Bloody Painter Fanart Novels & Stories

His vociferation mingled with the human death scream and it sent a bone-curdling chill throughout the air, penetrating everything it came in contact with. His face was covered in blood and his movements were a blur to Silver. Alaric finally stopped, looking like a demon from the underworld. He was drenched completely in the blood that his long hair was matted to the side of his face, blood trickling down into the deep red rug he stood on. He licked the blood from his lips, his eyes, a burning flame.

I burst through the double doors into the main gallery space and come skidding to a halt. The white sheet that had covered my painting earlier now lies in a heap on the floor, revealing the artwork beneath. It depicts a circle of children holding hands, playing ring around the rosie. Werewolf pups swirl around their legs. All are smiling. All are happy. It was meant to be a statement. One of hope, of happiness, of peace. But now, that message is obliterated. Someone has thrown what looks like a bucket of blood over the canvas. Thick, crimson liquid drips down the children’s faces, pools in their outstretched hands, stains their clothes.

Red and black. It shouldn’t startle me, but it did. Cause some of them were lewdly drawn. If you have no idea about Ralph Romano–consider yourself lucky among a limited amount of people, cause Ralph Romano’s disaster. A living alive spawn of satan–no–the devil himself. He paint with blood and conveys screams in his paintings, he was a world-renowned artist respected by many as well as feared. Including me. I hated him.

His lips tug up into the smallest of smiles "Wanna see what I've done?" I stand and walk to him, standing behind. The smell hits me, and I'm wondering how hard it must be to stand something like this, but I say nothing, staring at the his painting. His paintings, as always, are done with red and black, some charcoal he sometimes has a thing for. In it, there's a girl, in a cage tied to a chair, by her own guts coming out from her stomach and she has feathers, except she looks as if some of them have been plucked out, and her skin is blistered, bleeding, sores…

I remarked and Kyler chuckled. “The pictures you sent me through the mindlink were wow ! Are you an artist in painting bodies with blood ? The precision of the cuts and the streams of oozing blood were too accurately done !! I could swear you were sending me the images of a painting if I had not seen your victims walking and talking for real ! The artwork was beautiful but gory,” Kyler said with a shudder. “I know you paint red better, babe,” I snorted as I thought back about Kyler’s victims tonight. All of them had been left hanging on a tree and I swear, I would have loved to turn that tree into a Xmas one if he had used actual decorations instead of corpses.

The tears that had also mixed with the paint I had used to make this art, the art that was made out of my own pain and heartbreak. I lifted my hand, my fingers hovering over his dark form, the only thing that gave away that it was Cole was the slash of moonlight on his right brow and the highlight of the right side of his face. That square jawline and the hint of stubble on it. And one more thing, his hand holding a delicate jaw of the female figure lying under him. Me. It was me. The whole painting was black and white, and various shades of grey. The darkness of it had resembled the same dark emotions brewing inside me while I had painted it. But there was one color that I didn’t mute. The

The curtains were half open, allowing the newly risen moonlight to seep in faintly and cast indistinct shadows across his face. Several photographs were scattered on the desk. They were taken from various angles: faces, chests, hands, wounds and crude tattoos belonging to people who were no longer alive. The bodies of the rogues who attacked Eirene were stiff, their eyes staring blankly. Blood had dried on the asphalt, mingling with dust and last night’s rain. Fabrizio stood with both hands braced against the edge of the desk. His gaze was sharp and cold as he scanned every detail, trying to pierce the layers of dead flesh to see the truth beneath.

"I want to go home!" One of the hoods moves as a council member signals something to someone on my right. I turn in time to see broad shoulders too close to have time to run. The light flickers upon a silver blade. My mouth opens to scream in dismay, but nothing comes out. Why? As I touch my throat, my fingers are bathed in a warm, thick liquid. A fine line along my neck ignites a pang of pain. I raise my hands only to discover they are painted in red. My muscles aren't mine to control anymore. My body falls to one side, blood pumping out of my neck as I suffocate and choke.

I grabbed the handle and tried to open it, but it seemed locked. The sound reverberated in our ears for a long time. A musty, dank order sneaked into my nose. Weeds of dark leafy were clinging on the roof, due to which any person would faint. The house's walls showed black decay with various names written on them with red ink or blood. Stains of original paint indicated the house's prior affluence. The fresh blood of humans covered the corners of the doors with tiny black spiders thread towards their loot. It reflected a royal yet haunted image as if Kings and queens lived here for centuries.

“Hey, let’s not let Marco ruin our day. Want to see my paintings?” “You paint?” I asked, genuinely surprised. “Of course I do! I’m not perfect, still learning but it helps.” She bounced off the bed with renewed energy. I followed her to the corner of her room where several canvases leaned against the wall. Her paintings were hauntingly beautiful—dark, emotional pieces that captured the shadows of their life. One showed a rose garden at night, petals dripping like blood under moonlight. Another depicted fractured family silhouettes, hands reaching but never quite touching. There was pain in every brushstroke, but also resilience. A blooming flower wrapped in barbed wire. A lone wolf standing