Death Scream Bloody Gore T Shirt Novels & Stories

Today, he was dressed in slim-fit dark gray trousers, a matching vest that accented his swimmer’s build, and a black dress shirt with the top three buttons left open and the sleeves pushed up, showing his forearms. As I got closer, I couldn’t help but laugh when I noticed the cuffs and inside of the collar had a creepy Halloween theme with bats flying around on a foggy night. It was adorable, and while we’re close to Halloween, only a vampire would own something so cheesy. Okay, maybe not only a vampire. I bet André would love dress shirts that are also festive but in a way that’s not over the top loud to make Darren wear.

No color. One of Damian's shirts hangs loosely on her frame. The sleeves fall past her wrists, and the fabric brushes against her thighs. "Hey," the voice finally manages to come out. It sounds rough, but it works. "You're supposed to be wearing red." The shirt is black. A fitting color for a funeral. The color works, at least. The style doesn't. It's far too casual. And the shirt barely covers her legs. Pretty sure showing that much skin isn't considered proper at something like that.

Her marshmallow scent smells rotten. “Disgusting. Just tell her to take her clothes off.” Ghost says. All our conversations about being respectful to our mate go out the window at that moment. “Bro, knock it off.” I chastise him. I look closer at her clothes. A red cropped sweatshirt with the Blood River logo on the sleeve. She cut the neck to help it fit looser. The exposed strap of her bra is black like the leggings and her red trainers match her shirt perfectly. Focus, Milo.

I nod, too exhausted to argue. My T-shirt clings to my skin, dotted with specks of dried blood—none of it mine, thankfully. Anthony's shirt tells a different story, the fabric saturated with deep crimson stains along his left side. "You need to change," I say, gesturing to the gruesome evidence of the days' violence. "Here." I pull open the backpack and bring out two fresh items of clothing. I hand him his, and suddenly feel shy, realizing that I need to take my current shirt off.

I traced the hand holding the gun, and my sight met that of the pair of eyes that'll forever hunt me. They were bloodred eyes!

Standing at 6'3", Damon was the epitome of physical perfection, his broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist, every muscle sculpted as if by an artist's hand. Damon's hair was cropped close to his head, emphasizing the sharp lines of his features. The sun glinted off his skin, highlighting the definition of his muscles beneath the fitted t-shirt he wore, which clung to his chest and arms in a way that showcased his physique without being overly tight. His jeans were well-worn and fit him perfectly, completing the look of effortless cool.

Thud! They immediately kicked the Grand Brightness Main Hall's door into pieces. The four disciples carried two huge coffins into the room! Clang! The two black coffins landed heavily on the floor; they were painted black—they looked lifeless! "These are my gifts for you both!" Darryl drew his Blood Drinking Sword; his eyes were red. "I wish you many happy returns for the day, and may you have today's glory forever!"

God, she was pretty. And she was wearing the shirt, which made me smile behind my hand. That shirt was what had drawn me to her in the first place. A crossover from two of my favorite shows, it depicted Lucille, the bat from The Walking Dead, and the Winchester’s Chevy Impala from Supernatural, with text that read, “Dad’s still on a hunting trip.” A fan of both shows, I’d understood the message and laughed the first time I’d seen it, wishing I had a shirt like that. It’d actually taken me a couple of seconds to realize the material of that shirt stretched across a very lovely set of feminine breasts. When my brain finally registered what I was seeing, my eyebrows perked up and my gaze wander

A blood stained shirt. Where the fuck did that come from? Wait, that shirt looks familiar..... "I knew it, I knew that bitch killed Tristan!" A voice spat angrily. Right! That was Tristan's shirt. Wait what?

To sweat out the fear. I’m clearing a pile of burnt debris near the back door—what’s left of a booth—when I see it. A piece of heavy leather, half-buried in wet ash. It’s a cut. Or part of one. I reach down, dusting off the soot. It’s charred black, but the embroidery is still visible. A skull. A scythe. Reaper colors. One of the attackers must have dropped it, or... I turn it over.