#trevor resin | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ruiniel · 2 years

Note

Thank you so much! Then let me ask for a request! :3

As you might have guessed, I'd like to ask for a small Trevorcard story.

Maybe how they live in the castle during winter/their preparations for winter. Cozy and domestic, Trevor finally having a home, maybe they could warm each other at night (I leave it up to you if Trevor gets horny from cuddling or not xD) They already are in a relationship for a few months and this is their first winter together in the castle.

Take all the time you need and thank you so much for the opportunity to request! ❤️

Whew, this took me longer so it's coming late in the winter. There's plenty of longing and affection, hope you like it. Thank you, I love exploring interactions featuring them, and had so much fun writing it!

Title: Anew

Fandom: Castlevania Series 2017-2021

Rating: M

Relationship: Alucard/Trevor Belmont

Characters: Alucard, Trevor Belmont

Count: 3k

Also on AO3

Additional Tags: Fluff, Tenderness, Banter, Longing, Winter times, Cuddling, New Year's Eve, Frottage because I don't see enough of it in smutfic, Reference to show-canon trauma, POV Trevor Belmont, Oneshot, post-season IV

Trevor flings then catches the small dagger he’d been tossing in the air and capturing repeatedly in an idle game, watching Adrian as he effortlessly stacks the last of the firewood in a tall chamber-turned shed within the castle walls.

He sits on a heavy log, for the first time in a while doing nothing. He’s cold under his coat, but he’s content, and mellow as he hasn’t been in years. Trevor Belmont is not certain whether it’s what Adrian is doing that has him following his every movement—the elegant sway of his lithe body as he carries out a mundane task, or the ease of companionship that flourished between them these past months since Trevor’s unexpected return. He’s had plenty of time to think, time to dwell on his past, and his present, and even, for once, daring to consider the future. Where before was bleak nothingness steeped in bitterness, now he can look ahead, without fear or shame. He’s cleared his name, restored his legacy and for the first time, feels worthy of it. He has his friends and lovers around him. Trevor’s also considered, though not enough, getting accustomed to this new status: from outcast to community leader.

But that’s not at the forefront of his thought now. He dwells on feeling. Specifically, on what sparks and shivers inside him when lately he observes the least likely person in the world Trevor thought he’d catch feelings for; but there it is, and here they are.

Adrian tosses his head back as he straightens, hands on his hips, his chest rising in a deep breath. He regards the wall of stacked timber reaching up to the high ceiling.

It smells of resin, tree bark, and earth in here; a pleasant, raw smell, one Trevor’s most familiar with owing to countless days spent in the wilds, running and fighting. He realizes, with an uncomfortable revelatory twinge of thought, that he no longer wants to run, and no longer could. He looks down at his feet, now spinning the ornate dagger absently in his hand.

“I believe this amount should suffice for a few months,” Adrian speaks, practical contemplation lining his words.

While the castle itself boasts an intelligently devised heating system, the village denizens unwilling to take shelter within its walls for the dark winter months must still keep warm, and it was agreed to stack the firewood inside for everyone’s use, to protect it from humidity and the elements.

Trevor says nothing, lifting his gaze and pausing in his dagger play to regard Adrian in silence: hair done up in a loose bun with those bright, burnished ringlets framing his angular face, softening its pale countenance. He looks not exerted in the least, a trait Trevor’s long stopped to envy, particularly when it comes to certain thoughts he’s mostly kept to himself. One day, he might be able to share them. One day, maybe, when and if Adrian is ready.

“What?” Adrian asks, and if he sees the naked longing on Trevor’s face, he says nothing of it. At the beginning, their beginning, there was teasing, one the hunter welcomed with gruff and eye-rolls and secret enjoyment. Now, Adrian’s gaze slips over him from head to toe as he nears.

Trevor swallows when a long, beringed hand runs through his dark hair, and his forehead rests against a hard abdomen; he breathes in, dropping the dagger to wind his arms around Adrian’s waist. “Nothing,” he mumbles, tilting his face so his cheek rests against the silk of Adrian’s shirt. "Absolutely nothing." Only Adrian would wear fine garments such as this while stacking timber; Trevor, who’s been raggedy most of his adult years until recently, finds it both ridiculous and endearing.

The hand still sleeks through his hair, towards the nape of his neck, grazing the skin there; he shudders.

“I’ve been thinking,” says Adrian.

