Summary - A series of unfortunate events leads to (Y/n) turning on her favorite clown.
Notes - Based on a request to show reader snapping on Art 🫢 I originally wanted to take a smutty approach, but I didn't feel that it was realistic to his character and behavior in this scenario so decided not to for this one.
Warning(s) - Acts of aggression, minor argument/tension, angst
Song Inspiration -
Ice Nine Kills - Ex-Mørtis
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The rain started the week. It wasn't the soft, misty kind (Y/n) usually enjoyed during her peaceful walks through the cemetery, finding time for herself to recoup.
No, it was a downpour that began when she was still a good distance from home. An unrelenting, soaking storm that had her sprinting back, camera now ruined despite her best efforts to shield it.
When she entered the building, anyone who even glanced at her would steer clear. She stood stiff in front of the door that closed behind her, clothes drenched and dripping wet along with her hair that stuck to her face. Her eyes held a heavy glare, filled with hatred for the universe that defied her.
As she shuffled into the work area that Art occupied in front of his desk, she made her way over and took the camera from around her neck, nearly slamming it onto the empty stool beside him.
Art jumped, items dropping from his hands and snapped his head to look over at her. He took in her disheveled appearance and emotionless expression, then suddenly started to hunch over in laughter. He motioned at her during his fit and held a hand over his stomach as she crossed her arms, giving him a pointed look.
"I don't suppose you know how to fix a water-damaged camera?"
He then gasped, laughter coming to a halt. He pointed to the soaking camera and her eyebrow twitched in confirmation. Art pouted and solemnly shook his head.
She rolled her eyes and went on to spend the next few hours trying to salvage what she could, praying the water hadn't seeped into the lens she so loved, but no amount of drying or tinkering helped. The final death blow came when the shutter jammed with a soft click. Silent, but devastating.
The tone was set for what she now declared a dreadful week.
(Y/n) woke up the next night to find her latest series submission, Memento Mori, was shredded by protestors through the local newspaper. She had come to expect the harsh criticism, but something about this particular review clawed at her. It was brutal, dismissive, and worst of all, physically destroyed her work.
Tasteless, is what they called it. As if her entire soul, spilled across her paintings and photos, could be reduced to a single word. (Y/n), who had always been quiet and careful about how she handled criticism, could barely stop her hands from trembling as she lowered the paper with an incredulous chuckle.
It stung in a way it hadn't in a long time. And that sting stayed with her as her hand came up to press against her forehead in disbelief.
"I don't get it. These same people go out and watch people get slaughtered for fun in the movies, dress up all bloody and disfigured for some holiday, yet when I put it on a canvas it's morbid?" (Y/n) ranted and ripped the newspaper in half, tossing it into a steel bucket and beginning to pace.
Sensing the rising tension, Art put down his tools and spun on his stool to face her, one leg crossed over the other with his hands folded over his knee as he gave her his full attention.
YOU ARE READING
Blood of A Rose
Fanfiction(Y/n) is an aspiring artist, but rather than mainstream, she captures what she considers to be the beauty of death. She has been fighting with the industry and local art museums to publicize her work. Reaching negative publicity, a particular clown...
