and turned you around so that your back was flush to his front. His body radiated cold, unmovable firmness that made you shiver. He stared down at you sternly, expression communicating, ‘Are you done.’ You nodded, eyes never leaving his. He released you and stepped back, his stare intense, making you shrink into yourself. He pointed to your head and held both hands, palm up. In your concussed mind, it took some time to realize he was asking about your head.

“Oh, um, it hurts still,” you spoke softly,

Your throat was sore. “I need to go home,” you were afraid to speak, but it seemed as though, for whatever reason, you were being left unharmed.

He shook his head no, pointed outside, then made his fingers walk on his palm, then put both of his hands together and held them to his cheek, his eyes closing before opening them again, nodding excitedly while pointing at himself.

“I don't understand,” you clutched your arms, a cold breeze ripping through the open window littering your skin with goosebumps. He stared at you exasperated and shook his head, jabbing a finger at his chest then pointed to you again, making walking fingers.

“You want to…walk me home?” the implication of that unsettling. “No, I, I'm cold and sore. I can just go,” you stumbled over your words, backing away without realizing it. He held up a finger telling you to wait and left the room. You shifted uncomfortably, looking for any potential exit if you needed to flee, jumping out of your skin when he returned with an old tattered blanket. He smiled, flashing black teeth, holding it out to you.

“Um, thanks,” you grabbed it from his hands, surprised at the cleanliness of the fabric. “Are you going to kill me? Why did you save me?” you asked, more urgently than you intended. You had to know; the feeling of the unknown was unsettling.

He shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes. Your eyes widened, and you shuffled back, his nonchalant response making you tremble.

“I-I don't understand, you're just toying with me?” frustration evident in your tone; you wished he would just let you go; your body was overwhelmed with pain and fear, the muscles in your neck stiff from shaking. He walked over to you, his sadistic smile growing wide as he watched your back bump into the wall. Once he was in front of you his hand reached out and patted the top of your head; silent laughter ensued when you flinched violently. He pointed to you, then the floor, waiting.

“You want me to sit?” you asked, having difficulties communicating with his silent movements. He nodded eagerly, head lowering with your body as you squatted onto the floor, watching you cross your legs and pull the blanket around you in a cacoon. You relished in the small comfort of warmth.

He towered over you, eyes narrowed as he took you in. You wish you knew what he was thinking; if he could talk, maybe you could manipulate him into freeing you. He turned to leave the room but paused in the doorway when you shouted for him, “PLEASE,” you begged, his head turning slightly to let you know he heard you.

“I'm scared,” you said, voice coming out broken, mouth dry. You weren't sure he heard you, and you couldn't compartmentalize why you told him that; your thoughts scattered like marbles across the floor, slipping from your hands when you tried to pick them up.

That was hours ago, and the sun was starting to set, your breath making condensation in the air again. You heard him in the room adjacent to you, metal clinking and hammering. You stood on your feet, wincing when you took a step, your body sore and weak. You don't know why you didn't run or why you went to him, but you did, quietly following the noise and stepping into the room he was in. His back was to you as he sat bent over a decrepit desk, various pieces of metal strewn about, his hands stilling on a rusty pair of scissors.

His body turned in his chair until he faced you, legs spread open. You watched as he set the siccors down and placed both hands on his knees.

“What's your name?” you asked, taking another tentative step into the room.

He cocked his head, chin pointed down so he was staring at you through his brows, the black paint around his eyes casting his them in darkness. He waved his hand through the air as if to say, ‘come here’. You shuffled over, watching as his smile grew the closer you got. You stopped a few feet away, which seemed to annoy him, an overdramatic pout pulling his lips down. You smiled softly to appear submissive and stepped closer, eyeing the tools he no doubt has used on other poor souls. His eyes caught yours, and he turned to look at the table and looked back at you, shaking his head no.

“You won't hurt me. Is that what you're saying?”

He nodded excitedly, clapping his hands together, proud you understood him. Ironically the only sound you've ever heard him make. He stilled making an ‘O’ with his mouth, holding one finger in the air. You watched as he disappeared Into what appeared to be a bathroom conjoined to the room, returning a moment later with a tin can filled with strange liquid. He approached you, grabbing your shoulders and turning you to face a blank wall, parts of wallpaper peeling off, exposing mildew-soaked wood. You wrapped the blanket around yourself tighter and watched as he dipped a long finger into the can and began to draw on the wall, quickly realizing the liquid was old, coagulated blood. He stepped back, holding both arms out, clearly proud of his work.

