#castlevania anime

[thisnoah]

Guess who watched castlevania and likes vampires now

[pyrettaablaze]

Currently thinking about Reader being Alucard's muse and reigniting his interest in art after all that’s happened. His partner’s beauty is so captivating to him that he remembered he used to enjoy drawing.

When he was young, Dracula hired artists to draw portraits of his little family, but Adrian hated standing still for such a long time. Turns out he has no problem making you pose until he portrayed every detail as accurately as possible.

“Stand still for me, my dear.”

Once he’s finished he’s too shy to show you at first, his perfectionism when it comes to you showing again. Some lines may be clumsily drawn and the paint may be smudged in some places, but the features of your face that he loves most look flawless.

All of this just to show you that there’s nothing to be insecure of. He admires you for you, no matter the beauty standards that might convince you otherwise.

Tag list: @ceas-aliving @haze-ez

[ladymahou]

[pkuinn]

very happy that they didn’t make him green and bald in the show (no judgment but his design for the show is actually peak)

[eerieayres]

"One day, hell will be emptied, and its doors will rattle in the wind. Through my hand, God lifts the damned from hell in his mercy to enact their penance on the Earth as my soldiers."

- Isaac, Devil Forgemaster

Painted traditionally on canvas. I included Isaac's notable night creatures: Abel and Flyseyes.

Castlevania Animated Series © Netflix Artwork © EerieAyres

[ryo-creampuff]

they're always bickering in person but when they're behind closed doors they be smoochin

[enderraydragon]

got the random urge to draw my favorite vampire/dhampir at 4 in the morning... so here it is (if it looks messy no it doesn't)

as always, here's the reference!!:

og artist: rice_0723 on xiaohongshu

[galorak]

His heart's true home | Alucard x female reader

Amidst a snowy Christmas Eve beneath the shadow of his ancestral castle, the dhampire Adrian finds his eternal heart captured by a woman's kindness, resolving to protect her sanctuary.

Rating: General audiences

Relationships: Alucard(Adrian Tepes) x reader

The village lay nestled in the valley, a vibrant splash of life beneath the severe, silent silhouette of the castle, a structure whose grim history had been reduced by time and distance to a mere, daunting shadow. Today, that shadow was mitigated by a vision of perfect winter charm. Thick, uncompromising flakes of snow had fallen since dawn, blanketing the narrow, winding streets, the sturdy thatched roofs, and the intricate, bare lacework of the ancient oak branches in a pristine, blinding white. The usual rustle of the leaves was muffled; the world was an exercise in perfect quiet.

Below, bundled children, rosy-cheeked and loud, carved out a miniature world of fun, shaping squat snowmen and peppering each other with soft, packed ammunition. Some might have said that some snowmen, with sticks poking from their mouths, may have held resemblance to a certain dhampire. 

​Inside a small, sturdy cottage, set near the deep, hushed edge of the woods, a quiet carol was being hummed. You, the occupant, moved with purpose, arranging a simple but deliberately festive spread on a polished wooden table. A wreath of dark pine and bright, sharp holly, fresh from the cold, hung on the inward-opening door, and the air was a rich, comforting blend of cloves, pine sap, and the sweet steam of simmering cider. ​A sudden, soft rattle startled you, the sound sharp against the gentle background hum of the fire. The ancient windowpanes rattled once, a tiny, shivering percussion. You paused, a half-peeled orange suspended in your hand. You knew that particular, familiar rattle. It was too soft, too intentional to be the caprice of the wind.

​A faint, private smile touched your lips. Setting the orange down, you pulled a thick, hand-knitted shawl over your shoulders, the wool a deep, comforting crimson, and walked toward the door. You opened it just a crack, letting in a single, sharp current of chilled, cider-scented air. ​Standing on your porch, dusted lightly with the persistent, fresh powder, was 'Thee' Alucard.

