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the critically acclaimed open post

assorted shitty people

optional prompts/ideas

☆ caught in the rain meme
☆ little steps meme
☆ affectionate physical contact meme
☆ picture prompt also acceptable but link them so it's tidy
☆ AU ideas: soulmates AU, reincarnation AU, Bad End AU, canon divergent/roleswap AU, dorky college AU, crossover AU, super indulgent high fantasy AU
☆ melodrama is ultimate tier
★ SHIPPING AND FILTHY THINGS:
☆ non-fluffy relationship types I'm down for: codependent, master/servant power imbalance type ships, "we're bad for each other but worse for anyone else," other things I am failing to think of tbh
☆ things I won't rp: noncon (includes "dubcon"), incest, tsundere shit if your tsundere is just verbally abusive, gratuitous torture porn, you'll probably have to ask me about harder kinks and they will vary by character
☆ I don't have a kink list so pitch me an idea if u thirsty
☆ if you would prefer a locked post I can also make that happen

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[Despite his myriad bad habits, there are plenty of things in the world Trevor is good at doing. Fighting monsters, for one thing, and making excellent jokes... loads of things. Unfortunately, self care is not one of them, although Trevor would - and to the chagrin of anyone who's signed up for the headache of caring about him, has - argue that he's very good at knowing his own physical limits. Being injured in battle is nothing new, and a solid night's sleep always... helps. Sort of.

You know, he's been better, but he has enough whiskey in him to dull the ache in his chest from the gash sliced open there, hastily bandaged and deemed good enough. He's got the bottle halfway to his lips when Alucard snaps at him, making him pause and raise an eyebrow.]

I have "attended to it," thank you. [......wait; he looks down at his shirt, which has not yet bled through, meaning—] Don't sniff me, Alucard.

[Now he takes a swig of the whiskey, grumbles, and tugs his shirt out to stare down at his own chest. He's fine... surely...]

I've had worse, you know.

And were those similarly attended to in such a slapdash manner? I'm surprised you're still alive.

[Sarcasm!! But he also kind of is, honestly, because Trevor doesn't ever seem to take care of himself. Oh, he's an accomplished fighter, no doubt about that; even when he's drunk he's better than most humans on their best days. But the man denies himself any kind of care with an almost masochistic pleasure.

It's worrying, honestly-- or it would be, if Alucard cared about him. Which he doesn't. He mentions this only because he requires Trevor's help to kill his father.]

It's not a choice. You stink; I could no more block you out than I could the firelight.

Edited 2018-12-02 05:04 (UTC)

Yes, yes, I'm utterly repulsive. Shut up.

[It's an automatic response to Alucard's barbs like it usually is these days, without much venom behind it. It's not as if "I'm surprised you're alive" and "you stink" are things he's never heard before, and now he's actually starting to wonder if the wound on his chest is worse than previously thought. He even puts the bottle down, to prod at his chest with two fingers and hiss through his teeth almost immediately.

Alright, so that isn't a great sign. Of course Alucard let him drink like that before pointing it out, the bastard.

But he's fine so shut up.]

We can't all will our injuries away like they're nothing. If you have any bandages to spare, I'd appreciate that more than your attitude.

Lie down.

[He stands, going over to one of the community bags, as Sypha helpfully calls them. The sort they all share, into which those goods that they all need are packed-- things like food, water, spare clothes, and, naturally, bandages and medicine. His fingers flit through the baggage with easy grace, because he's flashy like that; soon he turns, bringing over a handful of supplies.]

You've likely infected the wound by now. It'll need to be cleaned.

That's-- That's not what I meant.

[He'd have liked to do it himself, he means. Naturally. Just traveling around with two other people is vastly stretching the boundaries of what he's been doing for years and years, so it's no surprise that the mere suggestion that someone is going to make him lie down and take care of him makes him hunch his shoulders forward just so. Like that will stop Alucard.