“Art?” you asked, confused.

He nodded vigorously while jabbing a finger at his chest, saying, ‘That's me.’

“Your name is art? I like that,” you said, mulling it over, your lips pulling up in the corners. You looked up to see him already watching you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Art,” you said again, his face becoming dark at hearing you use his name, his lips pulled down slightly. “Thank you for saving me last night,” you clutched your arms under the blanket, becoming uncomfortable. His face was terrifying when a smile wasn't on it.

“Um, id really like to go home, art,” your voice coming out weak at the potential rejection. He spurred into action, grin back in place as he strode past you, patting your head several times.

You couldn't be sure of the time when you left, but it was late, the cold cutting through the thin fabric of the blanket, short Halloween dress underneath doing nothing to keep you warm. The warehouse he had set up in had been here for years; parts of the building had fallen apart, leaving gaping holes, allowing some nature to make itself home. You remember passing by it as a child on your way home from school; oddly enough, it only sat a few blocks from your house, the one you inherited when both of your parents died the year after you turned 18. You looked up at art; his stride had a playful, mischievous bounce, eyes scanning the darkness for his next victim if you had to guess.

You rounded the corner of your street, your pace picking up upon seeing your home.

“This is it,” you breathed, shuffling up the steps and turning over a potted plant, the house key cold in your hands as you unlocked the door, warm air greeting you when the door swung open. You turned to face him, offering a smile. You weren't really sure how you felt knowing a crazy clown knew where you lived, but it was a little late for late, so you did the unthinkable.

“Do you…want to come in?”

He sat there momentarily, staring before playfully shoving past you into your house.

It was small but suited you. The living room was to the right as soon as you walked in, soft throws and pillows scattered about your couch. The kitchen was straight back, and to the left, a small island littered with bills in the center. He picked up a few before tossing them down, opening a few drawers, and rummaging around. You disappeared into your bedroom a few feet to the right and slipped into the bathroom. You stared at your face for a few moments, blood, dirt, and mascara smudged across it, a

A reminder of what happened. You let out a frustrated whine and grabbed a rag, letting the water get to an unbearable temperature before you started to scrub, your face clean but numb when you were done. You stripped from your clothes and pulled on an oversized sweater and sleep shorts, not able to bear being in the clothes you were raped in any longer.

When you entered the kitchen, a frantic voicemail from Jen was filling the room; you didn't have the heart to get rid of the outdated home phone and machine after your parents died.

‘Look, I know I was a bitch and ditched you, but some guy was murdered there last night, they couldn't even identify him. It's all over the news. Some crazy guy they're calling the Miles County clown. Anyways, I just want to make sure you're alive. CALL ME BACK’

You stared up at him, your head having to crane back, your shoulder brushing his arm. He flipped off the machine as if to say, ‘fuck her’

“Yeah,” you said, finding it funny you were silently communicating with him. Your eyes fluttered closed momentarily, your body leaning onto his arm, admiring briefly how unmovable he was. He tapped your nose a couple of times, making you gasp, your bloodshot eyes shooting open. You were beyond tired with a killer standing in your kitchen, but you weren't scared; you almost felt safe near him. Something you weren't sure how to feel about. You wanted to ask him why he was sparing you, but you didn't want to remind him that he could or should.

He looked down at you, making the sleeping motion with his hands again like earlier. You nodded the affirmative and watched as he walked into your bedroom, turning in a comical circle and taking in your quaint space. He caught your eye, wagging his eyebrows at you, his eyes trailing leisurely up your bare legs to your face. Your cheeks heated, no doubt a deep red blush spreading across them. He bent over

In laughter, slapping his knee and pointing at you. You scoffed and shoved past him, pulling the blankets back on your bed, too tired to know what to do with him. He shuffled around, facing you, with dark eyes watching your movements, making you feel like prey.

“It was very nice to meet you, art, but I need sleep. I have work in the morning”

He nodded and turned to leave, making hardly any sound on the worn-out wood floors.

“Art?” you called, watching as he turned back to face you, eyebrows raised expectantly.

”Will I see you ever again?" your mind swirled, the comfort of your bed seeping into your bones making you say things you didn't mean. You watched him shrug and disappear, not even hearing him when he left and closed your door.

You jumped out of bed and peered through your front window, but no black and white clown was in sight. You threw the deadbolt, the loud metallic thunk reverberating in the room. Although you were sure if art wanted to get in he could.

I love him I LOVE HIM

video creds to ayoitsmonaa on tiktok :)

TERRIFIER 2 (2022) dir. Damien Leone