I Animated The Memes

Blood of A Rose - Part 2 (Art the Clown x Fem!Reader)

Masterlist

Summary - Following the events of their night together, (y/n) and Art explore their dynamics together to form a perfect duet of blood and beauty.

Notes - Was requested to expand on the relationship between Art and the reader and will happily oblige! It’s honestly so fun to write Art’s character, I hate how little there is out there for him. My man needs attention.

P.S - Might branch this into a series of one shots showing their relationship more and whatnot either from my own ideas or requests from you guys for what you’d like to see with them. Hell, might even make a whole blog based on them. Thoughts?

Word Count - 4,091

Warning(s) - Blood, gore, violence, morally ambiguous reader

Song Inspiration -

Cody Frost - Process

Screams were heard all around them, piercing and agonizing. Everything was set ablaze, yet she felt no heat. She felt no pain. Even as the smoke clouded, she could breathe without struggle. (Y/n) craned her neck to look up at the clown before her, eyes wide with wonder, with trust. Her life was in the hands of a murderer and yet she felt safe. She felt protected.

His usual grin did not show, yet he didn’t frown. His face remained neutral while his eyes said it all, filled with an untamed obsession, possessiveness and dare she say adoration. His gloved hands rose to her jaw, cupping it delicately as he guided her to train her eyes on him, to ignore all that happened around them. As she stared up at him, her hands came to rest over his own, and with a look of his eyes she was told -

He would be her past, present and future. 

(Y/n)’s eyes fluttered open, greeted by the soft light of the moon that peaked through the boards of the window. The colder air bit at her skin through her sweater and she shivered. 

She sat up and looked around curiously, seeing that she was now in the makeshift bedroom from before. She then looked down and saw that she was on the mattress, however a tattered blanket now lay on top of it beneath her, shielding her from whatever mold and rot had been on it. 

Her legs closed when she felt a light breeze brush against the tear in her pantyhose, heightening the chill. (Y/n) stretched her arms out and stood, then heard what sounded like someone hammering from a different room. Her mind raced with the events of what she assumed was still the same night. Her face burned, stomach fluttering as the ghost of Art’s caress tickled her skin. 

She took a deep breath and left the room, quietly making her way to where the sound came from. Mindful of the debris on the floor as she grew near, she entered the room with the workbench, Art hunched over it on the stool as he hammered away at something. 

When (y/n) stepped closer he paused. Her breath stilled as his head slowly turned to the side, yet not over his shoulder to look at her, letting her know that he knew she was there. 

Once he returned to work she released the breath she held and made her way over to him, seeing as he hammered a screw-eye hook of sorts into the end of a chair leg. 

His face was focused, not smiling or putting on his usual dramatics as he worked. It felt strange to her, seeing him this way. It reminded her that even if he was a murderer he wasn’t excused from putting in the work to make it happen, whether it was a hobby of his or not. It reminded her that he still had interests and needs just as everyone else. It was oddly humanizing and she couldn’t help but feel privileged to see him in such a state. 

He motioned to a nearby corner and (y/n) turned to see another stool placed there, then moved to bring it over and sat on top of it to continue to watch him. He then motioned to her - conversing as he worked - then symbolized sleep as if to ask how she slept, then proceeded to pick up an average sized chain. 

“It was actually quite nice. Best sleep I’ve had in a while.” 

With chain in hand, he clapped excitedly, happy with her response. He hooked it to the screw, bending and twisting the metal to make sure it was secure as (y/n) watched casually, as if it was just another day. 

“Is it… Is it still the same night?” 

He shook his head and her eyes widened. Art turned to see it and began to laugh to himself. 

“How long has it been?” 

He held up a finger after his laughing fit died down, going back to his work. 

“One day…? But how?” 

He nodded and glanced over at her, watching as she looked down, growing more and more confused. He patted her shoulder and she looked up at him, seeing him point to himself, then her. 

“Because of you?” Her brow furrowed, then her expression changed as she chuckled. “Are you saying I slept for so long because of what we did?” 

Art shrugged and made a cheeky expression, but she became confused again when he then shook his head. He motioned to himself again, then pointed to her head. 

“You… forced me to stay asleep?” He eagerly nodded, smiling and pointing at her to say she got it. “But how? Did you knock me out?” His head shook. “Did you drug me?” 

