#Hand Drawn Dracula

[dustedmagazine]

Robert Ascroft — Echo Still Remains (Hand Drawn Dracula)

Robert Ascroft is best known as a Hollywood photographer, a capturer of celebrity essence who finds something new to look at in the most familiar faces of our age. It’s a bit of a stretch, but you could think of Echo Still Remains as a series of audible snapshots, that places much lauded singers against novel, faintly noirish backdrops. Here he works with eight distinctive artists —not so well known as the movie stars he photographs, but well-established in their niches—and surrounds them with swirling nocturnal sonics.

Ascroft has a definite affinity for chilly, frictionless soprano voices. Britta Phillips whispers and insinuates in “Where Did You Go,” her voice gliding effortlessly across a moody turbulence of drums, piano, guitar and bass. You’ll get a whiff, here and elsewhere, of Julee Cruise’s disembodied eeriness. If Echo were a movie, it might very well be a David Lynch film. Similarly, the Chromatics’ Ruth Radelet sings “Faded Photograph” with dream-state serenity as synths arpeggiate and tone-washes swell. The best of these wan, romantic crooners, however, is Ora Cogan, her tone pristine but clouded with indefinite haze. She takes the lead in “Dorian Gray,” the cut with the wildest, most shoegaze-y guitar, albeit tamped down to a distant roar.

These tracks are all good, but Ascroft is most interesting when he diverges from this cooing-amidst- turbulence aesthetic. When garage-punk icon Kid Congo Powers turns up, for “Devil at the Door,” the temperature rises significantly, as primal drum beats thump and Powers holds snarling, rock idol court. And then there’s the death-droning, goth-haunted bluesman Guy Blakeslee from the Entrance Band, plunging into the abyss in “Weightless.” Nothing airy or urbane or detached about that.

Ascroft likes a couple of his collaborators so well that he uses them twice. Christopher Owens, once of Girls, puts his emotion-roughened tenor to work on driving, haunted “On the Run,” and the more pensive “Shouldve Stayed in Bed,” imbuing these cuts with immediacy and fluid phrasing. Zumi Rosow from the Black Lips belts and growls and flutters in big dramatic torch song “No One Loves You” and swaggers against a “Walk on the Wild Side”-style bass slides in “Empty Pages.”

Not much information was provided about exactly how these collaborations worked, how much input the guest collaborators had and how much Ascroft himself directed them. The artists do manage to put their own stamp on their songs, varying the textures and tempos and moods, but remaining within Ascroft’s very cool, sophisticated, noir film-like framework.

Jennifer Kelly

[verytinysongs]

Heavy Paranoia by Fake Palms

Band Name: Fake Palms Labels: Hand Drawn Dracula Location: Toronto, Ontario, Canada Release Date: October 7, 2023 Tags: alternative, experimental, indie rock, noise rock, post punk, psychedelic punk

[manitat]

Ora Cogan - Witch

[moonsun2010]

6 November - It's finally over 🌅

these are part of an animatic summarising Dracula, which you can watch here (i would say new readers beware, it has spoilers for the book but well... we are at the end already)

✨️support me: tip jar|commissions

[annamariehamilton-unofficial]

In light of my recent post(s) , here is the Bram Stoker Dracula x Tokyo Ghoul crossover fanart that nobody asked for.

Harker: I was held captive and tormented by a vampire for days ... my hair turned white from the sheer nervous strain.

Kaneki: Tell me about it.

This was originally supposed to be a joke drawing for @catwingsthespatula if/when she ever read Tokyo Ghoul volume 7, but I thought it was apropos of the Dracula Daily x Ghoulpost posts, so I finished it and posted it here for all of you lovely Tumblr folks.

Also side note Catwings wrote an ao3 fic in which Jonathan turns into a ghoul, you should check it out, it is very good.

[kittykattymwah]

Dracula: August 4

But I am CAPTAIN and I MUST NOT LEAVE SHIP.

[thehumbletrapazoid]

shame on me for being a female in the first place

[moltengarnet]

God is not here. This is an empty box.

"LIES? In your house of god? No wonder he abandoned you." Blue Fangs the Warg Demon from Castlevania's Netflix.

