#And Carlson rightfully pointing out well do you want someone who's going to show up or someone who's going to fix shit?
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thornescratch · 18 hours ago
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I love how this has evolved from the "Who would you call for bail?" question consideration of "which of my teammates has the most money to fix shit" to "which of my teammates is going to actually pick up his phone?"
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ethereal-mists · 5 years ago
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Of Fame and Misery
I decided to start writing a Hollywood AU/Bodyguard AU for Castlevania
Summary: 
Trevor is a fighter in an underground ring. Adrian is an actor and model for his father's esteemed agency. It seems unlikely that their paths would ever cross, until Adrian starts receiving death threats with no idea who's sending them, or why.
With his son's life at risk, Vlad Tepes hires him a bodyguard. Though they don't quite get along, Trevor and Adrian are stuck with each other now, and with the help of Adrian's co-star Sypha, they will find a way to keep him safe.
( Also on Ao3 )
                                               Chapter One
“HIT HIM IN THE NOSE!!! THE NOSE!!”
The crowd cheers ravenously, circled around Trevor and his opponent and eagerly watching as the two men beat the ever-loving shit out of each other in the middle of a dusty old basement. Who exactly the crowd is cheering for, he doesn't know and doesn't care. This fight isn't about pleasing the crowd, at least not to Trevor. No, it's about money. Like it always is. And with rent payments due soon, Trevor has no intention of losing.
 Each powerful blow sends another painful jolt through his body, and he knows that by tomorrow he will be a bruised and aching mess. But right now that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is bringing down the ugly bastard in front of him. Gerard, he thinks his name is, if he goes off of what a good chunk of the crowd has been cheering. If he had to guess, Gerard must be in his mid thirties, balding, crooked jaw - no doubt from a long career of underground fighting - and is probably twice Trevor’s size. Gerard grins and swipes a meaty fist at him, and Trevor takes a step backwards on instinct. The fist harmlessly swings by only inches from his face, and he feels both immensely relieved and proud of himself for dodging a blow that would have surely left a nasty bruise.
“Ha! You missed.” Trevor goads, taking a moment to catch his breath. He’s panting heavily from the exertion of the match, and he's reached the point where he can no longer hide it. And although he's disappointed in himself for showing how worn out he's getting, Gerard doesn't look too much better, face reddened and body entirely drenched in sweat. This match has been going on for far too long. Gerard scowls and lunges forward, his other fist poised for another attack. Trevor is ready for it, but the punch doesn’t come. Instead, he kicks at Trevor's legs and sweeps them out from beneath him, and Trevor is falling, falling, falling onto the filthy concrete floor of what was affectionately dubbed The Brawl Hall. “Oh shi-!” He yells out as he goes down. 
If he wasn’t already covered in dust, he sure as hell is now. Every bit of dirt and grit that makes contact with him clings to his sweat soaked skin like he’s some kind of swiffer duster. But really, that's the least of his worries.
He manages to catch himself as he falls, preventing his head from smashing into the concrete floor. The last thing he needs today is a concussion. There’s no time to thank himself for his quick reflexes however, because that bloody fist is back and it’s connected with Trevor’s left cheek. He does his best to scramble backwards on the floor, away from the brute, but he can only go so far before he feels the boots of spectators nudging him to get back in there and fight, or at least, take it like a man. 
His opponent saunters towards him with a smug look. He knows he has the upper hand now. He knows he’s going to win. Trevor can feel the adrenaline - and alcohol- pumping through his veins. He can hear it in his ears. It’s deafening and desperate, and begging him to do something, anything, to just keep going, keep on fighting, even though his body is screaming at him to give in and yield.
But Trevor Belmont doesn’t give up so easily.
As the man bends down to grab him, Trevor doesn’t try to duck out of the way. Instead, he reaches up to meet him, grabs him by the shoulders, and pulls him down and forward as he uses one of his legs to kick at his stomach, pushing his back-end up in the air. The man, rightfully surprised, flips over Trevor and onto his back. The crowd has to jump out of the way to avoid getting caught in the crosshairs. 
Gerard lays on the ground groaning, and Trevor uses that moment to climb on top of him and knock him out with a quick fist to the chin. 
There’s a moment of silence, and then the crowd is cheering. Most of them, anyway. Some bystanders boo him and yell that he got lucky. Trevor flips them off and spits in their direction.  Luck or not, he doesn’t care. He’s won. And that means he gets to collect his prize. 
And that means he can go upstairs to the bar and get himself a nice drink before he fully sobers up. 
God forbid that happen.
                                                   —————
By the time Trevor is all cleaned up and paid, two other fights have started and finished, and most people seem to have either cleared out and headed home, or gone upstairs to grab a drink like Trevor planned to do. 
