Art The Clown X Reader One shots! (Open)

A Question of Promises (NG reader)

The alley stretched before you, shadows twisting like fingers reaching out to snare you. But you weren’t frightened anymore. No,  after all the unnerving encounters with him, Art the Clown had become less of a shadow and more like a strange, inexplicable fascination that held you. Tonight was different, though. You had asked him to meet you here, somewhere away from the typical chaos, as if the gritty back alley would somehow pull a confession from him.

The silence swallowed you, but you knew he’d arrive soon. The anticipation curled through your veins, both thrilling and horrifying. Maybe tonight you’d finally understand why he was always there, watching, hovering, yet never fully letting himself… feel.

And there he was.

Emerging from the dark, that ghostly white face catching the faint glow of the moon, Art’s grin stretched wide, mocking the tenderness you held beneath your steady gaze. His finger topless gloved hand twitched as he took slow, deliberate steps toward you, head tilted, as if he were more curious than usual.

“Hello, Art,” you whispered, heart racing. You waited for his response, knowing he wouldn’t speak, but he reached for his horn and gave it a soft honk. A greeting, in his own twisted way. That small sound felt strangely… personal.

“You know why I wanted you here?” Your voice held a tremor. Art’s smile faltered, the curiosity in his eyes sharpening, as though he sensed something serious in your tone. For a flickering second, his fingers moved to his chest, tracing a small circle before he tilted his head again, mimicking surprise or confusion.

“You’re… different from what people say,” you began, glancing down, suddenly feeling foolish. “Not just a monster. I see more than that.” You lifted your gaze to meet his, determined to catch even a hint of vulnerability.

A flicker of surprise danced across his eyes, his fingers tightening around his horn. He took a step forward, each movement deliberate. You realized he was listening – truly listening, as if the words themselves held a power over him.

“If ‘I love you’.. was a promise.., would you break it, if you’re honest?” you asked softly, the question hanging in the air like an unspoken spell.

The words hung between you, almost taunting. Art stilled. His eyes darkened, that manic spark dimming into something that felt unsettlingly… human. He reached out, his finger topless gloved hand hovering close to your face, trembling ever so slightly. Could a killer have doubt? Could he hold back, resist his urge just for a second, to be something more?

As his fingers grazed your cheek, a chill raced down your spine. Yet, you didn’t pull away, leaning into his touch. You let him see the vulnerability in your eyes, knowing it was dangerous, but wasn’t he dangerous too?

His hand froze, and for a split second, Art’s expression softened, the mad gleam in his eyes replaced with something that looked almost like sorrow. He raised his other hand, bringing a finger to his lips, then gestured a sharp slash across his throat, as if to say, Don’t go where this ends.

But you refused to look away.