Posted using PostyBirb

[kai-drew-this]

Play dracula with me :3

Omg it took like 30 mins to dind the original poster @w@

[hillsidecomics]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Angus Latham (@hillside_comics)

Got my hands on this Dracula comic with a blank sketch cover, and so decided to adorn it with everyone's favourite vampire doctor!

It takes inspiration from this old poster I found for Bela Lugosi's Dracula

[senorboombastic]

This One Song… Dermabrasion on Goblin Dance

Tell you what – we love hearing from artists when things go right. We equally love hearing from artists when things go dreadfully wrong. A song that was a piece of piss, written in 20 minutes? Or years in the making and a bastard to write? Whether it’s a song that came together through great duress or one that was smashed out in a short amount of time, we’re getting the lowdown from some of our…

[zeizeizeizei]

Unpopular Alucard Headcanons 🦇

🦇 His heartbeat is unnaturally slow

Being a dhampir, his body doesn’t function like a human’s. His heart beats maybe once every few minutes, and when he meditates or sleeps deeply, it slows to an almost undetectable level. This makes it easy for people to mistake him for dead if they don’t know better.

🦇 Despite his regal demeanor, he can be incredibly stubborn

He gets this from both of his parents. While he is generally composed, he can be surprisingly headstrong when he believes he is right.

🦇 He secretly enjoys being around people but isolates himself out of guilt

While many see him as a lone figure, he actually enjoys companionship but feels unworthy of it due to his lineage and the weight of his past.

🦇 He sometimes forgets what his own voice sounds like

Spending long periods alone in the castle means Alucard can go days, weeks, or even months without speaking. Sometimes, when he finally does, his voice comes out quieter than expected, or he startles himself by how deep it is.

🦇 He has never truly celebrated his birthday

While he knows the day he was born, it has never been a day of joy for him. His mother may have marked the occasion with warmth, but after her death, he stopped acknowledging it altogether. He wonders if Dracula ever remembered.

🦇 He used to sing as a child but no longer does

Lisa encouraged him to sing when he was young, and his voice was light and pure. However, after losing his mother, he never found the heart to sing again. He still hums absentmindedly when lost in thought, though he never realizes he’s doing it.

🦇 His laugh is rare, but it's hauntingly beautiful

Alucard rarely laughs, but when he does, it’s light and musical, almost as if he’s forgotten how to express joy. It has an eerie, mesmerizing quality, as if for just a moment, the weight of centuries is lifted from his shoulders.

🦇 He doesn’t need to breathe, but he does anyway

His body doesn’t require oxygen in the same way humans do, but he still breathes out of habit. If he concentrates, he can go completely still, like a statue, for days without any movement.

🦇 His presence subtly affects the environment

When he walks into a room, candles flicker. The air gets cooler when he’s deep in thought. Even when he’s not using magic, something about him bends the space around him slightly, like reality itself acknowledges his unnatural nature.

🦇 His eyes glow in the dark

In dim lighting, his golden eyes reflect ambient light like a predator’s, making them glow faintly. In absolute darkness, they shimmer unnaturally, giving him an almost spectral appearance. It’s one of the reasons he avoids letting people see him at night.

🦇 He sleeps curled up, like a child

When he sleeps, especially during moments of vulnerability, he instinctively curls in on himself, as if trying to protect himself from something unseen.

🦇 He doesn’t hate his father—but he cannot forgive him either

Despite everything, Alucard still loves his father in a complicated, painful way. He understands Dracula’s grief, but he cannot forgive the destruction he caused.

🦇 He doesn’t like killing, but he is terrifying when he does

Unlike his father, Alucard does not take joy in battle. He fights with precision and restraint, but when truly enraged, he unleashes a level of destruction that unsettles even himself.

🦇 He is both afraid of and drawn to the idea of companionship

He craves connection but fears what it could mean. He has lost everyone he has ever cared for—what if he loses them again? What if he is meant to be alone forever?

🦇 He has considered letting himself die

The thought has crossed his mind more than once. The idea of fading away, of ending the lonely existence he has been trapped in. But something, some tiny ember of his mother’s voice, always tells him to keep going.

🦇 His hands shake when he’s deeply emotional

Whether it’s anger, grief, or overwhelming sorrow, his body betrays him in subtle ways. His fingers tremble, his breath hitches, and for a brief moment, the composed prince looks like a lost boy.