“Must’ve been hard,” Trevor retorts, but it lacks bite—he’s mostly doing it out of habit, nowadays. Gone so soft, has he?

Adrian ignores him, ruffling his hair back with languid movements of his strong, long fingers.

“All right, what about?”

“Perhaps, you and I could begin sharing a chamber… at one point. If you wish,” Adrian says.

Trevor nearly chokes on his spit. He looks up. His expression only gains him a soft smile, softer than he thought he’d ever see on Adrian’s punch-kissable face.

Ever since he and Sypha learned the details of what passed in their absence, despite the joy of reunion, wrath and guilt rose in his blood whenever Trevor saw the jumpy way Adrian reacted at times at others’ closeness or a mere hand placed on his shoulder, the swift caged look fading from his face but not fast enough. That was months ago, and even after they’d admitted to themselves and each other their buried but very much thriving feelings, the remnants of Adrian’s personal ordeal still lay between them. It was normal, it was expected. They promised him patience, they understood, of course they did. Trevor’s remorse at not having been there had mostly subsided since then, after many nights of frustrated apologies met with reassurance.

Adrian is waiting for his answer, his expression soft and patient.

“... You mean… at night? We do that already, don’t we.”

“I mean, whenever, Trevor,” Adrian says, “...or do you prefer to keep living in separate chambers, then?”

They’ve shown each other they care in many ways, slowly as Adrian allowed, as close as they could get—a brief brush of fingers during a workday, a kiss in a hidden alcove. They’ve come so far in trust, had spent nights with their legs tangled together and sharing each other’s warmth. But, at daybreak, one of them always left.

“Um. It’s not that, I— no, I mean.” He hates it when this happens: master strategist, the last scion of the Belmont clan, reinstated (reluctant) hero of the Wallachian people; and an absolute wreck when Adrian Ţepeş asks him things like this. Things that mean more change. Things Trevor will never admit scare him possibly just as much as Adrian, who is asking, because they leave him utterly vulnerable and he’s gotten more easily used to a regular shave than that state of being. Not only that, but Adrian being ready for more is like a sweet spike to his heart. “I haven’t really been spoiled for choice in terms of living quarters, up until recently, as you know, so I’m not picky. I just…” he bites his lip. “Can I think about it?” Smooth, Trevor, you fucking idiot.

Adrian’s face does not change; Trevor has tried reading him, has even gotten close to succeeding a few times, but now there is nothing.

“Consider it,” he says, releasing Trevor as many voices come nearer, some of children running about the castle corridors, their mothers’ voices hard and watchful behind them.

Consider it. Adrian fucking knows it was never for Trevor or Sypha to say, that they left it all up to him: how close they could get, how much he could give or accept. But now he just sounded like he’d kicked a harmless beast in the teeth, though Adrian still smiles at him as Trevor rises.

“Come,” he says, breaking the spell, “I promised Aida to aid with the New Year’s arrangements and I need your help.” He bends and reaches for his coat.

New Year’s Eve is just around the corner—a welcome distraction, these preparations, Trevor has found, one to keep his wanting thoughts out of the gutter and his ears free of the bursting beats in his chest. But now, he barely hears someone call his name as he walks outside after Adrian, his mind a thousand leagues away.

It’s a frosty night. Trevor stands bundled in his coat, watching the gathering communing before the castle gates from afar, the celebratory mood enhanced by flowing mead and wine and beer. The bonfires have been lit and offer warmth to flushed cheeks, illuminating dancing figures and making them appear as shifting fire spirits, holding hands in circles around the flames. Some of the folk walk the grounds in the guise of symbols of nature and myth, and there is something savage and raw about it, a potent magic rising in the air on sweeping wings; Trevor feels it in his bones, watching the people follow their folk donning suits of the Bear, the Stag, the Fair ones and the Devils—all to ward off evil spirits and make way for a prosperous year to come.

Distracted, Trevor barely feels another presence standing at his side. “Tell me you did not just materialize out of mist,” he mutters good-naturedly, and Adrian’s snort is answer enough.

“I was looking for you.”

“Were you, now,” Trevor smiles without looking Adrian’s way.

Adrian glances at the faraway spectacle. “They have begun. So colorful, I’ve witnessed one such ceremony when I was a child, hiding behind Mother. The ancient ceremonial funeral for the first god of humanity: time.”