Everything hurts, just as he knew it would. Just like it always did after a match. It somehow feels good, in a way that Trevor can’t quite put into words, but it’s still a bitch to deal with, and Trevor knows that it will be no better tomorrow. But that's how life goes when you make a living with your fists, he thinks absentmindedly. He’d do something else if he knew how to, but with no high school diploma, and no so-called ‘dreams and aspirations’ beyond getting his next meal and drink, there was no reason to go to the trouble of changing what was already clearly working for him. After all, he was still alive, still had a roof over his head, and in the end, that’s all a person needs, right? Somewhere to sleep, something to eat, and occasionally, someone to fuck. That’s what he tells himself. That’s all he needs, he thinks, and the aching emptiness that creeps up on him sometimes, threatening to suck him in and swallow him whole… well. That’s what drinking is for. 
He climbs the creaky stairs and gives a quick nod to the bouncer that guards the entrance of the Brawl Hall. The upstairs area is much nicer than the dusty makeshift arena hiding beneath, and even the old storage room where the hidden entrance is, is much cleaner at the least. The rest of the place is just your run of the mill bar, with all the expected amenities that a bar might have, including an old jukebox that sits in the corner and never works and a neon sign above the bar that says ‘Harold’s Pub’. 
The smell of old varnish and whiskey is warm and welcoming by now, and if he’s being honest, this shitty little bar is the closest thing Trevor has had to a home in years. Landlords kick you out, apartments come and go, but Harold’s Pub never changes. It’s still the same shithole he walked into years ago, searching for work. Still filled with the familiar faces of lonely broken people that come here night after night, hoping to drown their sorrows in the bottom of a pint. Trevor can’t help but feel sorry for them, but sometimes he wonders if he’s any different. Maybe being an old man, drunkenly passed out and alone in the corner of a shady bar was what the future had in store for him. The thought always unsettles him more than he’d like to admit, and yet he feels almost resigned to it. It’s not that he never had dreams or ambitions for himself. He had plenty of them when he was younger. But that was a different time, and a different Trevor. One who was young and naive and not yet broken, one who didn’t know the meaning of loss and how it can haunt you endlessly, even in your dreams.
He slides onto one of the barstools and raises a hand to get the bartender's attention. Clearly, he’s sobered up a bit too much.
The bartender is an old man with a kind face and greying dreadlocks named Carlson. He’s familiar with Trevor, and doesn’t bother asking what he wants - just pours him a pint and slides it over without a word. Good man, not very talkative, but Trevor likes him. Too many people these days like to stick their noses where it doesn’t belong, like they’re entitled to know your personal history simply because they’re bored. 
He takes a sip of his beer and peers around the room. It's not too busy, and he can recognize a few familiar faces. Like the tough looking woman he knows as another fighter, sitting on the other end of the bar. He doesn’t know her name, but he sure as hell remembers her face (it was the last thing he saw  before she knocked him out in their match last week). Trevor makes a point of not spending too much time looking in her direction. Asides from her, there’s a pair of old men huddled in a booth over their whiskey, whispering amongst themselves, a shifty man sitting in the back corner, and a few of other fighters celebrating their victories or drinking their losses.They"re all regulars. But there are a few unfamiliar faces too. A young couple flirting in a booth, and a beautiful woman with platinum blonde hair and sanguine lips that smile as she meets Trevor's gaze. He freezes momentarily, but quickly gets his bearings and gives her an awkward smile in return, throwing in a little wave for good measure. Compared to the rough-and-tumble appearance of the usual patrons this place attracted - Trevor included - she looked like she belonged in a museum, as if she was a marbled statue of a Goddess that a man might pray to. 
Maybe if Trevor played his cards right, he could pray to her too.
Hes considering whether or not he should send a drink to her table when she gets up, heels clicking on the old wood panelled floor, and comes to settle on the barstool beside him. He flashes her a smile, which he hopes passes as charming.
"Can’t say I’ve seen your face around here before." he begins, "Though I must admit, I'd like to see a lot more of it."
She scoffs, and he can feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up on him. He rubs the back of his neck nervously, and she watches him like a hawk - no, a tiger, analyzing its prey. And then suddenly she’s all smiles.
"Listen, Trevor - it’s Trevor, right?” She asks, and he wonders how she knows. He could swear that he’s never seen this woman before in his life. He opens his mouth to respond, but she waves a hand at him before he can get a word out. “It doesn’t matter. Now listen to me…” her eyes narrow and her smile disappears, “I'm not here to listen to your pathetic pick up lines." she states, “nor am I here to flirt and make pleasantries.”