🦇 He can smell emotions

His sense of smell isn’t just sharp—it’s supernatural. He can pick up traces of emotions like fear, anger, or sorrow as subtle shifts in scent, which is why he’s eerily good at reading people even when they try to hide their true feelings.

🦇 He wonders what his mother would think of him now

More than anything, he wishes Lisa could see him—not just as the boy she raised, but as the man he has become. Would she be proud? Would she be sad? He will never know, and that is perhaps the greatest tragedy of all.

Source: my 🍑

Enjoy.

[0bticeo]

COME ON AND FEEL ALIVE, LOVER

summary:

“let’s both keep quiet, yeah?” he’s warm, you think. impeccably warm, in a way that has you inching closer ever so slightly, fingers flexing in your lap, itching to touch, to cradle. to tease. he’s close. close enough that you can make out the lashes fanning his cheek, the way his tongue darts over his lips. his eyes, harder than steel, melting away, moon-soft. dark. “how quiet?” you whisper, heart stuttering rabbit-fast in your chest. his hands tighten around your waist, thumb brushing your hip bone. a low hum. you feel it rumbling in his chest, where your hand has found support over his beating heart. it hammers against your palm, the thrill of the hunt. “quiet enough to let me fuck you,” he breathes. or: you and trevor find yourselves in an inn months after he saved you. you come to a mutually beneficial agreement.

wc. 3.04k

tw: filth, reader is a witch, the church is being the church, trevor is a dork, p in v sex, fingering, size kink (implied), breeding kink (also implied, wrap it before you tap it), mild blood kink? public sex

the inn is packed – a rarity in these troubled times. dracula’s armies march at night, drawn by the heat of life-blood, eager to gorge themselves on it. every man, woman and child knows to fear the dark. 

fearing the day only came when the churchmen did. you do not worship their god the way they do. you do not act the way you are expected to. you heal people. see what’s in their blood, feel in down to your marrow in their pulse, and eradicate what ails them

you’re a witch, with blood at your calling. 

the abbey heard the rumours and had you dragged away from your home in broad daylight and brought to your knees in front of the steps of the church. he’s made you watch as he burned a lifetime’s worth of remedies and research, intricate drawings and sketches of the human body going up in flames.

they would have burned you, too.

they had not.

small mercies. give what you can, and it will be given back, come hell or high water. you had given a stray, weary traveller some of your bread and ale under the bulk of a hornbeam. he had given you his name and a crooked smile, the tilt of his lip glinting sharper than your dagger under the moonlight.

three days later, he had saved you. 

found you as the churchmen forced you down to your knees, manacles weighing you down. exorcism wouldn’t have done you anything – neither would have consecrated grounds or water. death by fire it was.

you were barely conscious when you caught a glimpse of the fire swallowing the church, its gaping mouth starving for sin. breathing was a chore, your lungs aching with each greedy gulp of air, noxious fumes having you choking as trevor slung you over his shoulder, jumping above the flames.

the rest – you pestering him to let you help him and accompany you in his travels – is history.

so, here you are a few months later, in an inn, making your way towards the hero of the day with food in hand, royally ignoring the glare the innkeeper sends you. with the two florins it costed you, that meal better give you a taste of heaven.

your wrist aches under the weight of the tray you’re carrying

the skin is burnt, ebbed raw by the iron they shackled you with. witches loathe iron , had laughed the abbot, watching as you had gritted your teeth through the pain. do they not?

you sidestep around drunkards and harlots alike, lifting up the hem of your cloak to avoid dubious puddles staining the floorboards, sticky and reeking. someone is playing the fiddle, notes sharp and vivacious in the air. dancers are laughing their troubles away, caught somewhere between the notes. scents of grilled meat and ale fill the air.

it’s been a long time since you’ve seen such liveliness in wallachia.

trevor belmont sits in a corner, coat wrapped around him tightly, lone wolf waiting for the feast. you step forward, setting down the food you’ve gathered through sheer haggling skills. a loaf of bread, still pippin’ hot. goat cheese, melting away. goat meat, somehow grilled to perfection. ale.

by the looks of it, he didn’t wait for you to start with the ale, broad hand firmly clasped around his pint. you try not to stare at the way his grip has his veins bulging out. he lets you settle close to him, shoulder brushing against his bicep as you reach for the bread and break its crust.

you bite back a soft moan as melted cheese and bread hit your taste buds after days of near starvation.