Trevor sighs, but his heart beats to another rhythm—what is it about tonight? Something wild and needy gnaws at the bones of his ribcage. What is it about Adrian’s closeness that has him feeling so weak and goddamn soft, and hungering? “You’re being a smartass again,” he mutters. But then, maybe some of Adrian’s musing nature rubbed off on him, after all. “But it’s about rebirth too, isn’t?”

Adrian nods. “It’s easy to submit to the illusion that time is linear, flowing to infinity without return.”

“Well, time, is a man-made concept. We need to know how much we have until we croak, you see.” Would an immortal understand?

“Then every new year is, in a way, a renewal,” Adrian adds, looking up at the stars. “Time wound back like a clock; starting anew in a cycle, like a snake endlessly devouring itself.”

“Someone’s had too much wine,” mumbles Trevor, though somewhere along the way, he’d begun enjoying Adrian’s monologues. Usually, the drunker he got, the more verbose he became. Not unwelcome, for someone usually so quiet and withdrawn. “Why were you looking for me?”

Adrian throws him a shifty glance, “Were you planning on crossing the New Year’s threshold all by yourself?”

“...No, I’m actually glad you came.” He would have gone in search of Adrian anyway, but he’d gotten pulled in by the mood of the celebration, and lost himself.

Soft, low laughter, like claws swiping sweetly at his heart. Something thrums wildly within him again, maybe it’s desire and maybe it’s loneliness or both, or maybe it’s coming to terms that he loves the scion of his family’s bitterest foe, in more ways Trevor can count.

“You are?” he feels closer, and Trevor smiles.

Damn him, his head is spinning. He watches the Bear, the Fairies, the Devils in their dance, but his thought is now on pale hair and warm skin, how it would feel against his own.

“... you know,” Adrian breaks the silence after some time, in that same voice, silky with traces of humor. “They say people should leave no unpaid debts on the last day of the year, lest they struggle with debt for the entire year to come.”

Trevor scoffs half-heartedly, eyes on the golden fires. His body warms despite the chill, drifting somewhere between the stars and the movement of the Earth, with Adrian’s closeness binding it all. “...are you trying to say, there is something I owe you?” he asks, half a smile on his face. What’s Adrian playing at now? A trait of habit—Trevor loathes being taken by surprise, since more often than not, throughout his life surprises tended to end with him running for his life, or cleansing his hands of filth and blood.

Adrian shifts slightly, and though Trevor does not turn, he feels the sweep of his stare, burning into his skin. “Is the thought of being indebted to me so upsetting to you?”

His voice is tender, the way Trevor's rarely had the time to hear these past weeks; with a twinge and a heaviness of heart, he realizes how much he's missed it. He leans forward and crosses his arms over the stone edge of the balcony. “...I guess it depends on the manner of debt.”

He feels a slight graze; Adrian has mirrored his movement, and they sit here, elbows touching as they stare ahead at the revelers and the children who should long have been in bed on any other night, now dancing and running like woodland sprites among the fires.

“But perhaps it is not you who is indebted.”

Trevor turns his head then, staring at the barely-contoured profile of his friend and... well, he can't exactly call him his lover, can he? “You do realize I'm no mind reader, not a lick of magic abilities about me,” he says, turning fully towards Adrian, “So you'll have to speak up—”

He’s breathing in, and like a beloved shadow Adrian glides forward. There’s the hard press of a chest against his, the vice-hold of arms around him, the cold nose buried against his neck. “You've been so patient with me,” Adrian speaks, and the breath of his words melts Trevor's knees. His arms find purchase and grasp, blue eyes catching the shimmer of Adrian's stare.

Trevor feels drunk, though he's surprisingly had not much alcohol despite it being nearly midnight already—another bizarre effect and change his lingering infatuation bought him. Where it led him… he supposes it’s not such a bad place, though they are careful around most with themselves and the guarding of their feelings; some might still not understand. What would anyone think when they saw them thus—the Belmont savior, clinging to the son of Dracula like a priest to his altar. “Be... be serious,” his voice is shaking. “How else could I be, after all that shit you went through? Don’t fuss over it, all right? Anyone who cares would do the same.”

Adrian’s nose bumps against Trevor's. “Not anyone,” he whispers, and tilts his head, and next Trevor knows he's deepening a soft, warm kiss; the thirst he's been stifling becomes a tempest, and the crowds and the cold and the music are forgotten and far away, all his thought and spirit turned to Adrian whispering, a bare shiver in his voice:

“Join me.”

