#lookit me using actual proper grammar for a request whaaaaat !!!

[tigertofu]

Hey, could you write a little love-hate angst about aftergame (ending B) Trevor x fem!reader who strongly reminds him of Michael? They work together and have kind of frenemies dynamics. She's a skilled thief and born liar and T doesn't trust her obviously, she courteously despises him in return, but they're useful for each other and T's suddenly got sentimental.

Not pushing, no rushing <3

TY for this prompt anon,, i absolutely love this idea <333 the angst 🥴 !!! and apologies for this taking so long... i hope u like it <33

pairing: fem reader/Trevor

summary: He's made it clear that he hates you. You've made it clearer that the feeling's mutual. But for some reason, the two of you have continued to take scores together. And after one heist, you find out that maybe his hate is something far more complicated than just plain old hate.

cw's: gun violence

wordcount: 2,664

AO3 Link

It’s supposed to be an easy job.

The mark is the Diamond Casino & Resort, a new construction gaudy and grand in that particular way that only establishments built for the entertainment of Los Santos’ wealthiest are. 

As you slip up the highway in your getaway vehicle towards it, the nighttime lights of the city’s skyscrapers dazzle across it’s massive glass façade. Your palms begin to sweat inside your black gloves. You remind yourself, again, that this is supposed to be an easy job. Nothing you can’t handle.

And what if he can’t handle it?

The intrusive thought makes you turn your gaze to the man in the driver’s seat of the vehicle. You see the concentrated scowl pinching down his features in the light of a lamppost he speeds past. Trevor always has this look just before a job. Calculating. Cold. Thoughtful. 

This is only your fourth job together, but you’ve already learned to not trust that look. At some pivotal moment, it always disappears. The second gunfire erupts, or something (or someone) threatens the success of the heist, a flip inside him gets switched. He starts to act without thought. Manic. Uncontrollable. Messy. Any previously agreed upon directive gets shoved aside for a new one: killing as many opposition and onlookers as possible. What should’ve been three easy–enough thefts have all ended as bloodbaths, all triggered by him. 

You don’t know why you’ve continuously chosen to work with him. The two of you make an odd pair, though working together has made your checking account swell to numbers you’d once only dreamed about. Lester—a well–networked recluse of a man who plays matchmaker for the criminals of Southern San Andreas—had even warned you about working with Trevor. “A meth–fueled series of bad decisions that has only grown more unstable in light of recent events,” Lester had said about him. You’d only scoffed and said you think you could handle it. But with each completed job, Lester was only proven more correct. 

You keep your eyes on Trevor as he pulls the getaway car off the highway. He still has that scowl plastered over his rugged face. He’d been ominously silent the entire drive, something that has mildly shocked, and, for some reason, disappointed you. Any attempts at conversation with him tend to spiral into arguments. You almost enjoyed these shouting matches, though. They gave you a chance to launch all your normally–restrained criticisms at him. 

Your last job had ended in one of these spats. The two of you had stuck up a designerwear shop in Vinewood. The spoils were supposed to get split evenly between the two of you, with ten percent set aside for Lester, who’d set the whole thing up. But when Trevor had asked how much jewelry you’d been able to stuff into your duffle bag, you’d lied to him. Not just because you needed the extra income, but also to get back at him for turning the head of the shop’s security guard into a red paste after you’d begged him to make this job a clean one. 

Trevor, of course, hadn’t believed you. After a struggle, he’d managed to wrench your dufflebag away from you and the heap of jewels that tumbled out of it as he did made him start screaming that you were a lying snake. As you collected your haul from the concrete and stuffed it back away, you’d snapped back that you may be, but at least you knew how to use a shower. 

You now notice, as he parks the car in the casino’s crowded parking lot, that he seems to have taken this insult very personally because he isn’t radiating his usual reek tonight. Just the smells of smoked meth and tobacco. You briefly wonder, against your better judgement, if this means anything.

“In. Out. Easy and quiet,” you tell him evenly as he puts his hand on the car door. He flashes you a glare. “I am so fucking serious about it this time, T. I don’t wanna be shooting my way through a swarm of cops by the end of this. Got it?”

“Whatever you fucking say, princess.”

And with that, you both step out into the night.

Your heartrate ticks up a notch with each step you take towards the glow of the casino. Your body tenses, muscles thrumming with growing adrenaline, your strides wide and confident as you keep up with Trevor. 