His head shook again and he rolled his eyes, arms falling to his sides in exasperation. He then motioned to his entire body, pointed to his head with both fingers, then to her head again. 

“You were in my head…?” He nodded and clapped. “How is that even possible?” 

Art shrugged dramatically with a mischievous smile. (Y/n) paused and slowly met his eyes. 

“The dream…?” She asked, and in the back of her head she already knew the answer. 

The clown only solidified it with a raise of his eyebrows, mouth forming an ‘o’ and shrugging as an ‘oops’. (Y/n) could only laugh, not knowing how exactly to react to someone with such supposed supernatural abilities. 

She wasn’t sure if she had finally grown to become insane or if it was all a hallucination, all in her head. But as she thought to the night before she found that it all felt too real, too vivid to be fake. 

(Y/n) suddenly felt exposed and crossed one leg over the other, tugging down the skirt of her dress as her face grew warm. Art looked over at her, face twisting into mischief as his eyes squinted with his smile. He wiggled his eyebrows when she looked at him and she turned her face away bashfully. 

He reached over to grasp her chin, coaxing her to look back at him. He nudged his head in her direction, grinning to encourage her to do the same. Once her smile returned and she giggled, he playfully booped her nose and turned back to his workbench, his smile now remaining on his dramatized face as he worked. 

The minutes seemed to drag on as he worked, but not once was she bored. She watched eagerly, fixated as his hands toyed and shaped the weapon he was creating. His actions were all well thought out and deliberate, masculine yet graceful as his fingers caressed the wood and metal. 

Deeming the weapon satisfactory, he raised it by the handle - the chair leg - and examined it carefully. Three chains hung from the screw-eye, knife tips, nails and spikes decorating the length of them. 

“Is that a flail?” (Y/n) gasped. 

Art’s head whipped over to look at her and patted her thigh, the hand holding the weapon shaking excitedly as he nodded. He watched as she eyed his new creation, then an idea formed in his head. His gaze shifted to look over at her, now smiling sadistically. She caught the change in his expression and she began to smile, catching on to what he was thinking. 

“I’ll get the camera!” She hopped off of the stool.

-

After some convincing from her end, they stopped by her house for her to quickly change into something more comfortable. It wasn’t until she began to beg sweetly that he finally agreed, unable to say no to her more innocent nature, regardless of her interests.

Not a person was in sight as they were shielded by the dark of the night, hardly any street lamps in the area they currently wandered. 

“Does the bag ever get heavy for you?” (Y/n) asked as they walked through the ghosted roads. 

Art shook his head, using his other arm to exaggerate flexing his muscles and she laughed. 

“I bet that bag is the reason you’re so strong, lugging it around everywhere and all.” He waved her off at the compliment and tickled her ear with his finger. “I’m serious! You make it look like it weighs nothing.” 

As they walked, they began to see the edge of the town ahead of them. Or rather, Art saw it. (Y/n) was too focused on the clown beside her, taking in all of his features under the starry night, the moon perfectly accentuating every curvature and jagged edge, every - 

She was suddenly yanked to the side of the sidewalk he walked on and she gasped, looking over to see a pole that she nearly walked straight into. She looked back over at Art who had a hand on his hip with a frown. He pointed at her, his eyes, then the direction they were walking in. 

“Sorry…” She giggled as she blushed, nervously fiddling with the camera hanging around her neck. 

He pulled back his arm and reached for her, pulling her to stand on the opposite side where he was previously walking to prevent it from happening again. He motioned for her to continue walking, rolling his eyes from behind her before he set his pace next to her again. 

As they reached the town, Art began to look around carefully, more alert in the brighter area while (y/n) had a mind of her own. While he kept an eye out for his next victim, she focused on finding her next inspiration. She supposed they went hand in hand, but she was never one to strive for the bare minimum. 

He then paused, holding his arm out for her to do the same, knowing she very well would’ve kept on walking. Hearing the voices of what seemed to be a couple arguing, he listened carefully to find where they came from. 

Then he spotted them. 

A man and woman arguing next to a car. The man was halfway in the driver’s seat while the woman stood next to it, flailing her arms. 