​Here, away from the cavernous, ancestral gloom of his castle and the weight of his father’s legacy, he was less imposing. The naturally severe, high lines of his face were softened by the constant, drifting fall of snow, which caught on his lashes like frost. The rich, velvet fabrics of his heavy coat seemed almost mundane against the sparkling, unforgiving white of the landscape that reflected in the unusual gold of his eyes. His long, pale hair lay across his shoulders, slightly dampened by the snow that had woven itself through the strands. Though he held his posture with the effortless rigidity of his kind, he did not shiver. In one elegantly gloved hand, he carried a small, intricately carved wooden box.

​“Adrian!” You greeted, allowing the warm, familiar sound of the name he permitted you, the name of the man, not the vampire, to escape your lips. “You’re late. I thought the wolves might have gotten to you.”

​His lips curved into the faintest, most private of smiles, a subtle, fleeting movement rarely witnessed by any other soul in the world. 

“The wolves know better than to impede my journey. Besides,” Adrian added, his voice low and smooth as polished stone, “I promised to sample your spiced apple brew.” ​He stepped across the threshold, and you immediately pulled the heavy, iron-latched door shut, sealing the cottage and trapping the sudden rush of warmth and the rich scent of the hearth inside. Adrian paused just inside the entrance, his unnatural stillness absorbing the atmosphere. His golden eyes swept over the small, cheerful space: the low ceiling, the crackling firelight dancing on simple, scrubbed wood, the scent of life. The contrast to the oppressive, echoing grandeur of his own ancestral castle was stark; this cottage was warm, alive, and vibrantly, beautifully human.

​You stepped forward and, without a word, began to take his cloak, shaking the fine layer of snow from the rich wool. 

“You’ll catch a chill,” you teased, the absurdity of the statement, spoken to a creature who felt neither human warmth nor cold, ringing lightly in the air. “Sit. The fire is perfect.”

​Adrian settled into the wooden armchair you indicated to, his unnaturally long, elegant limbs folding with effortless grace. He accepted the thick earthenware mug of steaming cider, the fragrant liquid warming his hands. You watched as he lifted it slowly, taking a contemplative, measured sip.

​“This… is excellent,” he admitted, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that always seemed to vibrate deep in your chest, sending a familiar, pleasant shiver down your spine. He set the mug down gently. “This… is Christmastime, as the villagers term it, is it not?”

​“It is,” you confirmed, settling into the chair opposite him, hands curled around your own mug. The peaceful silence that fell between you was not empty, but thick with unspoken history and easy affection. “The eve of Christmas Day. A time for light, for hope, and… well, for sharing.” You gestured toward a plate of freshly baked gingerbread, the cookies cut into festive shapes.​Adrian followed your gaze, then reached for the small, carved wooden box he had placed on the table between yourselves and slid it toward you. “Then I suppose I should honor the tradition.” His golden eyes locked with yours. “I brought you something.”

You looked down at the box. It was exquisitely crafted, carved with intricate, flowing patterns that you suspected were ancient Wallachian designs, perhaps centuries old. You reached for the lid, lifting it gingerly, hesitantly, as if seeking implicit permission to look inside. You knew he was serious, but the gravity of receiving anything from the former Count’s son always made you pause.

​As the lid lifted, the firelight inside the cottage seemed to intensify. Nestled on dark blue velvet lining was a simple, perfect silver locket. It was antique, unadorned by jewels, its surface polished to a mirror shine that reflected a warped, elongated image of the fire's flame. It was beautiful, undeniably precious, and likely priceless.

​“Adrian… this is too much." You whispered, gazing up at him, the weight of the gift sudden and heavy in the small room.

​He met your eyes, and the sheer, focused intensity of his attention, a force usually reserved for scholarly texts or battlefield strategies, made your heart flutter against your ribs. 

“Nonsense,” he countered, his tone absolute. “The human world still holds treasures, and you have need of protection. It is blessed, if that eases your mind.” A beat passed, then he added, an unusual softness in the command: “Wear it.”