"I... see." Trevor responds, for lack of anything better to say. There’s a moment of silence, and he doesn’t know whether or not he’s supposed to say something. He can feel her eyes boring into him, sharp and glinting like ice against the warm light from the neon sign. He supposes that he is meant  to say something after all, and sighs, too tired and worn to play into whatever game she’s after. "Well, if you’re not here for a hookup, what do you want from me?”
"To get to the point, I saw your fight.” 
Ah. That explains how she got his name.
"And?” He prompts, “What did you think? You don’t strike me as the type who likes that sort of thing." 
"Oh, please. You think I’d debase myself by stepping foot in this establishment without due reason?" she scoffs as if affronted by the very idea of it, but seems to settle down, relaxing her shoulders and replacing her slightly annoyed expression with a more neutral one as she idly picks lint from her dress and then smooths it out. "I’m here on behalf of my employer, Mr. Vlad Tepes. Perhaps you've heard of him?"
“Can’t say that I have." Something about the name sounded familiar, but there was no way for him to really be sure he wasn’t just imagining it.
She looks at him, incredulous. "Well, I can assure you, he’s a very powerful man."
The way she says it has images running through Trevor's mind of men wearing suits with guns blazing, gambling houses filled with the heavy smoke of cigars, and a man smiling as he cracks his knuckles. A very powerful man could be many things, but given that this Mr. Tepes guy wants to hire a bodyguard straight out of some dirty underground fighting ring, Trevor is placing his bets on him being some mafia boss or something. And that’s a mess Trevor does not want to get mixed in with.
"That’s great and all, but I still don’t see what that has to do with me." He says gruffly, eyes narrowed.
"I’m getting to that. You see, Mr. Tepes has a son, Adrian. Recently he’s been receiving death threats. We have no idea who's sending them, or why, and as you can imagine, Mr. Tepes is beside himself with worry. He’s given me the task of finding and recruiting a capable bodyguard for the boy."
"So… you want me to be that bodyguard, I'm guessing?"
"Yes. I’ve seen you fight, and I can say with confidence that you’ve impressed me. You’re quick on your feet, and your reflexes are fast. You’re obviously strong. Judging from what I’ve seen… I believe you just might be the man we’re looking for."
He wasn’t sure what to make of that. The praise was unexpected, but it sure as hell felt good. It wasn’t often someone pointed out his skills like that, even though it’s really no secret -at least in Trevor’s eyes. Guarding some kid didn’t sound too hard. The death threats were probably just bluffs anyway, something to put the kid’s old man up in arms, or put pressure on him to do God knows what. Still, this whole ordeal was a little odd, even for Trevor’s liking.
"Hang on," he says, slowly, "don’t people normally collect resumes for this kind of thing? Put out flyers or whatnot?"
She waves a hand as if she can just shoo away his worries. "A piece of paper won’t divulge whether or not a person is a capable fighter. I talked to Mr. Tepes, and he agreed with me that this would be the best way to access our options. Are you interested in the job or not?"
Trevor took a sip of his beer as he mulled over the proposition. Sure, it was strange. Some mysterious beauty shows up out of nowhere and offers him a job? Trevor almost wants to laugh at the absurdity. Maybe it’s not that funny, maybe it’s just the beer, but either way, he stifles a chuckle. 
“Is something funny?” She says, wryly. 
"No, not at all.” He assures her, clearing his throat and gathering himself. A deep breath, and he’s back to business. “How much will I be paid if I take you up on your offer?"
"Payment will be discussed between Mr. Tepes and yourself. But I assure you… You will be paid very, very well."
He likes the sound of that. Really likes it. A steady job that pays well and doesn't involve getting the shit kicked out of him on a regular basis (hopefully), and all he has to do is guard some kid.
"I’m interested."
"Good." she says, obviously pleased with his response. She pulls out a slip of paper and a pen from her purse, and scribbles something down in elegant writing as Trevor tries to peek over her hand to read it. She finishes and passes it over to him. He takes it, and notices her long, red painted fingernails as he withdraws his hand. Something about them sends shivers down his spine; and not the good kind. Eager to look at anything but her hands now, he examines the paper. It's an address. "Be there at noon sharp. Don’t be late. And please," she pauses, her face scrunching up in disgust, "wear something clean, or at the very least, presentable"
He looks down at his shirt and notices just how dirty it is. Dried sweat, dust, and a bit of blood (whether his or his opponent’s, he doesn't know). “Uh… right. Presentable.”
She seems satisfied with that and gets up from her seat. “Good. It’s been nice meeting you, Trevor. I hope to see you soon.” She turns to leave.
"Wait." he pipes up before she can walk away. She halts and turns back to give him a pointed, questioning stare, "What's your name? Seems a little unfair that you know mine and I have no idea who you are."
"Carmilla. I’m a personal assistant to Mr. Tepes.”
And with that, she leaves.
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