Art then heard a shutter sound from beside him, slowly looking over to see (y/n) holding her camera up, taking photos of the argument before them. She looked over at him and shrugged innocently.

She put down the camera and the two of them watched the pursuing argument, equally invested in the exchange. The man then slammed the car door shut. 

“They just broke up for sure.” (Y/n) whispered to Art and he looked down at her with a widespread grin, wiggling his eyebrows then nodding towards the woman who was now making her way into what seemed to be her villa. 

Art crossed the street, making his way over with (y/n) in tow and walking up the small set of stairs leading to the front door. He looked down at her, then turned to the door in front of them and tested the door knob, unsurprisingly finding it locked. 

He gave (y/n) a ‘wait’ signal and set down his bag, cracking his neck and stretching his arms out in front of him with linked fingers. Art then gave her a side smile, then suddenly kicked the door open. She froze with wide eyes, yet her stomach betrayed her as it flipped at his show of masked strength. 

He picked up his bag again and grabbed her wrist to pull her inside with him, closing the door behind them. Footsteps quickly descended the staircase in front of them and they looked up to see the same woman from before, chest heaving in fear at the sight before her. 

While (y/n) quickly snapped a photo of her expression, Art dropped his bag again and wiggled his fingers at her in a wave with a menacing smile. He then held up a finger to her and began to look through his bag as the woman remained frozen like a deer in the headlights, watching as he pulled out a scalpel and the new flail. He turned to (y/n) and raised his eyebrows, then bolted upstairs after the woman who fled. 

As they thumped around upstairs, she began to explore the villa, looking for things to use in her next piece. The woman’s screams and shrieks were muffled behind the door of the room they were in and were drowned out, inevitably useless. 

(Y/n) eyed a smaller box TV that sat on an entertainment stand in the living room, an idea popping into her head. She walked over to it and unplugged it in preparation, resuming her wandering when the noise above her suddenly stopped. 

She heard a door open upstairs followed by footsteps descending the staircase. (Y/n) looked towards it, seeing a now bloodied Art giving her the ‘ok’ to go upstairs when she was ready. 

“Could you do me a huge favor?” She asked as he made his way over to her, shaking off the blood on his hands and nodding. “Could you help take the TV upstairs for me? I want to use it as the head.” 

Art made a surprised expression, clapping his hands giddily at the idea. He then paused with a finger up, making a sawing motion and asked for her to wait a moment, disappearing upstairs. Not long after, he returned with his saw and put it back in his bag, happily walking over to the TV and tipping his hat at (y/n) when he walked by. He then picked it up as if it was nothing but a feather and made his way back upstairs, (y/n) following closely behind as she giggled. 

They entered the woman’s bedroom, her body splayed out on the bed with small to large chunks of her skin and fat missing, head nowhere to be found. 

As he placed the TV where the woman’s head used to be, (y/n) admired the slashes left from the flail. Some were rather deep, others shallow. Their marks tore at the dress that the woman wore, some simulating claw marks while other areas were simply shredded. 

“Could you move the arms to look like this?” (Y/n) posed her own arms to grab the sides of her head. Art carefully took note of the angle and position, then moved the victim’s arms to reflect it. “Perfect.” (Y/n) smiled, looking up at the ceiling to see LED lights lined along the edge. 

Art watched as she wandered to find the remote, smiling to herself once she found it and changed the color to red and turned off the main light. She looked around the floor, watching for anything she could trip on before lifting a foot onto the bed. 

Art’s face twisted into panic and his hands shook, stepping next to her and helping her up onto the bed. 

“Thank you.” She responded softly, one of his hands still holding her waist to help steady her as she readied her camera. He followed her as she captured different angles, some standing while others she crouched. 

(Y/n) took his hand to help herself down, smiling up at him as he grinned at her excitedly. Just as the night before, she flipped through the pictures she took, and just the same, she felt his closeness. 

The only difference was rather than nerves, she felt relaxed. She felt calm and comfortable despite the mess around them that he caused. His hand that rested on her far shoulder radiated heat through her layers of clothing and she subconsciously leaned into him, head pressed against his chest while he pointed at the photos he favored. 

His silent presence, twisted grin plastered on his painted face, drew her in like a moth to flame. (Y/n) found herself unable to refuse, an invisible pull guiding her to him. 

