𝗚𝗘𝗧 𝗧𝗢 𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗪 𝗠𝗘!

thin as air

WARNING: Mentions of anorexia and body dysmorphia, violence, injury, unhealthy relationships, dark themes, rough handling, unhealthy attachment.

PAIRING: Art the Clown x Anorexic! Reader

NOTE: Hey, just sharing this because i know a lot of us are going through it too. It’s very scary. I’m in a rough spot myself so i wanted to write something that might feel like a weird kind of comfort, even if it’s dark and messy. Remember, it’s fiction; take care of yourself. Love you all, take what you need <3 (Also this is in first person.)

SUMMARY: Art’s affection is all-consuming, and you don’t quite understand why you’re the object of his twisted love. There is NOTHING sexual even if it may sound like it!!

Sometimes, I wonder if Art even knows what I am – this mess of bones, thin skin, hollow eyes. I see the way he looks at me, with that dead, unwavering gaze of his. The way his black-rimmed eyes flicker over my body, taking in every protruding rib, every visible vein. It’s like he’s fascinated by me, by this shell of a person I’ve become.

And honestly? I’m just as fascinated by him.

I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know why it happened. I don’t even know if Art knows why he’s here with me, this painted monster, this creature who has taken me as his own. He’s rough, always has been – he’s broken one of my bones before. My wrist, I think it was, his grip too tight in one of his fits of… whatever it is he feels. Love, rage, lust? I don’t know. I don’t think Art knows either. But he’s always there, his hands wandering over me like he can’t get enough, even as he’s hurting me.

It’s like he’s drawn to my fragility.

I guess that’s the irony. I’m so close to death already, bones so thin you could snap them with a careless touch, a body starved down to the barest scraps. Sometimes I think that’s what he’s here for – to watch me die slowly, to revel in the sight of me wasting away. I wonder if that’s the appeal, the reason he never leaves.

But then he’ll reach out, his hand cupping my cheek with a gentleness I didn’t know he was capable of. And I realize – no. That’s not it at all. He’s here because he loves me. Art loves me.

It doesn’t make sense. But it doesn’t have to. Not to him, not to me.

I think he likes the sharp edges of my bones, the way my body feels fragile beneath his hands. There’s something about the way he touches me, careful sometimes, rough others, like he’s afraid I’ll break if he’s not careful – but sometimes he forgets. Sometimes he’ll grip me too tight, his fingers pressing into my skin with enough force to leave bruises, marks that will linger for days.

Once, when he’d been particularly careless, I felt something crack beneath his fingers. The pain had been sharp, sudden, and I’d cried out, my voice weak, but he’d just stared, his head tilting to the side as if he were studying a work of art. And maybe, to him, I am. A fragile, breakable thing, something he can hold in his hands and twist, bend to his will.

But he’d stopped then, his hands falling away, his eyes wide with something like surprise. He hadn’t meant to hurt me.

The thing is, I love him too. Maybe that’s the sickest part of it all, the fact that I look at him, at this monster who kills without remorse, who breaks me without meaning to, and I feel something like warmth in my chest. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I feel this way, why I keep letting him touch me, hold me, break me.

Maybe it’s because he sees me. In his own strange way, Art sees me. He sees the parts of me that I try to hide, the emptiness that gnaws at me from the inside, the hunger that never seems to go away. He sees the hollowness in my eyes, the way I wither away piece by piece, and he doesn’t turn away. He doesn’t tell me to stop, doesn’t tell me I need to eat, to get better.

He just… stays.

I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. But in a way, it’s comforting. Because in his silence, in his wordless presence, I find a strange sense of belonging. I find a twisted kind of love, the kind that doesn’t judge, that doesn’t demand anything of me except to exist. To be here, with him, in whatever form I am.

And maybe that’s enough.

Sometimes, when he’s lying beside me, his hand resting on my hip, his touch feather-light as if he’s afraid to press down too hard, I’ll close my eyes and pretend that he’s human. That he’s just a man, lying beside me, his warmth seeping into my skin. But then I’ll feel his fingers tighten, his grip growing possessive, and I’m reminded of what he is – a killer, a creature who takes lives without a second thought.

