-A twisted Fate?- An Art The clown x Fem!Reader

Bound By Fear

When you awoke, the world was wrong.

Your body felt heavy, the lingering effects of the drug making your movements sluggish and disjointed. Your limbs ached, and when you tried to shift, a sharp pain shot through your wrists and ankles. Panic surged in your chest as you realized you couldn't move- your arms and legs were tightly bound to a cold, metal chair. The ropes dug into your skin, unforgiving and cruel.

Blinking against the hazy fog clouding your mind, you glanced around, trying to piece together your surroundings. The room was dark, lit only by a dim, flickering light overhead. It wasn't your house. The place smelled of mildew, and the walls were stained with something you didn't want to think about. You had no idea how long you had been out, or where Art had taken you.

Your breath quickened as the reality of your situation sank in. You were trapped, completely at his mercy. The terrifying silence that surrounded you was almost worse than his presence. The cold air felt suffocating, heavy with anticipation.

Where was he?

A slow creak echoed from the shadows behind you, sending a jolt of terror through your already frayed nerves. You craned your neck, trying to see through the darkness, but the restraints made it impossible to turn fully. Your heart pounded, every nerve in your body screaming that he was near, that he was watching you.

Then, out of the gloom, Art stepped into the faint light, his face twisted into that same sickening grin.

He was still in full costume, his white-painted face glowing eerily in the dim light. He didn't make a sound as he approached, the silence so oppressive that it felt like the air was vibrating with tension. You tugged at the ropes instinctively, panic

clawing at you, but they only bit deeper into your skin. Art crouched in front of you, his dark
soulless eyes locking onto yours. There was no pity there, no humanity. He studied you like you were some sort of experiment, something he could break apart piece by piece.

"Why are you doing this?" you choked out, your voice weak and trembling. The words barely left your lips, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. Not that you expected an answer. Art was a creature of silence. A creature of chaos.

His head tilted in response, and the amusement in his eyes deepened. He reached into the oversized black bag he always carried with him, the one filled with his macabre collection of tools. Your stomach dropped as you remembered what you'd seen him pull from that bag in the films- hacksaws, knives, needles.

You braced yourself, your heart hammering, expecting him to pull out something to finish the job.

But instead, he brought out a small, cracked mirror.

Confusion flooded your mind as Art held it up in front of your face. You could barely recognize yourself in the reflection.. your cheeks stained with dried tears, your skin pale and glistening with cold sweat. You looked completely broken. He seemed to enjoy this, watching your horror build as you stared at the image of yourself.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Art set the mirror down on the floor in front of you, then reached into his bag again. This time, he pulled out something you didn't expect.

A tube of red lipstick.

Your breath hitched as Art opened the lipstick, twisting it up as though it were part of some twisted show. He knelt closer, his painted smile hovering inches from your face, and without hesitation, he began to apply the lipstick to your lips. The contrast between his sadistic nature and the bizarre intimacy of the gesture sent a chill down your spine. You flinched as the cold wax smeared across your trembling lips, but you were powerless to stop him.

Once he was satisfied, he stepped back, admiring his work with a quiet nod. He picked up the mirror again, holding it up so you could see yourself. The deep red of the lipstick clashed violently with your terrified expression, your trembling lips painted like some grotesque imitation of his own face.

You wanted to scream, to tell him to stop, but the fear was too great. The helplessness sank in deeper with every second.

Art set the mirror down once more, his grin widening as he reached back into his bag. This time, he pulled out something much worse... a long, thin scalpel. The blade glinted menacingly under the flickering light, and your entire body went rigid with terror.

"No, no, no..." you whimpered, desperately pulling at the ropes again, knowing it was futile.

Art twirled the scalpel in his fingers with a casual grace, like it was all part of his twisted performance. He closed the distance between you, leaning in close, and his free hand gently brushed a strand of hair from your face. The scalpel hovered inches from your skin, and you could feel the cool metal radiating its presence, threatening to cut deep.

Tears welled up in your eyes, your breath coming in rapid, shallow bursts as you braced for the inevitable pain. But Art didn't immediately strike. He held the blade there, teasing you with the anticipation, drawing out the terror like he was savoring every second.

The seconds stretched into an eternity.

Then, without warning, the scalpel sliced through the air. You flinched violently, expecting the pain, expecting the blood.

But the blade never touched your skin.

Instead, Art brought the scalpel down to the ropes binding your wrists. With careful precision, he began cutting through the restraints. One by one, the ropes loosened, freeing you from the chair.

You were too stunned to move at first, too confused by what he was doing. Why was he letting you go? What kind of game was this?

Once the last of the ropes fell away, you stood on unsteady legs, your heart racing. You glanced up at Art, who was standing perfectly still, watching you with that same unsettling grin. The scalpel was still in his hand, but he made no move to use it. Instead, he simply gestured toward the door, a silent invitation to run.

He wanted to see what you'd do.

Your legs trembled as you stumbled backward, your eyes darting between the door and the clown. Every instinct screamed at you to take the chance, to run, to get away. But you knew better than to believe this was freedom. This was part of his game.. another sickening twist in his endless torment.

Still, you couldn't stay. You couldn't bear to be near him any longer.

Without a second thought, you turned and bolted for the door, your feet moving as fast as your weakened body would allow. You didn't dare look back, even if you knew he was imitating a laugh through the darkened room.

As you reached the door and stumbled out into the cold night air, the realization hit you like a punch to the gut.

You weren't free.

This was far from over..

Art was letting you run...

And the chase had only just begun....