As you lifted the jewelry with delicate fingers and carefully fastened the locket around your neck, Adrian watched. He had seen thousands of winters, endured countless centuries of solitude, and witnessed the rise and fall of nations. He had not expected to be here, in this small, vibrant room, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the hearth. You stroked the locket that now sat between your collarbones. 

"Thank you, Adrian. For thinking of me." 

You were so utterly good, never fearing him, never asking him for favors, and treating him not as the legendary dhampir, the great warrior, or the son of a monster, but simply as a quiet, occasionally brooding man named Adrian.

The faint, muffled chorus of the village carols drifted through the heavily insulated walls, a sweet, melancholic counterpoint to the crackle of the hearth. You leaned forward, reaching for the long iron poker to stoke the embers, and the subtle movement caused the new silver locket to catch the firelight, flashing a single, brilliant spark against the vulnerable curve of your throat.

​In that instant, Adrian saw not just a friendly face, but the absolute, undeniable truth.

​It wasn't merely comfort he sought here. It wasn't just the relief of escaping the echoing chill of his endless castle, or the temporary distraction from his burdened immortality. It was a singular, powerful gravitational pull. He realized, with startling clarity, that he preferred the mundane, domestic scent of your cottage, cloves, cider, and woodsmoke, to the stone dust and dead air of his ancestral tomb. He valued the clear, melodic sound of your laughter above the silence that had pressed in on him nightly for centuries. ​He looked at you now, framed by the soft, mutable golden light of the flames, your eyes shining with a simple, genuine happiness that transcended the world's complexities. This, he realized with a shock that was more profound than any battlefield wound, more destabilizing than confronting his own father’s madness, 'this is where I belong.'

​He was not merely visiting a kindly acquaintance to pass the time. He was seeking a sanctuary only you could provide. He desired your presence, the quiet strength of your kindness, and the grounding clarity of your human perspective. More fiercely, he felt the imperative to ensure your safety, to stand as a solitary, protective bulwark between you and the inevitable cruelties of the world he knew intimately.

​He was in love with you.

​It was an impossible, overwhelming, and terrifying affection, the kind his father had felt, a love that had begun as something pure and ultimately turned monstrous. Adrian gripped the warm mug in his hands, the sudden, fierce realization nearly shattering his composure. He watched you pour him another cup, your movements unhurried, graceful, and utterly precious. He knew he could not, should not, tell you. He was a being of darkness, longevity, and endless conflict; you were fragile and fleeting. To involve you directly in his existence would be an act of supreme, unforgivable selfishness, perhaps even a death sentence.

​But knowing it, knowing that this deep, centuries-old heart had been wholly captured by this woman in a simple cottage on a winter's night was a revelation that settled like pure, warm sunshine into the cold chasms of his soul. It was the only true, unalloyed light in the thousand years of shadows he had endured.

​He took a slow, deliberate breath, the monumental realization settling into the deep, quiet places of his being. He spoke your name, his voice softer than before, perhaps betraying a faint, unsteady tremor. ​You turned to him fully, your expression open, warm, and inviting. 

“Yes, Adrian?”

​He paused, reorganizing the chaotic rush of feeling into a single, simple, actionable statement, a commitment he could physically uphold. 

“I… shall return tomorrow. To ensure the festivities are not disturbed. I will patrol the woods until dawn.”

​You smiled then, a sweet, radiant smile that made his inner vampire preen with a pride he hadn't realized he possessed. 

“I know you will,” you said softly. “I’ll have a freshly baked treat waiting for your return, just to ensure you stay warm.”

​Adrian simply nodded, the promise unspoken but heavy in his golden eyes. He would patrol the woods. He would patrol the village. He would guard the whole valley. He would guard his heart’s sanctuary. It was the best, most profound Christmas gift a solitary dhampir could ever receive.