There is no wound here, he's fine, keep those clammy vampire hands away from him. This is childish of him, and now that he's paid attention to it it's harder to ignore the dull throbbing of the wound, but Sypha isn't on hand to tell him he's being a baby, so there.]

I'll do it myself.

Because you did such an exemplary job last time.

[He's not cruel enough to manhandle Trevor and yank off his shirt-- not like this, anyway-- but nor will he move away. He kneels down on the ground, hands resting on his thighs, staring at Trevor with a mixture of exasperation and something else.]

Your hands are filthy, and I know more about wounds than you. Are you really going to keep brushing me off?

I could. What are you going to do, knock me out and doctor me in my sleep?

[Actually, he wouldn't put it past Alucard to do something like that just to prove a point. He makes a face, half pained and half reluctant. Are his principles stronger than his desire to live through the night...?

Well, no. He sighs, reaching up to start opening his shirt.]

Can you at least make it quick?

[Because he grew up with two utterly brilliant minds, because he is clever himself, because he really does want to get this done, he waits until after Trevor sheds his shirt (and vest, and various belts, good god, man) before drawling:]

I'll try. I had intended to spend hours hovering over you.

[In other words: binch, please.

It's odd, though, to see Trevor so undone. That enormous coat lends his body a rather hunched figure. Stripped to the waist, Alucard stares at a body that's rather solid. Unlike his own sharp angles and lean frame, Trevor is, to be frank, thick. He looks as though you could run up against him and knock yourself out; even years of drinking haven't put much of a dent in his physique.

The effect is slightly spoiled by the aroma of stale drink and dirt that surrounds Trevor, but certainly isn't by the blood smeared over his torso. That looks like a meal, and again his tongue slides over one fang, though he's clever enough not to open his mouth or let it show.

His hands are surprisingly brisk as he tugs at the stale bandages Trevor had slapped sloppily on. His expression is one of very polite, refined disgust; good god, babe . . .]

I'm mildly impressed you aren't covered in scars.

[It isn't that Trevor is shy about shedding his clothes for some snooty floating asshole; far from it, although even through the haze of whiskey he can feel the strange tension between them pulled taught the closer Alucard comes. He chooses to ignore it, frown fixed firmly in place, hands falling out of the way to let Alucard do this thing with minimal interruptions.

Not minimal protest, thanks to his mouth, but he's not batting his hands away and that should count for something. Alucard's hands are thin and delicate-looking like the rest of him, but Trevor knows firsthand just how much of an illusion that is. Still, the way he pulls at the bandages is somehow more tender than the look on his face (and that one just makes Trevor frown more, shut uuup).

It would be fucking excellent, he thinks, to do this thing without talking to each other, but it seems once again the universe and Alucard personally have conspired against him. He makes a vague noise of assent, rough, looking down at himself again.]

The family business has not been booming, exactly, [he says, and it sounds wooden and stupid even to him. Can't take a pseudo compliment...]

Maybe this one will take, if it's as bad as you think it smells.

[Which, again, a little invasive and gross, but whatever. Trevor glances up from Alucard's hands and his gaze catches on the dip of his neckline, the glimpse of pale skin marred by the scar on his chest. Maybe now they'll both be marked by reminders of what happens when you try too hard to do the right thing.

Trevor says nothing, of course; merely looks at Alucard's face in the firelight. Hmm.]

With any luck, it won't.

[Even as he says that, he wonders. It's deep, deeper than Trevor is playing it off to be. Deep enough that his vampiric instincts are howling at him to dive in, but he ignores them. What is a vampire but a miserable pile of barely-suppressed instincts and all that.

He tugs out a potion that acts more or less like peasant antiseptic (the worst thing about living with his father: he'd gotten used to having much more refined materials). This will hurt, but he doesn't bother to warn Trevor. Just smears it on a cloth and, his hand gentle, sets it on his chest.

His other hand reaches over Trevor's body, gripping his hip lightly-- not to keep him still, but just to steady them both. He's warm beneath his palm, and Alucard can feel his own body heating up in direct response.]

