Chapter Text
At first, Michael’s brain doesn't register the touch as being real.
For some messed up reason his overpaid shrink should probably look into, paying for a professional fuck without a wife at home to bitch at him over it is a complete turn-off.
No one has slept next to or with him since his family left.
Still, even though he knows Amanda can't be back yet, and it isn't her hand groping at his chest, in his dream-like, drunken state, he imagines her face above him. He imagines like he's done every night since she left with her anal-fixated yoga lover-boy, that she's finally come to her senses and realized everything Michael has done, he did for her and the kids.
Most of it, anyway.
It's the odor of stale Pißwasser and tooth decay that whisks away his wife's face in his mind and replaces it with sudden panic.
“Come on, sugar-tits, show me whatcha got," a familiar, piss-in-your-pants-of-terror-inducing voice breathes across his face.
When he tries to sit up, there is a weight pressing down on his midsection and thighs, and when he opens his eyes, he is met with a row of crooked, yellow-stained teeth.
Cold fear grabs him by the balls and twists once his sight fully readjusts.
Sitting on top of him, groping Michael through his wifebeater and emitting a never-ending odor of death, piss, and other various bodily fluids while staring down at him with wide eyes in the dark like some fucking night-demon come to eat his soul, is the bane of his current existence; Trevor fucking Philips.
He shouts something unintelligible as his hand balls into a fist and smashes into the face of the nightmarish figure on top of him. It’s a sloppy punch. He’s too drunk and badly positioned to do actual damage, but it does the job of getting Trevor off of him.
“Fuck. Mikey!” The exclamation is followed by hoarse laughter, loud and obnoxious, making heat rush to Michael’s face as he scowls and pushes down his bundled-up shirt while Trevor wheezes and picks himself up from the floor.
“Looked about ready to piss yourself there, heh.”
Michael can still only barely make out the other in the dark, but he sees enough to know Trevor is dressed in nothing but sneakers and a pair of ridiculously small shorts, and going by his twitching and saucer-like eyes, he’s fried out of his mind.
“What the hell are you doing?”
The meth monster in his room takes a swig of a bottle Michael hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“You didn’t answer my calls,” Trevor replies with a jittery shrug. “Just checking up on you.”
‘The fuck does that have to do with molesting me?’ is a question Michael really doesn’t want the answer to. Instead, he lamely states the obvious.
“You broke into my house.”
Trevor looks smug for a second, the expression on his face screaming 'what are you going to do about it, you fucking pussy' before he sniffs. “You make it too easy, Mikey."
He takes another swig of the bottle, looking infuriatingly satisfied with himself.
“Those fancy glass doors...” he starts before chuckling and shaking his head as if Michael should know better. “Anyone could get in if they wanted to."
“Yeah,” Michael bites out. “That why you're here, T? To lecture me about my fuckin' doors?”
He startles when the bottle in Trevor’s hand smashes against Amanda's makeup table, cheap lager and glass flying everywhere while Trevor’s voice goes from 1 to 100.
“I TOLD YOU!” He stomps his worn-out sneakers against the floor like a toddler having a tantrum. “You. didn't. pick. up!”
Michael knows he shouldn’t argue more, just apologize and promise to always pick up his phone no matter what, say whatever bullshit he needs to placate Trevor and get him out of his house, but the booze, being woken up like this and the entire situation, fucking Trevor, is riling him up.
“It’s 4 in the morning, you fuck!”
“So?”
“So what?”
“You didn’t pick up!” Trevor just insists and points a shaking, accusing finger at Michael. “It could be an emergency.”
He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, so he just groans.
This is what Michael’s life has become, all because he couldn't keep his smart-ass movie quotes to himself, and he hates it. He hates Trevor. He hates himself.
There’s a headache starting to build behind his eyes.
He wants to fucking sleep.
“Yeah, well, there is nothing to check up on,” Michael concludes. “There is no fuckin’ emergency. Go home, T.”