At first, their following encounters were just a few hours in the night together. Art would appear when (y/n) least expected, showing up at odd hours, his silent insistence drawing her out into the dark. However, she began to notice her sleeping pattern slowly change. She grew more tired sooner, falling asleep earlier and earlier, waking up in a strange nocturnal rhythm. 

At night, she would wake to find him waiting, patient but always silent, eager to lead her deeper into his world. (Y/n), feeling a strange sense of peace in his presence, began to follow him without question. And after only a few weeks of their odd relationship, she began to grow used to it. Comfortable with it. Comfortable with him.

“Hey, Art.” (Y/n) greeted him as she yawned, fresh out of bed to find him rummaging through her kitchen. 

He looked up at her and waved, a widespread grin bringing out her own smile in her vulnerable, post-dream state. He gushed at the sight, elbows resting on the countertop with his chin in his hands, blinking dreamily at her as she walked over to him with her arms out. 

Art popped up, engulfing her in his arms as she sighed happily at the feeling. He rocked the two of them slowly, the rhythm almost putting her back to sleep. 

Slowly, (Y/n)’s life became consumed by Art. The gruesome art pieces she crafted from his handiwork grew bolder, more disturbing, as if the dark side of her creativity was being unleashed by his influence. 

In her dreams, she would see him. His painted face looming over her, silent but omnipresent. At first, the dreams were disorienting. But over time, they became comforting. She would wake, feeling a strange longing for him, for the connection they shared in the darkest corners of her mind, weaving its way to the forefront. 

As the days bled into nights, (y/n) found herself thinking of Art constantly. He was always there, even when he wasn’t physically present; a haunting figure in her thoughts. His silence, once goofy, became a form of comfort. She began to crave his presence, yearning for their time together. 

And so (y/n) found herself growing dependent on him. Whether it was for her art or simply her attachment to him, how safe she felt with him. He understood her in a way no other person could, and she reciprocated. 

The way he was so brutal and aggressive with others, yet gentle and thoughtful with herself only drew her closer to him. He treated others as nuisances, problems to deal with and get rid of while he treated her as delicately as the rose that brought them together. The contrast was endearing to her, and she couldn’t help but be entranced. 

Though such treatment came with an undisclosed amount of protection and possessiveness, to which she learned rather quickly. 

“It just came out wrong, I’m sorry!” (Y/n) giggled. Art mocked her, rolling his eyes as his mouth and hand mocked her talking. The culprit of such a fit? 

She called his nose cute.

“Your nose is attractive, is what I meant. Believe me, you’re still as frightening as ever.” 

He threw her a side eye, then dramatically sighed and waved it all off. 

“Hey!” She stopped them in the middle of the sidewalk, a lit street lamp looming over them as they faced each other. “I’m sorry.” She gave him her best doe eyes, then stood up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. 

His grin slowly returned, hand coming over the top of where she kissed him and she giggled. He then took her hand in his own, continuing their nightly walk.

Later on, they heard slurred conversation ahead of them, seemingly male in nature. (Y/n) tried to slow their walk, but Art looked back at her and encouraged her to keep up with him. As they grew closer, they passed an alleyway that held a small group of drunks, hearing a whistle of a cat call. 

The clown immediately stilled, and (y/n) quickly grew worried. 

“Hey, where ya goin’ babes?” One of the men called, stepping out of the alleyway with a bottle in hand. “Not with the mime, I hope.” 

Art and (y/n) slowly turned to face the man, their hands still interlocked as she gripped his tighter and stepped closer to him, practically hiding behind him like a scared child. 

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you actually wanna be with the guy!”

“Ey, c’mon man, stop messin’ with them, she’s not worth it.” Another man stepped out, followed by a third to watch the scene play out. Art’s eyebrows furrowed in anger, twisted grin remaining as he set down his bag and quickly reached into it. 

“Obviously not if -“ Two shots suddenly pierced through the night air, the second and third men collapsing to the ground while Art aimed a handgun at the first who initiated. 

(Y/n)’s hold on his hand moved to his arm, clutching onto it as the bodies began to puddle with blood beneath them. She looked up at Art, his grin replaced with a frown and it sent a chill down her spine. She had only seen him genuinely angry maybe once or twice, and whatever followed was far from pleasant, to say the least. 