But perhaps it will, and we'll match.

[He can feel his eyes on his face, and an odd smirk quirks on his lips.]

Would you like that?

Christ.

[That's for multiple things: the sharp sting of "medicine" against his chest, calling him out like that, and even a little bit the way Alucard's grip feels against his hip. He's too injured and half-drunk for this, and leave it to Alucard to say something ridiculous like "we'll match" and ruin his perfectly good contemplative brood.

Trevor scoffs and looks away, away from Alucard's stupid face and the fire and off into the dark. His fingers curl slowly at his side, resisting the urge to wrap around Alucard's slim wrist, maybe pull him closer while he whines again about Trevor's hands being dirty, like he'd really care--]

Just get it done, wiseass.

[He grins sharply-- and when a vampire grins sharply, it's a noticeable action. His hand keeps moving down, gently wiping away the dried blood, letting the medicine sink deep into the wound; the other hand squeezes his hip, an extra little taunt to underscore his point.]

Quality, Trevor, not speed. As much as you'd like me over you again, I'd like to make sure you don't bleed out in the night.

God, you're the worst.

[Stop that, for fuck's sake. Trevor can feel himself about to grin and covers his face with his hand to make a half-assed effort to hide it. He's exasperated, don't get him wrong, but this is better than staring into the fire feeling sorry for himself.

Not to say this is a pleasant experience overall, because the medicine stings and Alucard is Alucard, but he could be licking his wounds - metaphorically, no vamps allowed - alone somewhere. Net positive? Fuck.]

If I didn't know any better, I'd almost think you cared.

Oh, no.

[Oh, yes.]

But Sypha seems to have a fondness for you, and I'd hate to see her cry.

[That's actually true, both parts of it. He's seen the way Sypha looks at Trevor-- not doe-eyed or simpering, but rather a woman with a frank idea of what she might like, when all of this is over with. He can't blame her; he can be jealous, quietly and pettily, and not even know which one he's jealous of.

The wound is clean, but Trevor himself isn't, not entirely; he pulls the cloth back, pours some water over it, and slowly wipes at his stomach.]

Oh, she'd kill me if I went and died on her.

[Cry, though? Trevor doesn't know, and he doesn't much allow himself to think about it. Objectively, Sypha is one hell of a woman, and she probably would curse his memory if he died from something as stupid as this, but cry? Weep over him?

Well, who would? Fortunately there's no time to wonder about the worth of his own mostly drunk life when Alucard slides his hands lower down his torso, keeping his attention locked in the here and now. Aha.]

What are you doing now?

[What for, more like. Why. Alucard.]

You've covered in blood.

[He says it slowly, as though it's obvious. It is obvious. He rubs a little harder, but thank god, it's starting to come off in earnest.]

I'm not heading for your cock, Trevor, don't worry.

[Oh my god! Alucard! In nothing short of a miracle, Trevor simply rolls his eyes in response.]

Angling for an invitation? Nobody said you were. And I'm usually covered in blood.

[Or beer. Or mud. Look, shut up.]

Yes. It's unfortunate.

[He pulls back, setting the wet cloth aside and reaching for the bandages. He can still smell the blood coming off him, but the scent has lessened, going from thick and cloying to something more capable.]

Sit up.

You're telling me...

[It could be worse, he almost says, but he doesn't need to be made fun of for wallowing again. He pushes himself up to sitting with a wince, but at least he doesn't slap his dirty hands all over his clean wound. For a second he almost does, but no, he's good. It's good.]

Your bedside manner is terrible, by the way.

What would you prefer?

[He's just going to . . . edge all up in his space, okay, it's fine. He's got to reach around him again and again to wrap the bandages around his torso, and given the size of the wound, that's going to take a while. And it means that he has to reposition himself: one leg slipping between Trevor's, his hips held up so technically, he's not outright straddling his thigh. His head ducks down, his hands moving by feeling and muscle memory alone-- and while it's likely unfortunate to have a vampire by your throat, his breath hot and even, it's not the worst position they've been in.]