And Trevor goes, lets himself be led by the hand as some hapless youth and not a monster hunter come back from the dead. They step inside together, and he’s drawn into a heap of sheets smelling of old wood and lavender. A long hand runs through his hair and he leans into the touch, nosing at a warm palm, licking at a scarred wrist.

When Adrian leads him down to him he once again follows, knowing little of what to expect and even less what to do—he doesn't want to push too far, not with this, and the fading scars are a poignant if angering reminder.

But he's being held to Adrian’s hard body, his own quick to respond. It feels surreal to twine this way, a step farther than any they'd taken before. A tentative shift of his hips brings forth a sigh of pleasure; he feels hardness, and his own blood leads hot in response. “What's this about?” he asks. Better safe than sorry.

“Us, Trevor. This is about us,” Adrian snarks, but it's soft, and shadows dance across his face in the flickering candlelight. “I want... I want…”

Trevor rests his forehead against Adrian's, adding more pressure to each slow tilt and press of hip— “... what ?” he gasps, searching and finding just the right spot where it feels good enough to continue and running a hand through Adrian's soft strands, slow to nibble softly on his lip.

“I want you closer,” Adrian says, breathless as he speaks.

Trevor traces that sharp jaw with battle-scarred fingers, enjoying as it moves slowly with their kiss, enjoying the swirl of tongue and pressing down harder in repeated motions, himself hard and hot, and he’s long shed his coat but now long fingers divest him of his tunic even as he pulls at Adrian’s shirt, rises on his arms to lick along his chest, down his scar and up again.

Adrian grips him and pulls him down again, urging a rhythm. Trevor moves, and even half-dressed as they are, the pressure grows until Adrian sighs wantonly, urging him on with the grip of his hands, gyrating Trevor’s hips against his; taking control—Trevor lets him, helpless enough that he’d do anything, anything, if it brought Adrian the pleasure he deserves. He’s so hard he won’t last long even this way, the intimacy of it flowering delightfully down his abdomen, building, and building, and he sucks at warm lips and grasps at fair hair, rubbing himself wildly against Adrian’s hips, held snug and tight as he alternates pressure and movement until Adrian groans into his mouth, body shuddering beneath him, once, twice, one leg come wrapped around Trevor’s hip, eyes soft and unfocused as Trevor looks down on him and doesn’t stop. Messily he tugs and bites on Adrian’s mouth until he’s plunged into the depths of bliss, and spills himself into his trousers.

“Holy… fuck…” he gasps with one last thrust of hip, forehead pressed to Adrian’s as he eases down, heavily coils himself around the other’s body.

“Something like that,” Adrian smiles. They kiss slowly, lying in silence, in each other’s arms with their hearts beating between them, away from it all.

“That was… unexpected,” Trevor whispers, his voice a husky mess as he nibbles on a pointy ear.

“... and since we’re speaking of cyclical patterns,” Adrian grins, his sharp teeth glimmering. “... now you owe me.”

Trevor rolls his eyes, tongue swiping tenderly over Adrian’s reddened lips. “Yeah, I get it. But here’s this—I’m absolutely fine with it.”

“Somehow, I expected you would be,” Adrian replies, kissing Trevor again as the clock strikes twelve.

More of my work is on AO3 [many stories not on tumblr]

BLOG MASTERPOST (all you need to know)

Likes/comments/reblogs always and forever appreciated

#trevorcard #castlevania netflix #castlevania fanfiction #trevor x alucard #ruiniel:fanfiction

24 notes · View notes

crazygadgetshere · 3 months

Text

US Army Ranger B.A.R Gunner, Pointe du Hoc, Normandy, 1944

Figure and base in 1/9th-scale resin. Only Re-Release Limited re-release of the old Warriors Scale Models classic. 1/9th scale resin figure, Limited run, 50 copies LL-268 US Army Ranger B.A.R Gunner, Point du Hoc, Normandy 1944. Sculpted by Trevor Hensley, From original master $99.00 USD and Free Shipping to all of USA, International shipping at cost. Comes with full large base & 2 different…

View On WordPress

0 notes

m0ose-idiot · 3 years

Photo

The urge to make a lil Trevor came upon me and I was all like, why even fight it

#trevor #trevor you're a blob #elders #getting LEDs to set inside the resin was fun #@fimofomo NEEDED a lil Trevor I had no choice #making your own silicone moulds is a bit bullshit tho #six idiots #yonderland #trevor the blob #mooseidiot crochets

23 notes · View notes

nathalia-sod · 3 years

Text

So, I’m new to doll-making - but you have to start somewhere! Along with 5, from my last post - I also made myself a friendly Long Horse. The concept of the original LH belongs to Trevor Henderson, but I decided to take the thought and personalize it a little.