“H-hey, I was just jokin’ man, I was just jokin’!” The drunk held up his hands in surrender, but the clown wasn’t buying it. 

As he continued to ramble and apologize, begging for his life, Art kept the gun pointed at his head. He watched as the man slowly broke in front of him, growing increasingly desperate. Art’s grin then slowly reappeared, giving the man a glimmer of hope.

Then Art suddenly aimed at the man’s thigh and fired, doing the same to his other until he fell to his knees. Art tossed the gun into his bag and rummaged through it further, his face twisting into a sadistic expression when he pulled out a box cutter flashing it to the man as a tease before stalking over to him.

(Y/n) turned around, facing away from the chaos and gore as she plugged her ears to drown out the noise. Even still, the sound seeped through as the man struggled and cried out helplessly. His fight was futile compared to Art’s strength, and the latter simply ragdolled him as if the man was just a child. 

When the noise stopped, she unplugged her ears and felt a hand pat her waist, turning to see Art wipe off his now bloodied hands. She turned to see his mess, and his face suddenly grew concerned when she pouted. 

“I don’t have my camera.” (Y/n) nearly whined, and Art mimicked her frown. 

At first, (y/n) resisted the growing dependency, confused by her attachment. But he began to seep into her thoughts with concerning frequency. The dreams became more vivid, more intimate, filled with his silent adoration as he twisted her perception of reality until he became the center of her world, the only constant in her life, planting seeds of affection until it became impossible to imagine her life without him.

His obsession with her only grew. He would stand over her while she slept during the day, watching her with an almost childlike fascination. When she woke, his silent attention made her feel adored, special. The way he looked at her, possessive yet affectionate. His presence was her comfort, his protection her shield.

Eventually, (y/n) could no longer distinguish where her own desires ended and his began. The thought of being apart from him was unbearable. She began to seek him out during the day when she should have been resting, desperate to be near him. 

When they were together, it was a twisted dance of blood and beauty. A duet that no one else could understand. She would create art from his chaos, and he would watch her with silent adoration, the two of them locked in a world where only they existed.

They grew to share a dark, intimate bond. (Y/n), once a quiet and reserved artist, had become consumed by Art - both his work and his presence. He had molded her. And she, willingly or not, had come to love him for it. 

As their connection deepened, (y/n) knew that she could never return to the life she had before. The darkness was too intoxicating, the bond too strong. 

She belonged to him now, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Falling asleep on Daryl would include :

(Woooo more fluffy prompts! Awwww Daryl :3 Hope it is as requested and you all like it :3 Gif not mine/found it on google/credit to the original)

-Him being startled for a moment to feel your head on his shoulder and pushing you to the other side, only to realize it was you and grabbing you back

-Him feeling bad for his action earlier and just whispering apologies to you while stroking your hair as if to reassure you

-Him cupping your face and approaching you closer to his shoulder or sometimes even his neck to feel your warm breath on him

-Him tucking your hair away from your neck thinking it might be bother you and resting his hand there to comfort you

-Him always lowering the sound of the radio when he drives or telling the others to do so to avoid waking you up

-Him wondering if he should hold your hand, only to careful approach yours and slowly grab it

-Him sometimes just looking away from you to let you rest thinking that his gaze might bother you

-Him feeling your drool on him and just laughing, realizing how childish you are and jokingly telling you to close your mouth despite knowing you won’t hear him

-Him giving dirty looks to anyone around who doesn’t keep their voice down around you and just asking them sarcastically if they can’t see that you’re asleep

-Him letting himself get comfortable with you and slouching in the seat to let you rest on his chest before drifting to sleep

Make Me Sway (Thomas Hewitt x Reader) + RQs info

Summary: After going on a road trip with your friends, you become the sole survivor of the group, trapped in the Hewitt’s residence, because Thomas doesn’t like the idea of you getting killed as you show him humanity and fearlessness in the face of death.

