Art The Clown X Reader One shots! (Open)

Into The Madness (NG reader)

The air around you was thick with the scent of stale blood and something far worse. It clung to your clothes, filling your lungs as you stood in the dimly lit room. Shadows crawled along the walls like dark tendrils, reaching out as if they, too, sought his attention.

Art the Clown.

Your heart pounded, faster with every moment you stared at him, crouched across the room, his head tilted to the side in that unsettling way he always did. It was the only thing that could pull your attention from the mess around you, the bodies, the blood, the remnants of his latest victims.

But none of that mattered. Not the screams, not the horror, not the chaos. The only thing that mattered was him.

You had always been drawn to him, his twisted sense of humor, the way he danced through the carnage like it was a game, the gleam in his eyes as he watched his victims writhe in fear. But more than that, you were captivated by the way he made you feel.

He was destruction personified, and yet, you wanted nothing more than to be consumed by it. By him.

"Art," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the quiet drip of blood on the floor. He snapped his gaze to you, his expression unreadable beneath that painted grin. You took a step forward, your breath catching in your throat. "I'm... I'm yours. I always have been."

Art stood slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He didn't speak, he never did, but you could feel the weight of his attention, the way he studied you, as if deciding whether you were worth playing with.

Your obsession had long crossed the line into madness. You knew it. You welcomed it. You would do anything for him, anything to prove you belonged by his side, that you were more than just another victim. You craved his attention, his violence, his strange form of affection.

When he took a step toward you, your heart skipped a beat. His finger topless gloved hand reached out, fingers brushing your cheek. It wasn't gentle, nothing about him ever was, but the touch made your skin tingle. Your lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as he dragged his thumb down your jawline, leaving a streak of blood in its wake.

He tilted his head again, his eyes glinting with something... playful. Slowly, he pulled something from behind his back, a small, blood-stained rose, crushed and wilted but somehow perfect in its brokenness. He held it out to you, that grotesque smile widening, as if mocking the sentiment.

But you didn't care.

Your fingers trembled as you reached out to take the rose from him. It was still warm from the blood it had soaked in. You brought it to your chest, clutching it tightly, your gaze never leaving his. "Thank you," you breathed, tears of adoration welling in your eyes. "Thank you, Art."

He blinked at you, then broke into a silent laugh, his shoulders shaking with amusement. You didn't mind that he found your obsession funny. It was just another part of him you adored, the unpredictability, the way he teetered on the edge of madness and brilliance.

And now you were right there with him, falling deeper into the abyss with every second.

You moved closer, your body inches from his now, your fingers trembling as you reached out to touch his chest. He didn't pull away, simply watching with those wide, unreadable eyes. His chest was firm under your hand, his body still despite the chaos in the room. It was like you were the only thing in the world at that moment.

Your voice was barely a whisper. "I love you, Art."

For a second, he was still, as if frozen by your confession. Then, in a sudden, dizzying movement, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you closer, his breath hot against your ear. His grip was tight, painfully so, but you didn't flinch.

You only smiled.

Art's other hand came up, caressing your face with a surprising tenderness that sent shivers down your spine. He was playing with you, teasing you, seeing how far he could push before you broke. But he didn't know, you'd never break, not for him.

You leaned into his touch, your lips brushing against the side of his mask, leaving a faint kiss there. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes gleaming with amusement and something darker.

Then, without warning, he pressed his forehead against yours, his breath coming out in soft, silent laughter. It was the closest thing to affection he would ever show, and you drank it in like it was everything you had ever wanted.

Because, for you, it was.

He was your world, your obsession, your everything. And now, standing there in the blood-soaked room with his forehead pressed to yours, you knew that you had finally found your place. Right beside him, in the madness and all.