“i think better days are ahead of us,” you muse.

he laughs at that, rough in a way that has heat settling low in your core. 

“optimistic much, mm?”

you shrug, taking a swig of ale. 

“the harvest has been fruitful by the looks of it. and there’s enough goats to go around.” 

there are enough men to tend to these lands. neither they or the cattle are torn apart by the night creatures soaking the soil of wallachia with enough blood to satiate generations of these damned bloodsuckers. you share a glance. maybe there’s more to the happy town of badrist than it seems. and maybe you’re both too worn out to give a damn. you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth and all that.

trevor hums, lips pressing against the edge of his pint, a stray drop of ale catching in his stubble. absently, you wipe it away and bring your thumb to your mouth. a breath, half a second caught in the in-between. men toasting to newborn’s health. maidens laughing. trevor leaning in close, gaze heavy, lingering on the bruises around your wrists, your forearms. 

“so you think evil has deserted these lands, witchling?”

a startled gasp. the wobble of his pint at the edge of the table. your palm on his mouth, his lips warm on your skin. the sharp whisper of your voice. 

“not so loud – do you want me dead, last son of the belmont?”

something flashes in his eyes, sharp and all-consuming. eager . predatory in a way that has your blood sing in your veins. his fingers wrap around your wrist in a firm grip, the calloused pad of his thumb brushing against the burns there. you hiss, fingers slipping away from his lips. he grins, a little sharp, a little devious. something in the air shifts. it’s been brewing ever since you joined trevor on his journey, bloodied and covered in soot with hellfire burning behind you.

(he had wanted to stop you, then. wanted to drop you off to the nearest village, far enough from the churchmen, far enough to be safe. but safety is no more, not ever since the church took an innocent to the pyre and gloated before her ashes. 

he had wanted to stop you. he works better alone. bringing you along would be a liability. he doesn’t want to watch your back if hell were to break loose.

you had flicked your wrist and watched as the night creature about to tear into him burst, blood splattering on the ground.

witch , he had thought. a lifetime of training drilled into him had him clenching his fingers around his whip. you, panting, injured , saving him, had him reconsidering.)

“how about a mutual agreement?” he drawls, releasing your wrist from his grip.

you raise an eyebrow, rubbing the tender skin. a bruise is already blooming. wonderful.

“i’m listening.”

his finger curls under your chin. your attention snaps back to his face – to the soft blush dusting his tan skin. he grins, something a little lopsided, a little boyish as he leans in close, enough for you to feel his breath brush over your cheek.

“let’s both keep quiet, yeah?”

he’s warm, you think. impeccably warm, in a way that has you inching closer ever so slightly, fingers flexing in your lap, itching to touch, to cradle. to tease. he’s close. close enough that you can make out the lashes fanning his cheek, the way his tongue darts over his lips. his eyes, harder than steel, melting away, moon-soft. dark.

“how quiet?” you whisper, heart stuttering rabbit-fast in your chest.

his hands tighten around your waist, thumb brushing your hip bone. a low hum. you feel it rumbling in his chest, where your hand has found support over his beating heart. it hammers against your palm, the thrill of the hunt.

“quiet enough to let me fuck you,” he breathes. 

your eyes widen by a fraction.

“oh, you’re bold .”

“is that a yes?”

you chuckle, settling against him, making yourself at home under the lapels of his coat. the fur tickles your cheek, and it takes every bit of your willpower not to nuzzle in it. your palms press against his chest, fingers brushing the edge of his shirt, thumb grazing the angel wing of his collarbone. 

his hands – rough and wonderfully calloused – squeeze the plushness of your ass, shamelessly dragging you into his lap. you let out a ragged sigh, breath fanning his nape. he growls.

“do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“your hard cock is a bit of a give away – ah! ”

his palms drag up your thighs, slipping under the slit of your dress. you’re glad for it. the slit. your decision to increase your mobility, the bitter cold of wallachia be damned. your heart pounds in your chest. something about the low chuckle he lets out tells you he knows it.

