Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

Cheeks wet from the tears a soft sob escaping from her lips only to be unheard even by the guy who is in the same room or a basement she assumed as there was no window around. One after the other the drop of blood dripped on the bucket as the boy with the grey eyes kept on painting over the canvas. The canvas is painted with deep red as the same replica of the women tied on the chair. The only colour that was upon it was red of different shades with its background in black colour. “Naa~naa~na~na~na~Naaa~Naaa~Na~” the smile turns into a smirk as he takes a deep breathtaking scent of blood. Making him cover his mouth with the back of his hand still holding the brush.

As the music kicked back in, the room buzzed with life once more. He turned to me, his gaze softening. "Is your hand still hurting?" I shook my head. Looking up, I caught the gentle warmth in his eyes. Three months later. The studio was filled with the scent of turpentine. My left hand gripped a paintbrush, sweeping vibrant hues across the canvas. Though my right hand was out of commission, it had regained enough strength to hold the easel steady. Bradley entered, a takeout box in hand. "Lunchtime."

That was why I preferred seeing things myself rather than relying entirely on managers and supervisors. My gaze landed on the centerpiece of the exhibition, a colossal painting that occupied nearly an entire wall. It was known as The Crimson Ascension, a fictional depiction of an ancient vampire legend. The painting showed a blood red moon hanging above a black mountain while thousands of cloaked immortals knelt beneath it. Rivers of silver flowed through the valley below, reflecting the crimson light from the sky. At the summit stood a lone vampire king dressed in obsidian armor, his silver eyes glowing like stars while a crown of black thorns rested upon his head. Behind him stretched a ba

Liam’s body was a living masterpiece of debauchery, streaked with crimson, gold, black, and emerald paint, mixed with sweat, cum, and the evidence of his shattering orgasms. He lay face-down on the ruined black silk sheets, ass still raised slightly, Nick’s thick cock softening inside him after the brutal paint-fueled fucking.

She chuckled, turning her head at me. “Promise me you won’t sell this, Red,” she laughed. I shook my head, my shoulders shaking as I laughed with her. “I will keep this. You didn’t tell me you have this kind of talent, but you got my lips wrong.” I raised my hand, my index finger pointing at the curve of the lips of her stick man drawing. Aya glanced at me and then nodded. “Paint again, Red,” she murmured. “I can’t. Since Scarlett died, I felt like I could not paint anymore,” I muttered sadly, glancing at the last piece I made, Scarlett and our twins.

It was a painting with a line of red paint smeared across it. The red paint was coated so thickly that it dripped down the entire painting like blood. It was a scary sight to behold. The original painting was of a happy family. Their smiles seemed outright creepy due to the red pain. Yvonne was indeed frightened by the painting. Chills ran down her back. She knew this was Mark expressing his hatred. All these years, this bloody family was all Mark could see.

“Blood, Word, Breath. Break any and the stair erases your ascent.” Taren swallowed. “What happens if the stair erases us?” “You forget up,” the figure said, almost kindly. “Some prefer that.” They descended. ⸻ The chamber of Blood was small, round, plain. A bowl cut into the floor collected melt from the ceiling in slow, patient drops. A wafer of ice rested on a plinth beside it. Three channels had been carved there: two whole, one shallow. Kaelira’s wolf paced. Teeth and ritual, Ardyn said, unimpressed. Pick one.

I grabbed the hem of Felix's shirt, fixed a pitiful expression on my face, and mumbled, "I believe you, Felix." Felix's expression softened as he helped me back to my feet. Taking advantage of the fact that the other wolves' attention was still on us, I retrieved a document from my bag and handed it to Felix. "I accidentally recorded your pup's blood type as AB when I registered his information last time. The truth is, his blood type is O." Felix's face twisted as he snatched the document from me. An eerie silence descended upon the hall. Everyone knew that all the wolves of the Blackrock pack had type-AB blood, making it impossible for a pup with type-O blood to exist in the pack.

She dropped into a seat at the back, breath still ragged from the graffiti’s shock. The teacher droned on about ancient wars, but Alice couldn’t focus. Her senses crackled, too sharp, catching the rustle of papers, the sour tang of sweat from the kid in front of her, the heartbeat of the girl doodling beside her. Her nails pressed into her palms, tingling, threatening to sharpen. The prophecy—Born of man and moon—was a cult’s script, not fate. She wanted to be the Alice who aced quizzes, not this weapon built to end the packs.

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.