Art The Clown X Reader One shots! (Open)

painted in crimson (Fem reader)

In the shadowed and decayed remains of an old movie theater, you find yourself wandering, the stale air heavy with dust and the ghostly echoes of past laughter and gasps. It’s unsettlingly quiet, save for the occasional creak of settling wood and the scurrying of unseen critters across the ruined floors. Your footsteps are the only sound, and each one seems amplified in the vast silence.

You’re not sure why you ventured into this relic of a place. Perhaps it was curiosity or maybe the dare your friends had teased you with earlier in the evening. Regardless, here you are, moving slowly down the aisles, the faint remnants of faded movie posters peeling off the walls like the shedding skin of memories.

A chill trickles down your spine when you feel the unmistakable sensation of being watched. You pause, scanning the dim corners, the scattered debris, but nothing seems out of place…at first. The darkness at the far end of the theater looms, thick and impenetrable, but you swear there’s a shadow moving, a presence creeping just beyond your sight.

You step back, clutching your phone tighter, heart pounding in your chest. The beam of light from your phone doesn’t reveal much, but then, the silence is interrupted, a subtle, almost playful honk echoes from somewhere nearby. It’s faint but unmistakable, and the blood drains from your face as you realize just how alone you are…or aren’t.

Before you can react, a tall figure steps out from the darkness, his silhouette unmistakable: Art the Clown. He’s dressed in his usual harlequin getup, the contrast of black and white sharp even in the gloom. His face, ghostly white with exaggerated features, is twisted into an expression of twisted amusement, his eyes twinkling with a malevolent glee.

A mix of terror and something else knots in your stomach. You’d heard of Art the Clown, the stories, the warnings, and yet here he is, as if summoned by your own reckless curiosity. Frozen, you meet his eyes, seeing something disturbingly intimate in the way he stares at you, a gleam that goes beyond the predator’s thrill of the chase. It’s possessive, almost affectionate, in a twisted, dark way.

He tilts his head, mimicking a curious child, and you swallow hard, your heart pounding against your ribs. Something compels you to hold his gaze, to dare him with the same intensity he projects, though every fiber in your body screams at you to run.

As if reading your mind, Art takes a step forward, then another, his footsteps silent and smooth, his movements almost serpentine. He stops just inches from you, his dark eyes devouring every inch of your trembling form. You feel the chill radiating from him, but there’s a strange warmth in the intense gaze he locks onto you, a thrill in the silent challenge between you.

Your breaths come shallow and ragged, and for some reason, you don’t move. Instead, your voice, barely above a whisper, breaks the silence.

“Mark me,” you say, the words surprising even you, as if they had a life of their own, drawn out by his very presence. “Gently…or not, as long as my skin is stained with the color of your lips.”

A sinister grin creeps onto Art’s face, his eyes lighting up with delight at your words. There’s no verbal response, only his eerie silence, but it speaks volumes. His hand reaches out, gloved fingers brushing along your jawline with unexpected tenderness. It’s unsettlingly soft, the touch of a killer that somehow feels possessive, almost affectionate in its execution. Your heart races as he leans in close, his cold breath brushing against your neck.

You feel the slow, deliberate press of his lips against your skin, soft, but laced with an undeniable darkness. The touch is gentle, even intimate, though it sends a chill down your spine. His lips linger, tracing a path down to the base of your throat, and you shiver, realizing he’s marking you in his own way, as if claiming you in silence.

There’s a sudden shift, though, as his lips pull away, and the darkness in his gaze returns, sharpened with a predatory hunger. Art’s hand moves to your shoulder, tightening slightly, and a silent chuckle, barely a breath but laden with malice, escapes his throat.

Without warning, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tube of dark crimson lipstick. He unscrews the cap, twisting it up with an exaggeratedly slow motion, then holds it up for you to see, as if asking for permission…or mocking the very concept of it. You nod, your voice caught in your throat, and he grins wider, almost giddy, as he smears the color across his lips, turning his pale skin into something monstrous and vivid.

He leans in again, pressing his lips against your cheek with rougher force this time, staining your skin with the deep red of his marked claim. He pulls back, surveying his work with satisfaction before pressing a gloved thumb against the smeared lipstick on your cheek, dragging it slightly to make it even more prominent.

In the depths of your mind, a strange thrill tingles through you despite the overwhelming fear. This encounter feels surreal, a fever dream that’s equal parts nightmare and dark fantasy. Art’s thumb lingers on your cheek, his eyes scanning your face as if savoring your reactions.

And then, in a swift motion, he twirls you around, pinning you back against one of the old, dust-covered seats. His face inches from yours, his twisted smile revealing more teeth than should be possible, and he leans in, breathing in your scent as though memorizing every detail. There’s a beat where you almost feel something…softer in his stare, an odd gentleness flickering across his gaze, but it’s fleeting, vanishing as quickly as it arrived.

Before you can catch your breath, his gloved hands tighten around your wrists, holding you in place. You’re trapped, his dark eyes locked onto yours, and a silent understanding passes between you. This is a game to him, a sick, twisted game that only he knows the rules to. Yet, strangely, you feel something pulling you to him, a part of you that craves the thrill of the unknown, the dangerous allure he radiates.

You dare to lean forward, barely moving, until you feel his breath mingle with yours. There’s a tension in the air, electric and palpable, and for one wild, irrational moment, you wonder if you could reach him, find some part of him that isn’t purely monstrous.

But then, with a flash of his twisted grin, he jerks back and tilts his head, giving you a mocking, exaggerated shrug, as if disappointed by your attempt. He taps a gloved finger against your forehead in a mocking gesture, then slowly lifts a finger to his lips, sealing them in silence, a sinister reminder of who he is and what he’s capable of.

You swallow, watching as he steps back, that dark gleam in his eyes never leaving you. The realization sinks in that you’re at his mercy, and yet, somehow, you feel a part of you embracing it. His presence fills the room, the shadows seeming to thicken around him, casting him in a macabre spotlight that only he could command.

The silence stretches, suffocating, before he breaks it by letting out another honk from his horn, a jarring sound that echoes around you, reminding you just how out of place this entire encounter is. But you hold your ground, your eyes steady, refusing to look away.

Art’s grin widens as he steps backward, his figure slowly retreating into the shadows, but his eyes never leave you, even as his form melts into the darkness. It’s as if he’s silently telling you this isn’t over, that he’ll be watching…waiting for the next time you dare to venture into his world.

As he disappears into the blackness, a twisted part of you almost wishes he’d stayed. Your heart is pounding, your breath shaky, but you can’t help the dark thrill that lingers in the aftermath. His mark is still on your cheek, a smear of crimson against your skin—a haunting reminder of your encounter.

And as you turn to leave the abandoned theater, a chill rushes down your spine, as though his eyes are still on you, hidden in the shadows, his silent vow a lingering promise you’ll never forget.