“am i going to find you soaked?”

his fingers press against your cunt, the pad of them gliding against your slit, up and down, gathering the slickness there, thumb catching at your clit. your hips stutter, and you bite down on your lips hard enough to draw blood – you can’t let the patrons know what’s going on. that trevor belmont is about to fuck you, right there, in the middle of that crowded little inn, and that you’re going to let him.

you let out something like an undignified little squeal when his fingers slide in you, curling in a way that has you biting back a loud moan. your teeth break the supple skin of your lip. a tiny droplet of blood trickles down, and you lean back a little, breathless, eyes wide. 

you don’t expect him to lean into you, broad chest brushing against yours, his free arm tightening on your waist. you don’t expect him to lick the blood away, tongue brushing teasingly against your lower lip in a way that has your breath catching in your throat until you think you might suffocate and die altogether. you wonder if he will kiss you.

he nips at your lip, teasingly, until his mouth slots against yours.

your eyes widen. you don’t expect him to be so good at it, in a way that has you clenching around his fingers as he stretches you out until you’re soaking his fingers. he groans, tongue slipping past your lips. you’re burning up against him, panting as he plunders your mouth until you’re mewling softly with each drag of his tongue against yours, teasing it, coaxing sweet little sounds out of you. 

he pulls back, then, thumb pressing down on your ravaged, kiss-swollen lips, sealing them shut. he doesn’t need to tell you to keep quiet. 

there’s a glimmer in his eyes, something a little wild, a little feral. you’ve seen it when he used his whip, slicing a man’s finger clean off before pulling you to his side, his arm wound tight around your waist. he leans in close, nose brushing the edge of your jaw until his lips reach your ear. he adds in another finger with an obscenely wet little sound. you might be ruining his pants.

“all that for me?”

his breath fans your lips, mingling with yours, soft little pants as you desperately try not to cry out with how good he makes you feel. already, you feel yourself slipping away, your fingers curling in his pelt, fur brushing your knuckles. you feel like you’re about to melt, thighs trembling, trapping his hand between your legs. smug bastard is speeding up, and you’re choking on your words as your hips grind down on him, begging for sweet release.

it’s not enough. you want him close. you need him close, in ways you’re not entirely sure you understand – this isn’t enough, not even with how thick and deliciously calloused his fingers out, rubbing at that one little spot… 

“shut up and put it in already–”

a raised eyebrow, a lazy grin. then he stops . then he pulls out, thin little strings of your slick connecting his fingertips to your cunt. you nearly sob at that, wound tight, so very close you’re dizzy with it. 

“oh, don’t pout.” he brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them, tongue brushing tauntingly against the callouses a lifetime of fighting brought there. it’s sinful . “fuck , you taste so good.”

you bite your lip, shuffling in his lap, your cunt brushing against the rough fabric of his pants, catching it just right, and if you could just keep going, just a little more – a hand on your hip stills you. 

a raucous group is making its way towards you, laughing and teasing, brushing right past you. the innkeeper keeps a watchful eye on his patron, his eyes lingering on the both of you – you do make an unusual pair, and whatever is unusual is suspicious these days.  

you’re not alone. the thought sends a thrill down your spine. trevor looks at you like the vampires he prides himself in hunting them down: hungry and vicious, like he’s barely holding himself back from pouncing on you. somebody bumps in the table and almost sends his pint to the ground. he tuts.

“do you have more gold?”

“eh? why?” 

“so that i can rent a room for the night and fuck you properly."

well, shit. you don’t need to reach for your purse.

“one florin.”

you stare at each other. not even close to paying a room for the night. 

“mm. guess we’ll find ourselves a tree.”

you grimace.

“let’s enjoy the warmth a little more, yeah?”

he laughs.

“oh, don’t worry. i’ll keep you plenty warm.”

he unbuckles his belt one-handed, thumb pushing back the buckle, a relieved groan escaping his lips as he pulls down his pants, barely enough to free his cock, flushed the same pretty pink dusting his cheek, hard and leaking. you might be drooling. he might be rubbing his tip against your entrance until you’re burying yourself in his nape, panting against his skin.