The casino’s entrance is buzzing with flocks of folks dressed to the nines. It’s so busy that nobody immediately notices the two conspicuous figures with black ski masks pulled over their faces and AR–shaped bulges under their suit jackets that have slipped into the crowd. Until, in the middle of the lobby, Trevor shouts for everyone to get on the ground because this is a fucking robbery.

The crowd erupts into screams, but obliges. You deftly pick your way over tuxedoed men and women in cocktail dresses shakily lowering themselves to the tiles, pulling out your gun as you make your way towards your target: the cashier’s cage. The beat of your heart has turned to the muffled rapport of a war drum, ricocheted back into you by the ski mask over your ears.

The woman behind the counter screams the second you point your rifle at her. You shout at her to fill your bag as you toss it towards her, and though she’s frozen in fear for a few seconds, she eventually rattles open her register and begins to fumble wads of bills out. 

You mutter under your breath for her to hurry up. As she works, you cast nervous glances back to make sure Trevor has the crowd controlled. He’s still doing what he does best: scaring people. Everybody is still on the floor. He towers over them, jabbing his rifle in the directions of any particularly squirmy patrons. The screaming has stopped, simmered down to frightened whimpering and whispering. You imagine the poor janitor’s going to be mopping up a dozen puddles of piss off the quartz tiles later. You turn back to the cashier and tell her, louder now, to hurry the fuck up.

Your adrenaline reaches a buzzing peak as you watch her cram your backpack with cash. A couple dozen grands’ worth, easy. You begin to shift on your feet. Fidget with your rifle. 

“Th–There!” she finally cries, pushing the stuffed backpack across the counter towards you. “That–That’s all of it, I swear!”

You grab your loot without a word and whirl around on your heels. 

And in that moment, it all goes to hell in a handbasket. 

While you were babysitting the cashier, somebody did something to piss Trevor off.

“I told you to stay fucking down!” he screams at a man by his feet, pressing his rifle’s muzzle to the top of the man’s head hard enough to force him to lay flat. You trip over somebody’s leg as you hurry over, and as you catch your balance, a security guard seemingly materializes out of thin air behind Trevor.

Gunfire. Muzzleflash glinting against the lobby’s chandelier. A chorus of shrieking explodes through the room. Your instinct kicks in; screams at you to get out, now. But with the security guard already dead, Trevor has turned his attention to randomly shooting into the crowd, and now people are getting up and running, tripping over each other, turning into a stampede that smells of expensive colognes and perfumes and jostles you as you try to pull yourself to the front doors. 

You reach the glass; see the valet outside running for cover. Your hand presses against the door, but before you can push it open, you stop. Turn around. Trevor is still engrossed in his massacre.

Muttering curses to yourself, you sprint back to him and tug at the back of his jacket. He doesn’t budge an inch; keeps unloading his rifle into the crowd that has now turned into a pulsating wall trying to squeeze itself into the hall leading to the table games room.

“T! Let’s go!” you scream. 

What comes next, comes in a blur of red. A siren begins to whoop above the screaming. Someone's triggered the casino's alarm. You pull as hard as you can, the soles of your shoes squeaking over tile, and Trevor finally relents.

As you both sprint out of the casino, you glance at him. The splatters of red covering the white dress shirt under his jacket disgust you.

“What the fuck was that?!” you cry the second you're both seated in the getaway car.

“That was me ensuring we got outta there," Trevor growls as he throws it out of park and hits the gas. 

As he drives across the highway and veers onto a side road running through a neighborhood that edges Northeast Los Santos, you try to quell the growing anger in your chest. But then you see flashes of red and blue in the rearview mirror, shooting down the road towards the casino, and you can't hold it back any longer.

“No, no, that was you turning what was supposed to be a fucking robbery into a mass shooting!” Your hand shoots up to grab the panic bar above the passenger window as Trevor swerves the car onto a dirt road. Rocky hills loom up in front of the car's headlights. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

“What was I supposed to do?! Let that guard taze me?!”

You hang on tighter as he takes a turn too fast and nearly drifts right into a boulder. He rights the car, and the hulking concrete mass of the Land Act Dam appears ahead. 

“You–You didn’t have to fucking kill him!" you shoot back as Trevor speeds across the dam's service road. "You didn’t have to then kill—what—a dozen more fucking bystanders! Is killing people your answer to every fucking issue in life? If they give you the wrong order at Burger Shot do you storm the kitchen and slaughter the fry cooks?!” 