But he doesn’t take mine.

No matter how close I get, no matter how many times I think this is it, that I’ll finally slip away, he’s always there. Sometimes I wonder if he’d let me die if I truly wanted to, if he’d just sit back and watch as I faded into nothing. But I think he’d fight for me. I think he’d drag me back, kicking and screaming, because he loves me.

I feel his hands on me again, his touch rough and insistent, and I can feel the bruises blooming beneath his fingers, but I don’t mind. I welcome the pain, the reminder that I’m still here, still alive. And in that moment, with his body pressed against mine, I don’t feel empty. I feel full, filled with something dark and consuming, something that threatens to swallow me whole.

And maybe that’s the real reason he’s here – not to watch me die, but to keep me alive.

The days blend together when he’s gone. Time’s got this funny way of stretching and folding over on itself in his absence, like the hours are conspiring to keep me waiting. I lose track of them – they bleed together in a mess of dark corners and quiet. Every so often, I glance over at the door, waiting for him to appear in that grimy frame, caked in blood and staring with that quiet, maddening intensity. But every time, there’s just silence. And the longer he’s gone, the more I start to wonder if maybe this is it.

If maybe, he’s not coming back.

I tell myself that’s probably a good thing. That maybe he’s off killing for good this time, slipping into someone else’s nightmare. And yet, there’s this ache that gnaws at me, dull and hollow, a feeling like missing something I never thought I’d have. Because even as he breaks me, even as he holds me with a grip that threatens to splinter bone, Art feels like the only real thing in my life. The only solid, terrifying constant.

So when the door finally creaks open, it feels like time itself stops – or maybe, like it finally begins to move again.

He steps inside, dragging a heavy, metallic scent of blood with him, his face painted in his usual grin but with something else lurking beneath. Something dark, simmering – anger. But it’s not at me; I know that look. And on his head, absurdly, he’s wearing a Santa hat, the red fluff soaked a deep maroon where it caught a spatter of blood.

I almost laugh. He looks unhinged and festive all at once, as if he’s ripped the hat off some poor soul in the middle of one of his routines. Art stands there, his eyes narrowing as they settle on me, like he’s deciding something. But even angry, even with whatever it is simmering beneath the surface, I know he wouldn’t hurt me. Not on purpose.

He prowls toward me, closing the distance in a way that has my heart stumbling over itself, and I’m caught between fear and comfort. I sit up, my mouth dry as I watch him approach, swallowing hard against the question that’s been burning in me since he left.

“I didn’t… I didn’t think you’d come back.” My voice cracks, barely more than a whisper.

He stops, staring down at me, his mouth stretching wider into that unsettling smile. Art doesn’t talk, but his eyes – there’s something fierce and sharp in them, a promise I can feel. He tilts his head, raising one finger, wagging it back and forth like he’s scolding me for even thinking it. Like the very idea of him leaving for good is ridiculous.

And maybe it is. Maybe Art’s always going to come back, no matter how many people he kills or how far he roams.

I’m still staring at that absurd hat, unable to help myself. “…Did you kill Santa?”

He gives a low, soundless laugh, his shoulders shaking as he reaches up and tips the hat toward me, his face stretching wider in a mockery of something playful. It’s disturbing and almost sweet all at once, like a monster trying to be human. He’s close now, and I can feel the roughness of his gloved hand as he brushes it over my cheek, trailing down to the sharp line of my jaw. His touch is careful, just enough pressure to remind me he’s here – and that I’m his.

“What?” I say, my voice shaky but edged with a faint smile. “You bring me a Christmas hat instead of a present?”

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he lifts his hand, holding it up as if to say ‘wait.’ Then he reaches behind him, pulling something from the garbage bag he always carries around. It’s a small, battered box, dented and stained but unmistakably a gift.

I look at him, surprised, and he just grins wider, holding it out. My hands shake as I take it, heart pounding as I pry the lid open. Inside is… a ring. Old and tarnished, probably pried off a victim. But it’s beautiful.