Part 1

Part 2 and 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9 (NSFW)

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14 (NEW, I am back <3)

Notes: This story happens somewhere between the events of Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning (2006) and Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2003)

Warnings: Violence, Mention of rape, Trauma

Content: Reader has moodswings due to trauma, and is acting on irrational impulses, however has a strong/fearless personality, wittiness and calm nature despite the circumstances, Thomas is confused by his emotions, he knows he should kill you, but he doesn’t want to, Fluff/Smut coming your way 

REQUESTS INFO:

What I will write:

NSFW

SFW

Headcanons

Oneshots

Who I write for:

Thomas Hewitt

Michael Myers

Jason Voorhees

Brahms Heelshire

Bubba Sawyer

One-eye/Sawtooth/Three-finger (Hilliker brothers)

All League of Legends champions

Anime characters

happy new year :)

Hey you guys! I have hit 100 followers so I made this quick gift! It’s another set of recolors using the same mesh as the Mod Abstract prints that I posted last week.  All images are from The British Library’s collection of vintage space & sci-fi illustrations.

❤ Thank you so much for the follows, everyone! I hope you enjoy the prints! ❤

Vintage Space Wall Art

5 original designs

standalone recolors

design tool enabled & custom thumbnails

DOWNLOAD: dropbox

TOU: Please do not re-upload or claim as your own. And, if you wanna, tag #sjane4prezcc so I can see what you make!

Credits: original mesh [BLACK], recolors by dailywizard

Made with Sims 4 Studio

You know what, Bucky Barnes is right-handed, but The Winter Soldier is left-handed?

Feverish | Art the Clown x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Or even a fic of him getting sick after being out in the snow with the Santa costume in Terrifier 3?

I can imagine him curled up on the reader’s couch, blanket over his lap whilst he’s pouting. And him silently sneezing into a handkerchief (despite him having to be told multiple times to cover his nose and finally doing so)

And the reader putting a thermometer in his mouth to take his temperature.. oh my god ❞

: ̗̀➛ Art comes to you when he's at his very lowest, but thankfully, you're tolerant of him enough to put up with it.

trigger warnings : ̗̀➛ mentions of gore, swearing, depictions of illness, mentions of murder

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Art crashed onto your sofa, appearing to sigh heavily although no noise left him in the slightest as he reached to rub his nose; you frowned upon noticing him. Unsure of whether or not demons could even get sick, but judging by his demeanour, he was weak enough to pick something up. His suit was covered in blood, and his big black bin bag was partially torn; you knew what you needed to do.

With careful hands, you tugged at the front of his costume, and he understood; he waited for you to turn around before he stripped himself and allowed you to carry away the bloodstained and soaked costume. Clearly, the snow had gotten to him as well, as the costume was damp enough to quickly drip onto the light coloured laminate.

You didn't mind much, though, shoving it into the washing machine and taking no notice of the bits of blood and sinew attached to the torso half on the front and the ends of his sleeves. He had come home with worse before.

You never did understand why Art was always so... placid with you, though. Sure, he scared you every morning by honking that fucking horn in your face, but he never attempted to hurt you. Unless the time he nearly burned down the kitchen trying to make toast counted, but you doubted it.

You didn't think about it much anymore, though; but you were quick to grab a hoodie and some jogging bottoms that you kept behind for when you had to clean his clothes. You lugged them back to the sofa, and tapped him on the shoulder so he could get changed.

Again, you turned around until he was decent, and when you finally looked at him, you smiled.

"So, where'd you get the Father Christmas costume from?"

Art shrugged, and flapped his hands around to mimic what he had done, standing up but still hunched over slightly; his mouth extended and open wide in an overexaggerated smile before he slapped his hands on his stomach and silently laughed.

His lips curled like he was in pain, and he bent his head forward, sneezing; you grimaced as snot and phlegm landed on your floor, and you tutted.

"Sneeze into your fucking hands!" You told him loudly, huffing and grabbing some tissue to clean it up.

You never raised your voice at Art, let alone swore at him, and he did pout a bit before he did it again; more phlegm and sticky snot splattering onto your floors.

You glared at him, shaking your head; you huffed, pulling out a handkerchief from your pocket and shoving it into his hands.

"Use that, for fuck's sake."

He started to pout and flap his hands again, childishly acting up in protest of being asked to show basic manners.

But then he stopped, doubling over and coughing into his hands; his eyes squeezed silently shut as he appeared to strain in what you only assumed was a sneeze. You frowned, pushing him back down onto the sofa and covering him with your old fluffy Batman blanket. You pressed your hand against his forehead.

