Bloody Painter X Puppeteer Novels & Stories

A low raspy laugh filled my ears adding horrific images to my paranoia. I quieted it was no use fighting the unknown. I had no choice but to hold on to Yulian’s promise; I would be okay. My breathing hitched, dampness brushed through my breast. The strong smell of paint covered my nostrils. Strokes were meticulously laid and I became a canvass of an obscure art. “She’s all done,” announced a man, I presumed the painter. He rounded me once more before patting my behind. “Yeah, she’s all good. What marvelous skin you have! A living porcelain doll!”

Her puzzled look is now noticeable in his sight. Yelena felt that she wasn't the only one giving Mort a headache, there was someone else. And whoever that Puppeteer was it managed to get Mort's attention. Now, Yelena is curious again. She wanted to know the Puppeteer and make him her ally. A beneficial alliance. "Since you don't know anything there's no point in keeping you alive," said Mort and aiming his gun at her forehead which made her eyes grew widened in terror. "I-I know who's the Puppeteer i-" Her words are left in the air when a bullet is buried in her flesh, fired at point-blank range. Mort shot her mercilessly in the forehead making her head grotesquely explode.

Dexter's smirk dances on the edges of his lips as he points out, "Well, you've got an extra talent up your sleeve – certainly a master of tattoo artistry, I must say. Quite the paradox, isn't it? A remarkable tattoo artist, yet your own skin remains untouched!" Blaze titters, his gaze briefly flickering to Dexter's elaborate tattoos. He possessed irrefutable talent. However, opting to remain ink-free was a deliberate choice reflecting his personal preferences. "Don't tell me you're afraid of a few needle pricks?" Dexter teases. Blaze, unable to contain his amusement, retaliated by grabbing a nearby cushion and hitting Dexter with it. "Well, you're the bloodsucker here, so consider this a lov

Petal's POV My hand continued moving across the canvas without stopping. The gentle rain I had been painting moments ago slowly disappeared beneath restless brushstrokes. The delicate shades of blue and grey blended together into a chaotic mess. I didn't even notice when the umbrella I had carefully painted became darker. Messier. Almost violent. Before I realized it, my brush had formed a pair of piercing eyes. Dark. Cold. Furious. I stopped. A faint smile escaped my lips. "Looks like I painted him again..."

“That’s not funny.” “I’m not joking.” I swallowed hard, fighting the sting in my eyes. “You don’t get to throw yourself away like that.” “Neither do you,” he countered. For a moment, we just stared at each other. Then I broke the gaze and walked along the mural again, needing the space, even if it was only a few steps. At the far corner, the painting changed. The colors darkened - reds and blacks-and the figures twisted into something less human. Wolves with hollow eyes, people bent into strange shapes under the red moon.

I marveled at the talent of the painter, with each stroke brought so much life to the painting. The second painting hanging side by side with first was the painting of 5 people cloaked in a dark robe from head to their ankles, the only visible part of them was their feet and wrist. It was impossible to tell if any was a man or a woman. They were walking in a straight line arranged according to their height with the tallest at the very end and the shortest in front. I thought inherently they were human at first but on a second look I saw the man at the very end had an extremely big hand and feet, and both were painted white, his back was also bent in a very unnatural way. The face of the crea

A butcher shop made entirely of werewolf body parts. Bob? I think I see Bob—nope. Just part of Bob’s leg. My stomach churns. I scramble to pull my clothes back into place, my hands shaking. A deep, amused voice cuts through the silence. "You like my artwork?" I spin around so fast I nearly fall over. And there he is. A man—if you can call him that—leaning casually against a tree. His arms covered in tattoos of the blackest ink are crossed over his ridiculously sculpted chest, his entire body painted in blood like it’s a fashion statement. Tattooed. Muscular. Dangerous.

Carolina knelt and offered the brush. “Yours if you want it,” she said. Penny dipped, chose purple, and drew a wide, wild arc over the wall. It was perfect. It turned into a mural, layer on layer, a record of every hand in the house. Eventually the other walls filled, wild with saltwater fish, stars, crows, broken crowns, weird animals, bright geometric shapes. Even after she scrubbed clean, the paint never left Xander’s hands. * On a half-melt day, with rumors of electricity returning to the grid fulltime, Xander took her on a walk. He claimed it was business, but the pack following them (Finch, Lyra, Morgan, and a tiny girl named Pip) proved it was a family thing.

I touched it again in different places, and it still felt like a regular painting. “Are you kidding me?” Frustratedly, I hit the painting with my fists and scraped my knuckles from the corner. Some of my blood splashed on the painting. I grabbed a cloth to clean it when I noticed it had disappeared. My blood was nowhere to be seen. I looked down at the cut on my hand and back at the painting. “Blood Magic,” I whispered as I touched the painting with my bloody hand. “Come on, grimoire. Come to me.”

Heavy footsteps thundered and ran down the corridor. Chaos truly erupted. Impact and groaning sounds echoed one after another. Gunshots boomed and ricocheted off the concrete walls. Paul saw flashes of light from gun muzzles. The stench of gunpowder filled the air. He heard a guard scream in pain, followed by the sickening sound of bones breaking. The atmosphere grew tense. The physical fight intensified when something changed. Paul could feel the vibrations—fabric tearing and low, inhuman growls. He saw several guards transform into wolves.