“just put it in already–”

and he does. 

thank fuck for him fingering you and fuck him for stopping just before you could come. he’s big , filling you up in a way that has you clawing at his shirt, nails scraping against the belmont crest. he pulls you close, draping the lapels of his coat over you. concealing you, the obscene sight of his cock buried snug in your cunt, barely hidden by the bunched up fabric of your dress. you’re panting. everything is suffocatingly hot – and you’d burn yourself to ashes just to get a taste of his warmth. 

his hand settles at the back of your head, thumb brushing the fine hair at your nape. you bite back a soft sigh of bliss, and god, the way his hips grind up into yours, driving himself deeper and deeper into your warmth–

“trevor,” you whine. 

he hums, a little strained, the scrape of his nails digging in the fat of your hip – a delicious pinprick of pain that has you panting.

it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever done. this, pressed close against a hunter who might as well kill you if he deems you a threat, in the middle of an inn where anyone could guess what you’re up to if they were to get close enough to see the vice grip trevor has on you, the soft tremors racking your body, the way the bench creaks with each thrust. 

“please–” you beg, sweet and needy, drool gathering at the corner of your cheek. “ please , trevor…”

“please what? use your words, pretty.” 

you glare up at him. he thinks you look adorable like this, desperately trying to bite back the little moans he wrings out of you. you, a prideful spitfire of a witch. fucking the spunk out of you and slowly watching you unravel, eyes glazing over, after weeks of banter and saving your perfect, perky little ass. god, that ass . he gives you a firm slap and you keen , tightening around him in a way that has his cock twitching inside of you.

a glance at his surroundings. people are far too busy getting drunk to pay attention to the way he’s losing himself in you, pulling you closer to him, nose burrowing in your hair as he lets you ride him, as he lets you take what you want. he looks at you. takes you in, the way the fabric of your gown rides up your thighs, revealing the soft, supple skin beneath. his thumb skims the edge of a fine scar there, rubbing soft circles into your inner thigh in a way that has you sighing his name. 

you’re pretty like this. always were, even dripping with blood, both yours and that of that damned bishop. even when you were giving him hell for spending your hard-earned gold in ale. even when you were glaring up at him as he laughed and laughed after you tripped on a root and fell in a swamp. 

“beautiful,” he breathes, lips brushing your forehead.

that does you in. that, and the slow, wonderfully agonizing way his hips rock into yours. that, and the soft kisses he presses to your neck, beard rough against your tender skin. that, and the way his fingers rub at your clit like he wants you to shatter in his embrace.

and you do. you do, burying your sweet, precious face in him, the low moan of his name you let out a broken vibration against his chest. he groans at that, at the way you milk him dry, so fucking tight he wishes he could bend you over that table and take you over and over again, until you’re bursting with his seed–

maybe another time, when it’s not so bloody cold outside.

for now, he settles for this, fucking you through your high until you let out a tiny whisper of his name, until he finally empties himself in you with a low hiss. until he gathers you up close, glancing at the sweet mess between your thighs, his seed dripping out of your cunt, still stretched out by his length. the sight alone has him heating up, cheeks flushing red.

he looks at you, palm cradling the back of your head as it falls back to stare up at him, dazed. something in him is practically purring at that, low and satisfied in all ways primal. 

“next time, i’ll fuck you proper.”

[seraph5]

Now that I've listened to Re: Dracula I feel like I've been weirdly spoiled for a lot of other Draculas. Like don't get me wrong there's a lot of Dracula's out there to like but there was something really beguiling about:

a) Mina and Lucy's quite modern musings about their place in the world, the beginnings of wonderings about what they might like or could like as people not just as what society demands

b) Mina and Lucy's relationship. I just adore that they are surprisingly different characters and interact in a very realistic interesting way that you don't see a lot in media that depicts this time period. I also love how intelligent Mina is.

c) The absolute intensity of the bond and duty our heroes find themselves drawn into when put in this horrific situation. It really surprised and struck me the way that all these people with not extremely deep connections in a lot of cases closed ranks together in a silent fight to protect not just themselves but to break the cycle of evil. They, all of them, really showed a tremendous amount of care and kindness towards each other in this insane mission. Obviously it would have been nice if the boys had been less dumb about including Mina in things but their follies in that area were clearly a result of the time they lived in and not a fundamental personal lack of respect for mina.

d) I know everyone does not see this interpretation but I like that there is a quasi-homoeric undertone to Dracula and Johnathan's whole thing. Of course Johnathan is there under duress and I'm certainly not saying that there is something consensual or reciprocal going on but Dracula being so possessive of him especially with the brides gives an interesting undertone to some of the earlier parts of the book. There is a real sort of fascination Dracula seems to have for him as a conduit for information about his next conquest and he really tries to connect with him through the guise of society.