My friendly Long Horse has patterning on him that mark him out as a Queen of Spades, Hisstor Wastes/Torquehelm mix - as a nod to my old website, Suits of Decadence. He’s got a resin skull base I got from the amazing Oscar, who I shall shamelessly plug here --> https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/ArmadilloStudioShop . Didn’t modify the skull too much beyond some paint and filing. His ears are fully posable, and his entire body is kitted out with tire-wire, so it won’t snap or poke out of the fabric after being posed however many times. His little spine-knobs are just a ceramic based clay. I love him.

#The friendly Long Horse #Long Horse #Trevor Henderson #Poseable art doll #Art Doll #Horse skull #Scary horse #A baby #He wants to protect you #SCP

29 notes · View notes

achillean-heel · 3 years

Text

Another trendersona cause I love this community

August Ott

Xe/Him pronouns

Gay achillean trans man

Loves cottagecore, Animal Crossing, plushies, bright colors, youtube, resin art, and xyr boyfriend

Has severe dysphoria, but doesn't see it as a requirement for transness

Has been on testosterone since December 1st, 2020, and hopes to get top surgery soon

Wants to be pretty in the way boys are pretty

Hopes to major in gender studies and psychology and work for the Trevor Project

#trendersona #xe him #ftm #lgbtq #nonbinary #transgender #mlm #demiboy #gay

35 notes · View notes

unoriginal-and-dumb · 2 months

Note

trevor rezin more like trevor resin. because im putting him in. resin? i don't know man can you finish the joke for me thanks

Uh idk his middle name is ryan though because

23 notes · View notes

bnomiko · 2 years

Text

Figure collecting: Trevor diorama statue + 2022 collection stats

This looks Halloween enough to kick off the post, no? : )

I seriously didn’t know there was a Trevor diorama/statue until like, 2 weeks ago. Cheap cheap so I bought one (picked up the action figure too). Hubby says he looks weird lol... imagine how amazing this would’ve been from a Japanese studio *sigh*

Now STATS time, just for fun!

So I re-ignited my interest in collecting anime / video game based figures in early Feb of 2022 and joined MFC around the same time, mostly for tracking and so I could catch newly announced figures immediately. Currently sitting somewhere around 217 figures / items (according to my spreadsheet) - my MFC account sits at 186 but that’s not all inclusive as not all items are listed in their databases, and I collect more than just Japanese IPs).

Since then, and as of this posting:

- I added around 65 new figures, so averaging 1.75 figures a week : O - I sold (or am selling) about 35 figures, mostly smaller ones - I got my first 1:4 scale resin statue (Alucard) - I ordered four more resin statues (yikes!) - I have 24 figures currently on order, with 3 in transit - I'm watching the development of 26 figures that aren't yet available for order, but I'm interested / semi-interested - I have 8 figures on wishlist (3 are easy to get, so not rushing to get them, but I do intend to buy them soon - the other 5 I will buy immediately if I see them at an acceptable price or available at all, really -_-) - None of these numbers include Tokidoki (the unicorno army continues to grow!), or urban/designer vinyls (I don't collect a lot of these, bought 2 so far this year) - For Christmas, I asked for... more shelving : p

Really waiting for more shelf space and backdrops before I flex my lousy photography skills...

#action figures #Castlevania #trevor belmont #anime figure #video game figure

1 note · View note

ruiniel · 2 years

Text

Castlevania series OT4: oneshots

Fandom: Castlevania (animated series)

Characters: Alucard, Greta of Danesti, Trevor Belmont, Sypha Belnades

Pairing: Alucard/Trevor Belmont/Greta of Danesti/Sypha Belnades

Tags: Sleepy Cuddles, Domestic Fluff, OT4, Comfort, Polyamory, Marriage Proposal, Polycule

Summary:

A couple of unrelated, fluffy Castlevania OT4 scenes written for asks a while ago.

I. For comfort

“It doesn’t work like that,” Alucard whispers, smiling, eyes closing as Trevor’s hand reaches and rough, careful fingers run a slow trail down his cheek. He can’t be dreaming, but it certainly feels like it whenever Trevor looks at him with unguarded eyes, whenever his touch is soft and seeking him.

