Art The Clown X Reader One shots! (Open)

"for you, I'd do it again" (female reader)

The night is dark, the streets empty, and the faint hum of a city at rest surrounds you as you walk through the alleyways, far from the noise and lights. There’s a chill in the air, and you pull your jacket closer, feeling the prickling sensation of being watched. You tell yourself it’s nothing, that you’re just imagining things, that the shadow a block away isn’t really following you.

But when you turn the next corner, he’s there. His black-and-white costume clings to him like a second skin, and the moonlight dances over his features, highlighting his twisted grin. Art the Clown. He stands in the middle of the alley, waiting, a few steps away from the glow of a flickering street lamp. He doesn’t move, just watches, eyes gleaming with something dark, predatory, and yet… almost hopeful. That glint feels familiar. He’s looked at you like that before.

But this time, there’s something different in his stance, something heavier in the air between you. And then you see it: blood, fresh and dark, coating his gloves. The metallic scent wafts through the air as he lifts one hand, fingers dripping red, letting it splatter onto the concrete with each step he takes toward you. He’s done something. And, somehow, you know it has everything to do with you.

“Art…” you whisper, voice trembling as he steps closer, the wet smack of his bloodied footsteps echoing through the empty alley. You feel a shiver crawl up your spine. Yet, against every survival instinct, you stay rooted to the spot, unable to look away. It’s as if some invisible thread holds you there, drawn to his darkness despite the fear clawing at your insides.

He stops just a few steps away, his grin slipping into an almost… expectant look. It’s strange, he’s done horrible things before, to others, to you even, yet this moment feels different. There’s a pleading edge to his gaze, a silent question hovering in the air, like he’s waiting for something from you.

“Did you… was it because of me?” The words leave your lips before you can stop them, your voice barely above a whisper. Part of you hates yourself for asking, for even considering that he’d do such a twisted thing with you in mind. But a darker part, a part you’ve tried to ignore, is desperate to know.

At your question, Art’s smile changes. It softens, disturbingly gentle, as though your question is the confirmation he’s been waiting for. He nods, the motion slow and deliberate, his gaze still locked on yours. It’s as if he’s trying to tell you something without words, his eyes reflecting a strange mix of pride and devotion, both terrifying and disarming.

A surge of emotions, fear, revulsion, fascination, floods through you. Your mind screams that you should turn, run, do anything but stand here with him, but your body betrays you. You’re frozen, caught in the intensity of his gaze, in the twisted connection you share.

“Art… why?” you ask, feeling your heart pound as he steps even closer, the distance between you almost nonexistent now. His gloved hand reaches out, hovering just inches from your face. He doesn’t touch you, waiting to see if you’ll flinch, if you’ll pull away.

You don’t. Against all instincts, you hold your ground, staring into his eyes. There’s something almost vulnerable in his expression, a rare softness that you’ve only caught glimpses of before.

Art tilts his head, raising his fingers to brush against your cheek, leaving a smear of red, a brand, marking you as his. There’s no turning back now, and he knows it. His fingers linger, the blood warm on your skin, a reminder of what he’s done, of what he’s capable of. You meet his gaze, the same unspoken understanding passing between you, and a thrill shoots through you despite the horror of the situation.

The silence stretches on, thick with tension. Art watches you, waiting, and you can almost feel his breath on your skin as he leans even closer. His face inches from yours, his gaze never wavering. It’s a look of possession, of obsession, and you realize with a shiver that he wants your approval. He wants to know if this monstrous act brought him closer to you, if it made you his.

“Art…” you say again, struggling to find the words. “I… I don’t understand. Why me? Why… would you do this?”

His smile widens at your words, a spark of satisfaction flaring in his eyes. He gestures to himself, to the blood on his gloves, then points to you. The message is clear: this is his way of proving himself, of showing you how far he’d go (tho he does killing normally), what he’d become just to be the one you think of.

The silence between you breaks as he lifts his other hand, pressing a finger against his lips in that familiar gesture, signaling you to keep his secret, to hold this dark truth close. It’s a binding promise, a pact he’s forged with blood and silence, sealing whatever twisted connection exists between you both. You feel a sickening thrill rise in your chest as he lowers his finger, that gaze of his never breaking.

Swallowing hard, you finally ask, “Who… who did you do this to?” The words are laced with fear, but a part of you needs to know, needs to understand the depths of his obsession.

Art’s eyes gleam with mischief as he taps his cheek, the gesture playful, mocking even. He lifts a single finger, then makes a circular motion around his heart, a silent answer, one that leaves your blood cold. He did it for you, and maybe… just maybe, he did it to someone who threatened what he saw as his. He’s wiped them out, erased them, leaving no room for competition, ensuring that you’re his and his alone.

A strange sense of relief and terror fills you. The thought that he’s gone to such lengths, that he’d end a life to keep you close, is as intoxicating as it is horrifying. And in this moment, you realize the depth of his obsession, the darkness he’s willing to embrace just for you. Your mind races with conflicting emotions, fear, fascination, and something disturbingly close to affection.

“Art…” you say softly, and for the first time, you reach out, placing a trembling hand on his bloodstained glove. The warmth of his hand beneath the slick fabric is unsettling, a reminder of the violence he’s capable of, but you don’t pull back. Instead, you let your fingers linger, offering him a silent response, one that you don’t fully understand yet but feel compelled to give.

Art’s grin widens, the satisfaction in his eyes unmistakable. He raises his other hand, wrapping his fingers around yours, his grip possessive, almost gentle. In this twisted moment, the horror and intimacy blend into something unexplainable, a bond forged in blood and silence.

As the night stretches on, you both stand there, locked in a dark, silent understanding. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring, or how far Art will go to keep you close, but right now, none of it matters. You’re his, and in this moment, you realize that there’s a part of you that belongs to him too.

For you, I’d do it again, his eyes seem to say, a silent promise that chills and captivates you. And as the first rays of dawn begin to pierce the darkness, you know that you’ve crossed a line, one that can never be undone.