I haven't really ever seen all these points illustrated very strongly in other retellings or if it's there it doesn't communicate that feeling that makes these missed points so special. Worse it seems like a lot of the time they make really weird choices like merging characters or swapping characters or cutting characters for brevity or excitement. Which on one hand I kind of understand but when given the space the characters all have their own interesting points and perspectives and are interesting to experience.

I'd love to see a retelling that balanced all these things a little more and cut less. Maybe even have it be a mini series rather than a movie.

[ultravi0lence14]

GROTESQUE GARDENING

DEAN WINCHESTER X DEMON!READER

WARNINGS: gory details, descriptions of violence, bloody fluff

SUMMARY: what does his little monster do all day? that’s what dean asks himself regularly. well, he finally decided to figure it out

WC: 1.5k

LITTLE MONSTER’S CABINET OF CURIOSITIES

the haunting sound of vinyl singing through the open mouth of a gramophone rings throughout the bunker, alerting dean in his own room just a wall away from yours. your music rattled through dean’s bones like a chill, dark and deep wordless tunes that sounded as though they should be played in dracula’s castle. it was very you, and dean found a thrumming vessel inside of him that didn’t mind the noise.

his little monster, the demon who was feared by her own kind. you were unique in your own, a bone chilling waltz of macabre and bloodshed. yet dean loved you exactly how you were. yeah, some of your hobbies and interests were a little creepy and messy, but it made you happy, so why should he complain?

though as he laid in bed, the gothic noises from your room made him start to wonder; what do you do all day?

it was a fair question. when you weren’t with the brothers, killing supernatural creatures, or hanging onto dean’s side, he never really knew where you went off to. all he knew is that you usually came back covered in dirt or blood, hands a mess as you carried jars filled with various critters and insects.

his curiosity peaked further as he heard a faint hum from the other side of his wall, a melodic sound that was far too concentrated for you to be doing nothing. with a huff, dean’s sock clad feet hit the cold floor, black sweatpants swaying with his movements as he took the short walk from his room to your peculiar emporium.

the door was slightly cracked, and as dean peaked his head inside, it was like he entered a dark and eerie world. shadow boxes filled with taxidermies of insects such as spiders, butterflies, and moths filled your room, their sullen and piercing eyes staring back at dean with no emotion. your bed was harrowing in the room, a large figure of black velvet headboards and dark purple sheets. it was fit for the bride of grim, which to dean, you were.

the dark, moody gray of your walls contrasted with all the antique and barbarous trinkets on your desk and other flat surfaces. yet somehow, dean’s eyes couldn’t stray away from you.

your back was facing him as you hunched over your desk, bare feet kicking back and forth as you examined the insides of some animal. you had on a mid length black skirt, lace designs up the fabric that had dean drawn to the expanse of your legs. a black corset top resided on your upper half, your pale arms and collarbone blinding as dean allowed his greedy stare to encompass you.

your hair was twisted in two messy space buns at the nape of your neck, not allowing your ivory hair of raven cover the plethora of vintage necklaces around your throat.

the dead craved to touch you. a swirl of beauty wrapped in dead flowers that crawled with moths. dean was so hypnotized by you, so enthralled with your unique and effortless beauty, that he didn’t even notice you staring at him. a delightful smile was plastered on your face, and you shyly dropped your scalpel before fully turning to dean.

“hey, angel.” you called to him, using the nickname that was reserved to only come from your lips. the black stool scrapped out beneath you as your feet made their way over to where dean stood, wrapping your arms around his neck. “what’s up?”

the gothic revival singing through your vinyl, mixed in with the soft and quiet cadence of your voice, created a dark and beautiful melodic waltz that had dean drawing in closer to you. his lips briefly brushed your forehead, your scent of black dahlia’s wafting through his nose before he returned your question.

