CHARACTER DESCRIPTIONS
Art Description
His persona is that of a mime, which explains his silence. Standing at 6'0", he looms over most, his pale complexion enhanced by the white face paint he never removes. A teeny top hat sits askew on his head, almost comical—if not for the horror beneath it.
His sinister yellow smile is nauseating, a grotesque grin that twists your stomach into knots. It's not just his expression that unsettles you—it's the way he delights in tormenting, taunting you with the remains of his past victims, displaying his collection of twisted torture devices like prized possessions. He reminds you, constantly, how fortunate you are that he hasn't torn you apart yet. The thought makes you sick.
And yet… a part of you shivers with something else. Something dark. Something you refuse to acknowledge.
Reader's Description
(Your own details—height, appearance, etc. :3)
It had been weeks since you last saw the light of day. Your body was weak, your limbs heavy from exhaustion and malnourishment. You had long since given up trying to understand why Art kept you alive. Was he waiting for the perfect moment to carve you open? Was he simply toying with his prey? You didn't know.
A sigh escaped your lips as you leaned against the damp wall of your prison. Then—
Creeeak.
Your body tensed as the door groaned open, the sound cutting through the suffocating silence. Heavy, deliberate footsteps followed, the clanking of his shoes echoing ominously. Something dragged behind him, scraping against the cold concrete. A bag?
With an unceremonious thud, Art tossed the bag to the floor. The sickening, wet squelch that followed made your stomach churn. You swallowed hard. What is it this time? A dead animal? Another victim?
Art crouched beside you, his head tilting in amusement at your reaction. His grin widened as he reached for something behind him. To your surprise, he pulled out a plate. It was grimy, streaked with stains you didn't want to identify, but food was food.
He tossed some leftovers onto it, then let it fall to the ground with a sharp CRACK! The plate fractured slightly upon impact. You flinched, your body instinctively recoiling.
Art let out a silent, exaggerated laugh, his whole body shaking with the motion. His eyes gleamed with amusement as you shot him a glare, rolling your eyes in defiance.
With a flourish, he reached forward and ripped the tape from your mouth. You gasped, wincing as the adhesive burned against your skin. He merely watched as you forced yourself to eat, his eyes never leaving you.
The moment you finished, he slapped the tape back on, yanking you to your feet with unsettling ease. Your heart pounded as he dragged you toward the metal table in the center of the room.
The restraints were already waiting.
You thrashed, struggling against his grip, but it was useless. The cold metal dug into your wrists and ankles as he secured the holsters, locking you in place. Your breath came in quick, shallow gasps, sweat beading on your skin as panic took hold.
You pulled. You twisted. You tried anything to break free—but the restraints held firm.
Art simply watched, his head tilting like a curious predator studying its prey.
Slowly, he reached for his tools.
And you stopped struggling.
Because you knew—
It was already too late.
But then—
You woke up.
Your breath hitched, your body jerking upright as if yanked from a nightmare. But this wasn't a dream. The cold, damp floor beneath you, the distant sound of dripping water, the ache in your limbs—it was all real.
You had died. You were sure of it. You remembered the pain, the way Art had toyed with you until your body finally gave out. But here you were, whole again, your wounds gone as if they had never happened.
The door creaked open once more. Heavy, clanking footsteps. The same eerie, dragging sound.
Art tossed another bag onto the floor, tilting his head as he studied you. His grin widened—this time, not just in amusement, but in something else. Something darker.
You realized then—
He knew.
He had killed you before.
And he was going to do it again.
He drags you back to the table, but this time, there's something different in his intent. His grip is firm—not just with the cruel amusement you've come to expect, but with something else. Something more deliberate. More possessive. His silent grin lingers as he presses you down, his gaze drinking in every flinch, every shudder. This time, it's not just about pain. It's about control.
Instead of being forceful, he was strangely delicate with you this time. His touch, slow and deliberate, lacked the usual cruelty. His gloved fingers traced over your skin with an eerie gentleness, mapping each twitch, each shiver that coursed through you. He caressed you, his movements calculated, studying your every reaction—your breaths, your squirms. It was as if he was searching for something, savoring the way you trembled beneath his touch. Watching. Waiting.
He slowly reached up, his fingers lightly brushing against the fabric of your garments, pulling at the material with an unsettling calmness. You quickly shook your head, eyes wide in protest, silently pleading for him to stop. But Art only nodded in delighted approval, his expression exaggerated in a way that sent a chill down your spine.
He slowly, deliberately, ripped your garments from your body, the sound of the fabric tearing echoing in the cold, silent room. A shiver ran down your spine—not just from the chill in the air, but from the helplessness that gripped you. You were left exposed, unsure of what to do next, your body trembling from the cold and the uncertainty of what he would do to you now.
He slowly began to peel off his bodysuit, the fabric sliding off with an unnerving calmness, revealing nothing underneath. Your breath caught in your throat, and you gasped, your body instinctively squirming harder, faster, as a wave of fear washed over you. Sweat clung to your skin, the terror of the unknown gripping you tightly. Every fiber of your being screamed to get away, but the restraints held you firmly in place, leaving you helpless.
UNFINISHED LOVELIES