“Listen, sweetcheeks,” he starts, and you try to yell at him to not fucking call you that but he just continues on, growing louder and talking faster. The car jolts as he leads it down onto a dirt service road leading to the river that feeds the dam. “I’ve been in this game longer than you have. I know how to do this shit; I know how this shit works. If we did everything your way, we’d both be sipping toilet hooch and selling our bodies for cigarettes in Bolingbroke by now!”

“You’re fucking insane!” 

With an incoherent roar, he suddenly pulls off the dirt road. The second the car comes to a skidding stop, he gets out. You throw the car door open and follow him as he stomps his way towards the shore of the river he’s parked by.

“Where are you going?” you shout. “Get back here! I’m not done talking to you!”

He spins on his heels and jabs a finger in your direction, pushing up into your personal space. You flinch back, mirroring his glare. 

"Stop fucking looking at me like that!" he roars.

"Like what?! Like you're a goddamn maniac who's incapable of making a single rational decision?”

"Like–Like him! You keep giving me that same fucking look that he used to give me!” he screams. “You are so goddamned lucky I haven’t wiped it off your smug little face yet!”

“Go ahead! I’d like to see you try!” you shout back.

And for a moment, it looks he’s going to.

But he manages, somehow, to restrain himself and he backs away from you, dropping his chin to his chest so he can glower at you from under his heavy brow. 

He’s waiting. He’s looking at you like you’re supposed to say something more; like he’s just waiting for one more insult or question to goad him into turning things physical. But you’re caught up on something he’s said, and your next words come out far calmer.

“Who…” You shake your head, trying to clear that nagging voice inside it telling you not to ask your next question. It stubbornly remains. You huff. “Who’s ‘him’?”

“Michael. His name was Michael,” he says, and you can tell by the way his scarred lips pull back into a snarl when he says it that getting the name out pains him. 

“Was?” You feel your face soften along with your voice. “Did he… Pass?”

“He was murdered!” Trevor snaps, his hands curling into fists. “He–He was a two–faced liar. A backstabber! But he–he didn’t deserve to get fucking done in by an even bigger backstabber!” He’s pacing now, hands shaking, teeth bared. “His head—caved in. Brains just, splattered all over the concrete! He was—He was my best friend! And he’s fucking haunting me!”

Something inside your chest shifts at this diatribe. For a moment, there’s no sound but water lapping at the shore and Trevor’s boots crunching across the gravel. In the silence you find a realization that makes pity knot through your stomach. 

“Listen, T,” you eventually murmur. He makes no sign that he’s heard you, continuing to walk tight circles, inconsolable. “Maybe we shouldn’t work together anymore.”

He stops, his back to you, his whole frame suddenly straight as if a line attached to the top of his spine has been pulled taut. Moonlight accents the twitch of muscle inside his forearms as he tries to restrain himself. 

“Why?” he asks the river in front of him.

“Because it—” You grimace and cross your arms over your chest. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it just sounds like I just remind you of your dead friend. And that… Doesn’t seem to be doing you any favors.” 

He hangs his head. 

“I fucking hate you,” he mumbles. “You lie. You act like you’re fucking better than me. But I don’t want this to end.”

The knot of pity in your guts grows. It urges you to take a step closer to him. 

“You sure?” you ask quietly. 

He turns around, and the tears welled up in his eyes and the angry pout pulling his mouth simultaneously up and down shock you more than any of his random, violent outbursts ever have. He looks ready to either reach out and throttle you or squeeze you in a back–breaking hug. He looks almost childlike. He looks broken, and unable to hide it anymore.

“Don’t—” He sniffles; rubs a sleeve over his face. “Don’t fucking leave me.”

Something tells you to turn the other way and run. To leave this mess of a man; to turn to bigger and better things. But another something inside of you screams louder, with such clarity that you have no choice but to listen to it. 

“Okay. Fine,” you sigh. You limply shrug. “I mean, yeah, I kinda hate you too. Every fucking job we do together has been a total shitshow. But we have made good money together. So… I don’t know. Maybe—”

Your voice cuts off as Trevor suddenly closes the space between the two of you and wraps his arms around you. 

You tense up. He clutches at your back and buries his face in the crook of his neck, suddenly sobbing hard enough to make himself hiccup, shakily rocking you back and forth. Against your better judgement, you raise your hands and awkwardly hug him back. His tears are hot on your skin. He begins to repeat something in a high, whimpery voice; it takes you a moment to realize he’s repeating “Don’t leave me,” over and over, each repetition more desperate. Your pity swells into something all–encompassing. 

As you hold onto each other in the moonlight, you softly tell him you won’t.

And when he moves his grip to your face and presses his mouth to yours, you kiss him back.