“wanted to be with you, little monster.” he grinned, bringing a hand up to swipe at your deep coloured lips. “want to see what you do when i’m not around.”

your face shadows like a finished eclipse, the dark confines of your face turning bright as you beam up at dean. the skeletal bones of your fingers clutched tighter to the nape of dean’s neck, pulling yourself up on your tippy toes so you could put your face right in front of his. “really? don’t you think my hobbies are gross?”

dean just chuckles, blinking as your eyelashes flutter against his. “yeah, sometimes. but i love all of you, baby. wanna show you that.”

the only indication that you were excited about the adventures the day held was the bounce in the balls of your feet, your face going closer and closer to dean’s before you pecked his eyelid and scurried over to your closet.

“i’m just gonna quickly grab my coat and then we can go!”

“don’t forget those pretty rain boots i bought you, little monster!”

the sloshy sounds of mud squelching beneath shoes was all to be heard in the solemn and barren graveyard. dean walked a little ways behind you as your head turned from side to side in eager movements, black trench coat swaying behind you as you moved.

your black rain boots were already caked in mud, and dean was glad that you listened to him and put them on. you had a tendency to go out barefoot, and dean didn’t want to have to clean your mud tracks in the bunker.

a grim fairytale made to walk through the dead and decaying; that’s what you were to dean. you looked so in your element, hands and knees stained in mud as you bent down to dig through the piles for insects. you had a little black bag slung over your shoulder, and it was filled to the brim with jars so you could bring your little findings home with you.

dean didn’t say a word, just followed you around as a dog would with their owner. he watched in awe as you worked, slowly shifting through different area’s of the burial grounds and allowing the little critters to squirm and wiggle around in your palms when you found one interesting.

you were a black swan; so pretty yet so dark in your own, enchanting ways. you owned who you were, and you didn’t really mind if anyone gave you weird stares for how you dressed or acted. you’re a demon for christ’s sake, though your reserved and shy attitude wouldn’t allude to that at all.

skies above dropped little pellets of rain down on you and dean, drizzling around you two while the groggy and fog filled atmosphere added to the macabre feeling in the air. this was your element, and dean could easily see that as your hands and clothes grew more and more muddy.

dean watched as you got down on your knees, mud smearing across your skirt as your hunched over frame dug and dug through the soupy material. “you making potions over there, baby?” dean joked, legs moving him closer towards you so he could loom over your shoulder.

you just scoffed, hands still rapidly clawing through the mud that started caking beneath your fingernails. “i’m trying to find a certain type of spider dean. they usually can be found around area’s like this.”

the man in question just laughed, head leaning down so he could press a chaste kiss on the crown of yours. he watched for a couple more minutes as your skeletal fingers dug through the earth, quiet hums of gothic songs and low grunts when you didn’t find what you were looking for.

like a ravened crow in a medieval jack in the box, you sprung up from your kneeled position, leaving the dirt piles behind and high tailing it to the closest mausoleum. dean’s brows furrowed as he slowly followed behind you, listening to the ancient creak of metal squealing open when you entered the decrepit tomb. his head peaked in behind you, the damp and stale air hitting his nostrils as he watched you flounce around like a deathly woman on an even deadlier mission.

“whatcha doin’ baby?” dean singsonged, listening to your rain boots scuttle around the floor as you looked for something specific.

a frazzled expression grew in your hellfire eyes, and dean was worried your head was going to explode. “spiders dean! i need to find spiders!” your words were so jumbled, dean didn’t even know if this was his raven queen talking back to him. “this specific specie of spider rests around graveyards, but i know they also dwell in dark spaces.”

dean just laughed, shaking his head at his bloody girl running around a mausoleum, trying to find spiders.

“what’s so important about these spiders?” he questioned, watching intently as you stopped and turned to look at him with wide eyes. “what’s so important?” you reflected, hair swaying above your neck as your head shook at the movement of your surprise. “i need them to finish my collection dean! if i don’t, what am i going to put over my bed?”

you were such an enigma; a dark and beautiful living dead. no one would expect you and dean to work together, but you did. and even now, as he stood at the doorway of an old mausoleum, watching as his girl ran around trying to collect spiders, he knew that his life would never be the same if he hadn’t met his little monster.

TAGS: @starzify @floralscented @deansbeer @bluemerakis @figthoughts @foolinthera1n @haunteres @vaiieydoii

NAT BABBLES: didn’t want to make this one too long but here’s @titsout4jackles & i’s little monster again!! we’ve come up with so many scenarios for her it isn’t even funny!!

DIVIDER CREDS TO BREE!!