He usually felt a bit warmer than the average person, but this time, you could feel the sweat beading and cascading down his forehead. Leaving streaks within his white makeup. You grimaced again and shook your head, disappearing quickly and coming back with a thermometer.

"Open your mouth," you told him, but he shook his head. "Art. I need to know how high your fever is."

He pouted at you, raising his brows to try and give you the puppy dog eyes; hoping that your concern could be easily melted away.

"Art," you grumbled, glaring at him sternly. He relented, and opened his mouth for long enough that you could get the thermometer in there. "Do not bite it. That one was expensive."

He chewed it slightly, letting the glass clink against his teeth until you pulled it from his mouth and looked; he was definitely running hotter than you had ever seen.

"You stay here," you told him. "I'm gonna get you some painkillers."

He nodded, almost excitedly, and watched you disappear. Again, he slapped his hands over his mouth, coughing against his palms. The only noise he made was the shuffling of the blanket once he settled down and turned onto his side, feeling sorry for himself.

But you weren't gone for long, and allowed him to cling to your wrist as you popped the tablets in his mouth and helped him to wash them down with a small glass of water.

"Your bin bag," you started, "do you want me to get a new one?"

He nodded again, this time excited as he pointed over to it; but his usual rapid and frantic pointing wasn't present, and you knew that that meant he was definitely not himself this time.

You were quick to grab the bin liners from the shed, the extra large ones, and you used three to make sure that none of his tools could poke through; you were actually quite surprised, really, as Art usually slapped your hand away whenever you tried to touch it. But he knew he was weak, and he knew that you were his only ally left.

Maybe ally wasn't the right word.

He did, in his own way, care about you; like a wild animal, he would come and go as if he owned the place and didn't care if he trudged in a boat load of blood and bone.

You learned pretty early on not to tell him about people who annoyed or wronged you - not unless you wanted him to send you a video of him bashing their fucking head in against a window or stamping on their head and peeling off their face.

You learned quite quickly not to do that.

He was, in his own way, protective. He didn't allow the little pale girl or Victoria inside your house, didn't even let them know what you looked like. You could still remember the former trying to look at you while Art closed every window and door and curtain to make sure she didn't.

You didn't even ask why, you didn't want to know.

Slowly, Art reached out his arms, and you knew what he was asking for; you lifted the blanket, and squished yourself against his side as he tapped his fingers on your arm like he usually did.

You often fell asleep with him like that, only to be woken up by him shaking you to make sure you were still alive. The worst was when you were snoring and he spilled water on your face.

It made you laugh so much, mostly because you didn't know what the fuck he was thinking.

But you loved that about him; he could always make you laugh, even though if anyone else so much as tried it, you would have kicked them out and told them to never contact you again.

He jerked suddenly, his body spasming as he silently sneezed against your shoulder; you felt the puff of air, and frowned.

He really was in bad shape, and you wished you knew how the fuck he caught it.

You silently promised that you would look after him until he was better; you could take the time off of work just to make sure he didn't get into too much trouble, and you could always ask your friends to pick up some books from the library to see if there were any on sickness in demonic clowns.

So, you relaxed into his arms, and you gently grabbed his hand, hoping that it would at least make him feel better.

hi! thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed this fic, then please spare me just a bit more of your time! Sara and her twin sister Huda are both 12 year old Gazans, and need to relocate so that Sara can access medical care and they can both survive the genocide; so far, they've gotten $14,802 of their $25,000 goal, so if you could spread their link or donate then you could really be saving childrens lives!

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

I don’t believe you, it’s 1899…

Part 1

Part 2

Masterlist

Word count: 7,774

A/N: Howdy! So I wanted to say that the start of this is a little cliche because I literally couldn’t think of how I wanted to do it so I settled with the whole, this random man is in your house sort of thing. ANNND I’m skipping thanksgiving in this because i’m from the UK and I have no idea what you do with it.

Also can we appreciate how good looking my Arthur is in that gif. I screen recorded it myself just for this fic. 

Also Merry fuckin’ Christmas y’all! and if you don’t celebrate Christmas, I hope you’re having a wonderful holidays! 

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