{𝑀𝐼𝒩𝐸} Yandere! X Reader One-Shots

Killer Clown Pt. 2

A/N: Requested by several anons on tumblr, makes this little guy feel special! called it just a pt. 2 because im unoriginal, can't think of a cool title right now. drop suggestions if anything other than electric boogaloo comes to mind

TW: Murderous killer clown, mentions of past killings, blood, kidnapped reader, forced close proximity, isolation torture,

Synopsis: Kidnapped by your killer clown stalker, you navigate being stuck in his toy room and being fed a very personal dinner, all while trying to avoid his loving insanity.

A room full of dolls, no matter their origin or purpose, is never an endearing sight. You swore even if the off-putting, Raggedy Ann and porcelain, dust-ridden dolls were anime figurines and children's collectibles, you wouldn't feel any safer in this hellscape. "Your punishment" he called it, and a punishment it was. Like a child made to spend the rest of the day in its bedroom, you were tied snuggily to the recliner chair in birthday string, forced to stare back at the eyes and broken limbs of endless toys. Of his, toys. Was this room part of the abandoned warehouse connected to the shit hole he called his home? Why did this room smell so repugnantly of petrichor and mold, when the rest of the "house" was either doused in bleach or rot that made your nose so dry it bled?

Maybe, if you had ever learned to properly meditate, the hours in here wouldn't feel so head-splitting. The darkness nearly brought you to insanity, begging for the arrival of your captor to come slinking back in with another microwaved meal. You would've welcomed his manic personality and demented point of view, if it meant you could hear anything besides the echo of your own thoughts and the crushing sound of an analog clock's ticking.

If only you were smarter, stronger, faster. You could've gotten out sooner, could've kept yourself away from this kidnapping entirely. But it was your stubbornness that led you to be "disciplined", inside the toy room. Two hours ago on the shelf behind you, an old fire truck (you guessed, from the siren sound and reflecting red) went off, falling to the floor and proceeding to wail for several minutes. Even with your erratic, terror-stricken sobs leading you to beg for freedom from this room, your captor never unbolted the door.

You hadn't even heard his footsteps from the other side. Maybe he was out luring another victim, adding to the stockpile of bloody buckets in the closet, or perhaps your replacement-- a relieving sentiment. But you knew, from the hours he droned on about soulmates and how your appreciation of him that night that seemed years ago, you weren't going anywhere. Atleast, not without provocation.

Your exhaustion didn't let you care if there was someone chained in the woodcutting section of the warehouse, if there was another layer of gore on the ground. You just wanted out from here, food in your gnawing stomach. You could even pretend to apologize, to care for him. Okay, maybe not that far, but you could give a convincing act. By now, you were sorry. Sorry you didn't open your mouth to his prodding questions, didn't comply when now it feels like it would've been so easy.

You licked at the corner of your mouth, hoping a salty, fallen tear could reach your tongue. Your lips were so cracked, you'd give anything for chapstick, for some water to cover your sawdusted throat.

So hoarse from screaming and wracking with sobs, you wondered if this was how he was planning to kill you. The day was inevitable, after what you'd seen him do... but, you really thought it'd be more horrific than this, more... agonizing. Maybe you should be grateful. Dehydration really isn't too bad compared to drawing blood or whatever sick, Saw-type torture he had in mind.

And like that, when you were near accepting this newfound death, Satan spoke.

The creak of an industrial metal door respunded in your pounding head, your neck snapping and cracking to look toward it's screech.