He watches as I slide it on, something warm flickering in his eyes – if anything warm could ever live in those black pits. There’s no need for words. His gaze says it all, a silent declaration that I’m his and he’s mine, even if it makes no sense, even if it’s a nightmare stitched together by blood and broken bones.

The absurdity of it hits me, and I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in ages. “Guess this makes it official, huh?”

Art raises one hand in a mock toast, his grin impossibly wide, and for a second, the air between us feels almost… normal. Like we’re two people who understand each other in a way no one else could.

@lucydixon thank u<3

🦇🖤🪦

Requested by Anon: In the crowd at a gig with hot long-haired metalheads vibes

ALL MY CHUBBY GIRLS WHERE U AT?!?🫶🏻🛐

Please always love ur body!! Ur beautiful just the way u are!!

MAYHEM

Recording "Deathcrush", at Creative Studios, Kolbotn, in the Spring of 1987

god forbid a girl be tired 24/7

Guys was static strings really that good… I’ve been seeing the requests for more!! I’m not ignoring u I’m just trying to find the motivation to write 😔 pls pls bear with me!! I love u guys:(

STATIC STRINGS

Warnings: kissing,trauma talk

Miles’ fingers glided across the guitar strings like he was casting some kind of spell. slow, deliberate, a little violent in the way he bent each note until it cried out. He sat on his bed you could see the sharp line of his jaw flexing with every chord he played. You leaned against the doorway, clutching the CD you bought for him while you were out like it was some kind of peace offering. “I got you something,” you said finally. He didn’t look up, but his fingers slowed. “For me?” he asked, voice low and unreadable. You walked in and dropped the CD onto the mattress. “Found it in that sketchy shop on Main. Thought of you the second I saw it. It’s angry and loud, basically screaming your name.” That got his attention. He plucked it off the bed and tilted it in the light. “This is brutal,” he said with a smirk. “You know me too well.” “I like listening to you play,” you added, more softly now, sitting beside him. “Always have. I wanted to learn, but..” You swallowed hard. “Shit was always messy at Home. My head. Didn’t have the time. Or the space.” The smirk faded. Miles stared at you for a long moment, his thumb running along the edge of the CD case before he set it aside. He put his hand on your thigh, it was warm and possessive, and the next thing you knew, he was pulling you into his lap like it was nothing. Your body landed across his legs with a soft gasp, your hands instinctively grabbing his shoulders. He kissed you before you could even process it. The kiss was slow and full of heat, like he was trying to taste everything you’d just admitted. “I hate that for you,” he murmured against your lips. “The way you talk about your past like it still owns you.” His fingers slid up under your shirt, calloused fingertips brushing your waist, the gesture just toeing the line between comfort and desire. “You’re here now. With me.” He reached around and picked up the guitar, sliding it between you both. “ I’ll show you how to play”. His hands moved over yours, guiding them to the frets. His chest was pressed to your back now, chin grazing your shoulder. “Like this,” he whispered, his breath hot against your neck. “Let me show you how to feel it.” You pressed the strings, strummed once, shaky and uneven. He chuckled softly, “Relax, sweetheart. You’re stiff.” “I wonder why,” you shot back, arching slightly as his fingers skimmed lower, pressing at the band of your jeans. “You’re not exactly innocent over here.” “I never claimed to be.” He kissed your jaw. “But I am yours.” You strummed again, better this time while his hands never left your waist, holding you steady and grounded, but also undeniably close. The music blurred into background noise as his mouth moved along your neck, lips dragging down to your collarbone. He kissed you harder this time demanding greedily. His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you flush against him.

The guitar was forgotten.

“I wanna make new memories with you,” he said between kisses. “Good ones. Ones that make the past feel like nothing.” His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs circling your skin like he was memorizing it. You tilted your head back, eyes fluttering closed as he kissed down your throat. “You still wanna learn guitar?” he asked, voice thick with heat. You laughed breathlessly. “I mean, yeah eventually.” “Good,” he smirked. “But for now, I’ve got other things I wanna teach you.”

Feel free to request anything you wanna see:3

Static strings pt2

Rory culkin edits get me foaming at the mouth

No?!