Art The Clown X Reader One shots! (Open)

A Final Laugh (NG reader)

The night was eerily quiet, the dim glow of streetlights casting elongated shadows across your path as you walked home. The streets were empty, the air heavy with the sort of silence that seemed to creep into your bones. You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, the cold seeping through the fabric. It was Halloween night, of all nights, yet the usual laughter and mischief of the holiday seemed absent... (Halloween is dying idk if anyone noticed)

As you walked, a prickling feeling crept up the back of your neck. You shrugged it off, blaming the atmosphere and your overactive imagination. After all, it was Halloween. If any night would feel spooky, it was this one. You shook your head, willing yourself to stop glancing over your shoulder.

But then you saw him.

A figure in a black and white clown costume stood at the end of the street, illuminated by a flickering streetlamp. His face was painted in an unnaturally exaggerated smile, his eyes dark and unblinking. A shiver ran through you as his gaze locked onto yours. Despite the distance, you could see his eyes glimmering with a sick sort of joy.

He took a step toward you.

You froze, heart pounding in your chest. You told yourself to move, to run, but your feet seemed glued to the ground. Another step, and then another. He was coming closer, his movements silent, almost graceful in a chilling way.

Finally, adrenaline kicked in, and you turned on your heel, bolting down the street. The sound of your own footsteps filled the silence, but no matter how fast you ran, it felt as though you could feel his presence creeping closer, inch by inch.

As you darted down a dark alley, you dared to glance back, hoping he wasn’t there. But he was. He moved with an eerie slowness, as though he had all the time in the world, like a predator savoring the chase.

The alley led you to a dead end, and panic flooded your veins as you realized there was no way out. You whirled around, heart hammering, as he finally stepped into the narrow space with you, blocking your only exit.

"Please," you stammered, voice trembling. "W-What do you want?"

He didn’t respond, He tilted his head, watching you with that ever present grin. Then, he lifted a hand and beckoned you forward, as though daring you to approach him.

You shook your head, pressing yourself against the cold brick wall. Every part of you screamed to get away, but there was nowhere to go. You were trapped, and he knew it. Art took a slow step toward you, then another, his eyes never leaving yours. He stopped just inches away, close enough that you could see the paint cracking on his face, the dark hollows of his eyes.

He reached into his coat, pulling out a small, rusted horn. Without breaking eye contact, he squeezed it, the loud honk breaking the silence. You flinched, your breath hitching, but he only tilted his head, seeming amused by your reaction.

Then, something strange happened. He extended a fingertop less gloved hand toward you, as though inviting you to take it. Your pulse thundered as you stared at his hand, unsure of his intentions. Against all rational thought, you reached out, your fingers trembling as they touched his gloved palm.

He pulled you closer, his grip surprisingly gentle despite his reputation. You couldn’t understand it, why would he draw you in like this? The confusion must have shown on your face, as Art’s grin seemed to widen, his eyes dancing with dark amusement.

For a moment, it was almost as if he were toying with you, playing with your fear. And maybe he was. He lifted a finger to your cheek, his touch cold and soft. You felt your heart skip a beat, a strange mix of terror and fascination washing over you. There was a twisted charm to his silence, to the way he held you close yet kept you at a distance with his unspoken intentions.

But then, in a heartbeat, his demeanor shifted. His grip tightened, fingers digging into your skin with bruising force. Panic flared as you struggled against him, but his strength was overwhelming, his grin growing darker, more menacing.

“No.. please…” you choked out, your voice barely a whisper. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he reached into his coat once more, this time pulling out a knife, the blade glinting under the faint light.

A cold dread settled in your stomach as realization dawned on you. There would be no escape.

He took his time, dragging the blade lightly across your skin, watching your reactions with sick fascination. Each touch of the cold metal against you seemed to thrill him, as if he were savoring every second of your fear. You tried to struggle, but his grip was unrelenting, his gaze never wavering from your face.

In that moment, you understood why so many had fallen to him. Art the Clown wasn’t just a killer; he was an artist of horror, someone who relished in creating fear as much as he did in causing pain.

With one final, terrifying smile, he raised the blade.

You closed your eyes, bracing for the end. And then, just as the pain flared, something unexpected happened. You felt his hand slide gently to the back of your neck, tilting your head up as though he wanted you to look at him, to see him in this final moment. His thumb brushed softly against your skin, almost like a twisted caress.

Your last breath hitched as you opened your eyes, staring into his cold, unfeeling gaze. His expression softened, just for a second. It was as if he wanted you to know that he had enjoyed this, that in his own dark, twisted way, he had shared something with you.

And with that, the last thing you saw was his bloodstained grin, his hand lowering to squeeze the horn one last time.

The sound echoed into the night, a final, haunting reminder of the Halloween that would mark your last.