They’re resting on what must be the oldest, creakiest bed in his entire home, in a room re-discovered during one of their clean-up and restoration rounds through the castle. He sighs, mellowed by the smoldering warmth of the fireplace, shifting closer into Greta; both she and Sypha are cocooned between him and Trevor, hugged into one another like kittens. Their nightdresses of cream and green are bunched carelessly above their bare thighs and Sypha’s head is tucked into Greta's warm chest, a long leg thrown over Greta’s hip. Their eyes are hooded, their smiles content as they run lazy hands over each other, on the fringes of sleep.

“You’re telling me,” Trevor’s thumb reaches the corner of Alucard’s mouth, runs across his lip, “that if we melt the ruined sprockets in the engine room, we can’t recast them because of the alchemical process of some hermetic code that imbued them? We can use none of them? That’s a fucking waste.”

“No,” Alucard says, “and you might like to know I’ve told you this already, Trevor… over dinner? Yesterday.” He licks Trevor’s finger even as Greta yawns, murmuring something about leaving work at the door for once.

Trevor drops his hand from Alucard’s face and nestles closer into Sypha's body. “Sorry, I was… distracted…” his fingers thread through Greta’s silky dark locks, caressing down her bare shoulder.

“Nothing new there,” Greta speaks into Sypha’s mussed hair.

Trevor rises on his elbow and leans over, kissing her cheek, before pressing his mouth to a dozing Sypha’s ear. “Watch it, headwoman, next time we play, you’re my first tag.”

“Trevor... go to sleep already…” Sypha grumbles, her smile a drowsy thing.

“We’ll see about that,” Greta retorts either way, lost to a giggle when Alucard nips the side of her neck, then reaches across them to hedge Trevor even closer.

There is peace, like walking in the stillness of a moonless night and feeling not the freeze of barren isolation, but the bright glow of kindred spirits; safety. Alucard opens his mouth, considers telling them in a moment of courage, but reconsiders. Such confessions can wait. They’re all here, safe — with him, around him, and they’re his home. Little else matters, now.

II. Post-Proposal

“You’re lying,” Greta laughs incredulously and kisses his cheek, huddling closer as Alucard brings an arm around her shoulders, pulls her in.

“I am not,” he scoffs, then adds in his drowsy, warm timbre, “Sypha, tell her.”

Sypha giggles, placing a thin hand to Alucard’s chest and kissing his other cheek, a soft and lingering caress. Alucard laces his fingers with hers, presses tightly. “It’s true,” she says. “The first time they met, they didn’t even take a moment to listen to each other before tempers flared, whips were out and swords were slashing.” She ruffles Alucard’s hair, who playfully pulls away to glance at the commotion in another part of the room. The air smells of resin and hot spiced tea, and his eyelids nearly droop closed, his limbs slack in contentment.

“So…” Greta flicks a dark strand of hair out of her face, making herself more comfortable against Alucard’s side. “... you’re telling me this—” she points at Alucard, then at Trevor, who is currently grappling with a tall evergreen tree in one corner of the chamber, “has been going on since the very beginning?”

Alucard is silent but smiles as Trevor’s low voice reaches them, “Don’t misrepresent Syph, if you please. I did not know what he was about, neither did you, and I was only doing my job.” He's decking a tall, potted tree — or trying to — with colorful, glass-blown globes and tiny wooden figurines carved and gifted to them by the village children.

Sypha hums, rolling her eyes. “Sure-sure,” she winks at Greta. “But, admittedly, it took me a while to figure you two out,” she waves a hand, “with your odd mating dance.”

Alucard chuckles. “Oh, please… ” he frowns, “Trevor, what in the world are you doing?” he asks as Trevor nearly loses his balance on the tall chair he’s perched on and almost knocks the tree over.

“It’s funny how you’re the one who can fly, but I’m the one stuck doing this,” Trevor groans, giving up for the time being with a sigh and stepping down from the chair.

Alucard watches him near, bundled like the rest of them in layered, warm clothing to stall the chill always seeping through the stone walls no matter the amount of wood they feed the hearth.