["An actual bed," Trevor almost quips back at him, part innuendo and part honest (sleeping on the ground for as long as he has is grating at best). It dies in his throat when Alucard slides easily into his space, lithe frame obscuring his view of the fire and a light, almost incidental pressure of a leg pressed between his own. It's nothing like being pinned to the floor the way he'd wound up when they met, obviously, for god's sake— but Trevor can't help but think that not long ago he'd never have let a vampire within spitting distance of himself, let alone... this.

He doesn't even like Alucard, he thinks as he half-heartedly brushes dirt off his hand on his pant leg before settling that hand on Alucard's hip. To keep him steady, of course, so he doesn't tip forward and puncture anything important with that mouth of his. The bastard, and so on.]

You could start by pretending you don't think I'm an idiot.

[Just a suggestion. Trevor is, uh, flexible with it. He lifts his other hand without thinking to reach around behind Alucard and gather up his several tons of hair and pull it back over his shoulder-- just so it's out of his face, since Alucard has taken it upon himself to climb over him like this. Only reason.]

[For a moment, Alucard holds himself very, very still, as only a vampire can. Only his eyes move, slowly sliding upwards, an eerily animal gesture that holds no actual aggression. There's tension coiled in his body, but that's not a bad thing.]

I don't think you're an idiot.

[Mostly. Sort of. He's got a lot of complicated feelings about Trevor Belmont, but though he acts a complete fool, there's a difference between him and, say, some sheep-fucking peasant. He's not dull. He's committed to his not-caring act, so much so Alucard suspects he even believes it himself at times. And yes, he's annoying, he's decidedly immature, but . . . that doesn't equate to idiot.

His hands resume their pattern, though his hip slowly relaxes into Trevor's grip.]

But tell me: was there a specific incident to which you're referring? Or was that a general request?

[Trevor raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. Has he been imagining all of Alucard's smartass comments, then? What could all of his antagonizing possibly be for but that?

One of these days, someone will sit Trevor down and inform him that his self-esteem is buried deeper than the Belmont Hold, but Sypha is busy and Alucard has the motivational power of a wet paper bag, so for now it's this: the vague feeling that he is indeed a worthless moron, so persistent that he doesn't even notice it anymore.

Still, it's hard to say whether or not he really disbelieves the alternative, when Alucard says it himself. He could use some receipts, at least.]

Uh, in general. I'm not cataloging every time you've insulted me, don't flatter yourself.

Ahh.

[It's hard to tell sometimes if Trevor realizes he's flirting, or if he's as unconscious of it as he is other parts of his life. Probably the latter, if the past few minutes have been any judge-- although, he thinks, pushing against Trevor's hand lightly, he is holding on to him, so perhaps there's hope after all.

God, but he smells good. That's his vampiric side talking; his human side balks, but all his tongue cares about right now is the steady pulse pounding away in his neck. He's so close, and no, he won't do anything, he's not uncivilized, but good god . . . he almost licks his lips, and would, if he didn't think there was a reasonable chance Trevor would freak out instead of take it as a tease.

Although--]

Your pulse is elevated.

[He says, as his hands come around to his front one last time and slide against his chest. It's to tie off the bandage, obviously, he can't help the brush of his fingers there.]

[If Alucard would please stop pointing these things out, that would be fantastic. He lets out a chuckle that has an edge of surprise to it, like he can't believe Alucard chooses that of all things to say at this precise moment. But then he'd have to be thinking of something else he expected him to say, and he has... nothing necessarily specific. Just something less clinical than talking about his pulse.

So he laughs and maybe it means nothing at all, but he does very intentionally squeeze Alucard's hip, almost as if he's about to toss him off. He doesn't.]

Well-spotted. I thought I told you to stop doing that.

[Checking his pulse is not smelling him, as such, but quit it. Vampires!]

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