Trevor joins the three of them on the heap of cushions piled over the thick rug near the fireplace. He kneels beside Alucard, reaches and palms Greta’s face. “Hey,” he presses a light kiss to her lips before looking shiftily at Alucard. His expression softens as he places a hand to Alucard's heart, leans closer, and the smiles on their faces speak of so many things. Unhurriedly Trevor kisses him, tastes and tugs gently, releasing with a soft pull on his lower lip. The ring that gleams shyly on his left hand shines golden, flaring like hope. “Let’s not ever forget that despite the feelings he claims to hold, Adrian here was the only one who said 'maybe'. ”

“To you, not to them,” Alucard adds, a deep flush on his face. They have no reason to hide from each other, and being vulnerable like this is, sometimes, still as freeing as it is nerve-wracking; they're learning.

“I guess I’ll have to settle for that,” Trevor murmurs, breathless.

A fanged grin. “I guess you will.”

His grin belies his state as Alucard moves so Trevor can wiggle between them, seeking their warmth. Sypha lazily sits up, arms spread wide as Trevor meets her, a kiss to her forehead, her nose, her lips, before he slips down with his head resting in her lap. He sighs as Greta and Alucard cuddle up to him and tangle their legs with his, watching each other and weaving their beringed fingers together over the warm stretch of his chest.

Trevor stares at the uneven glimmer of the rings each wears on their left hand: simple labors of love that beam golden-red in the firelight, identical to ones he and Sypha have. He’d made them himself, after months of toil and secretive, nightly research, and the craftsmanship is no match in skill compared to the wealth and ancient treasures found in the Hold or the castle; but the meaning it bears to them, the tenderness in their eyes when he’d bit down on his heart and asked them to be with him this way, matter more than all and any material possessions in existence.

#this ship name is wild so I'll just call it The OT4 #castlevania netflix #castlevania fanfiction #trevor belmont #alucard castlevania #greta of danesti #sypha belnades #ruiniel:fanfiction

16 notes · View notes

kodoscrook · 5 years

Photo

new oc i made last night!! and... maybe..... just maybe derive a little bit from btd name: trevor belmont age: 27 > very very quiet. he talks when he absolutely needs to and even when he talks, he whispers > but very vengeful and petty. if you mock his choice of grocery in front of him, expect your car to be on fire next week > robs house for a living > absolutely fearless > probably lives in a trailer somewhere in the woods > likes resin decorations

#oc #original_character #artist on tumblr

5 notes · View notes

herrensauna · 8 years

Photo

Herrensauna #15 Artwork by Fritz Schiffers April 8th, 2017 at Bertrams Maybachufer 48, Berlin Germany Geübte Bewegung - liebkosende Hand; Tanzende Körper verlieren den Verstand. Pris [Semantica Records | Resin] https://soundcloud.com/prismusicuk Trevor Linde LIVE [POLYGON] https://soundcloud.com/trvlnd Sciahri [Black Opal] https://soundcloud.com/sciahri CEM & MCMLXXXV [Herrensauna] https://soundcloud.com/cemdukkha https://soundcloud.com/thetruemcmlxxxv Light & Visuals by Adel Alameddine http://timeandplace.net/ To friends and acquaintances whom we are fond of.

#Herrensauna #Berlin #Pris #Semantica Records #Resin #Trevor Linde #Polygon #Sciahri #Black Opal #CEM #MCMLXXXV #Adel Alameddine #Fritz Schiffers

2 notes · View notes

alaspoorwallace · 5 years

Text

YEAR OF THE DEPEND ADULT UNDERGARMENT

Here's Hal Incandenza, age seventeen, with his little brass one-hitter, getting covertly high in the Enfield Tennis Academy's underground Pump Room and exhaling palely into an industrial exhaust fan. It's the sad little interval after afternoon matches and conditioning but before the Academy's communal supper. Hal is by himself down here and nobody knows where he is or what he's doing. Hal likes to get high in secret, but a bigger secret is that he's as attached to the secrecy as he is to getting high. A one-hitter, sort of like a long FDR-type cigarette holder whose end is packed with a pinch of good dope, gets hot and is hard on the mouth — the brass ones especially — but one-hitters have the advantage of efficiency: every particle of ignited pot gets inhaled; there's none of the incidental secondhand-type smoke from a party bowl's big load, and Hal can take every iota way down deep and hold his breath forever, so that even his exhalations are no more than slightly pale and sick-sweet-smelling. Total utilization of available resources = lack of publicly detectable waste. The Academy's tennis courts' Lung's Pump Room is underground and accessible only by tunnel. E.T.A. is abundantly, embranchingly tunnelled. This is by design. Plus one-hitters are small, which is good, because let's face it, anything you use to smoke high-resin dope with is going to stink. A bong is big, and its stink is going to be like commensurately big, plus you have the foul bong-water to deal with. Pipes are smaller and at least portable, but they always come with only a multi-hit party bowl that disperses nonutilized smoke over a wide area. A one-hitter can be wastelessly employed, then allowed to cool, wrapped in two baggies and then further wrapped and sealed in a Ziploc and then enclosed in two sport-socks in a gear bag along with the lighter and eyedrops and mint-pellets and the little film-case of dope itself, and it's highly portable and odor-free and basically totally covert. As far as Hal knows, colleagues Michael Pemulis, Jim Struck, Bridget C. Boone, Jim Troeltsch, Ted Schacht, Trevor Axford, and possibly Kyle D. Coyle and Tall Paul Shaw, and remotely possibly Frannie Unwin, all know Hal gets regularly covertly high. It's also not impossible that Bernadette Longley knows, actually; and of course the unpleasant K. Freer always has suspicions of all kinds. And Hal's brother Mario knows a thing or two. But that's it, in terms of public knowledge. And but even though Pemulis and Struck and Boone and Troeltsch and Axford and occasionally (in a sort of medicinal or touristic way) Slice and Schacht all are known to get high also, Hal has actually gotten actively high only with Pemulis, on the rare occasions he's gotten high with anybody else, as in in person, which he avoids. He'd forgot: Ortho ('The Darkness') Slice, of Partridge KS, knows; and Hal's oldest brother, Orin, mysteriously, even long-distance, seems to know more than he's coming right out and saying, unless Hal's reading more into some of the phone-comments than are there. Hal's mother, Mrs. Avril Incandenza, and her adoptive brother Dr. Charles Tavis, the current E.T.A. Headmaster, both know Hal drinks alcohol sometimes, like on weekend nights with Troeltsch or maybe Axford down the hill at clubs on Commonwealth Ave.; The Unexamined Life has its notorious Blind Bouncer night every Friday where they card you on the Honor System. Mrs. Avril Incandenza isn't crazy about the idea of Hal drinking, mostly because of the way his father had drunk, when alive, and reportedly his father's own father before him, in AZ and CA; but Hal's academic precocity, and especially his late competitive success on the junior circuit, make it clear that he's able to handle whatever modest amounts she's pretty sure he consumes — there's no way someone can seriously abuse a substance and perform at top scholarly and athletic levels, the E.T.A. psych-counselor Dr. Rusk assures her, especially the high-level-athletic part — and Avril feels it's important that a concerned but un-smothering single parent know when to let go somewhat and let the two high-functioning of her three sons make their own possible mistakes and learn from their own valid experience, no matter how much the secret worry about mistakes tears her gizzard out, the mother's. And Charles supports whatever personal decisions she makes in conscience about her children. And God knows she'd rather have Hal having a few glasses of beer every so often than absorbing God alone knows what sort of esoteric designer compounds with reptilian Michael Pemulis and trail-of-slime-leaving James Struck, both of whom give Avril a howling case of the maternal fantods. And ultimately, she's told Drs. Rusk and Tavis, she'd rather have Hal abide in the security of the knowledge that his mother trusts him, that she's trusting and supportive and doesn't judge or gizzard-tear or wring her fine hands over his having for instance a glass of Canadian ale with friends every now and again, and so works tremendously hard to hide her maternal dread of his possibly ever drinking like James himself or James's father, all so that Hal might enjoy the security of feeling that he can be up-front with her about issues like drinking and not feel he has to hide anything from her under any circumstances. Dr. Tavis and Dolores Rusk have privately discussed the fact that not least among the phobic stressors Avril suffers so uncomplainingly with is a black phobic dread of hiding or secrecy in all possible forms with respect to her sons. Avril and C. T. know nothing about Hal's penchants for high-resin Bob Hope and underground absorption, which fact Hal obviously likes a lot, on some level, though he's never given much thought to why. To why he likes it so much.

[DFW, Infinite Jest, 9a]

(Jannik Sinner)

#literature #novel #american literature #DFW #david foster wallace #90s novel #infinite jest #hal incandenza #year of the depend adult undergarment #y.d.a.u.#foster wallace #wallace #infinitejest #davidfosterwallace #postmodernism #postmodern literature #jannik sinner

1 note · View note