He scoots up further on the bed and raises his hands in defense, eyes glued to the hand brandishing the broken bottle when Trevor shakes his head and steps closer.
Trevor terrifies Michael like nothing else these days.
Even though he knows there is no way for Trevor to know how badly Michael fucked him and Brad, the fear and suspicion won’t leave; the fear that Trevor knows, and that this isn’t just Trevor being Trevor, but Trevor out to deliberately torment Michael before eventually gutting him and stuffing him in his fridge.
“Some way to treat a friend who’s worried about you,” Trevor says in a childish, sulking voice, and he actually has the gall to look hurt.
“You were sitting on top of me, fuckin’-- feeling me up!”
“You're a heavy sleeper, sugar-tits. Had to wake you somehow.”
“That makes no sense, and would you quit it with the names!”
“Mikey, I'm just teasing.”
Trevor looks dead serious then, his voice and body vibrating with restrained emotion as he balls his free hand into a fist and shakes it in front of him. “I love your tits. I fucking-- I love them! Can you blame a guy for copping a feel?”
Michael doesn't respond. What the hell is he even supposed to say to something like that?
Cold sweat runs down his neck and back when Trevor’s voice lowers and his expression turns ugly.
“Besides, you owe me.”
Here we fucking go.
“I said I was sorry, alright! I’ve said it a million goddamn times.” His voice shakes, heart rate speeding up as he senses the drastic mood drop in the room. “Is it the money?”
Trevor bares his teeth like some animal ready to pounce, and Michael figures he’s hit the head on the nail.
“You want your share? I can get it. I’m working on it, but I need ti-"
He realizes he has fucked up too late when his sentence is ended by a bony arm jabbing into his throat, pushing him down into the bed as the sharp edges of the broken bottle is pressed against the skin beneath his right eye.
“Fuck your money.”
Trevor’s sour breath washes over his face, so pungent Michael feels tears prick in his eyes, and he instinctively closes them and tries to breathe through his mouth while clinging to the arm pressed against his throat.
Despite Trevor’s gangly frame, he is stronger than Michael. He’s a goddamn one-man army when he’s worked up like this, and Michael -- Michael is a flabby, stupid, drunken fuck who forgot his gun on the table downstairs.
“You've been fucking me for ten years,” Trevor spits, and speckles of saliva hits Michael in the face with every word. “Ten fucking years! And you think I’m upset about the money?”
They’re back to where they started, except now, there is a broken bottle and an arm choking Michael thrown into the mix, and he can feel a hard-on press against his abdomen through the flimsy fabric of Trevor’s shorts.
Michael swallows and goes limp once the pressure lessens. His hands fall back in feigned surrender and he cranks an eye open and stares at the pointed shards in his face before meeting Trevor’s manic gaze.
“You going to kill me, T?”
“Nah.” Trevor rocks against him and pants like a fucking dog, making his messed up intentions obvious before he adds in a feverish voice, “But I am going to fuck you.”
Michael’s body moves on its own. Drunk panic takes over and he swings a fist at Trevor and kicks his legs in the attempt to throw him off. The glass punctures his skin and he screams, terrified that he just inadvertently crippled himself for life.
It doesn't enter his eye, but slices deep into his cheek before his yell is forcefully cut off by both of Trevor’s hands around his throat.
“You’re not going to escape this one, you fucking snake!” Trevor hisses, the blood vessels in his face and eyes pulsing, pupils jittering and expanding into large, black holes of nothing and death as he presses Michael further into the bed. “I am going to make things right between us again!”
"T-" Michael manages to croak, but Trevor instantly stops him by squeezing harder.
“Listen-- HEY! Listen to me. It’s simple.” Laughter devoid of humor sounds in Michael’s ear before Trevor takes a deep breath and goes on. “You fucked me. I fuck you.”
When the pressure around Michael’s throat is released, he heaves and sucks in deep gulps of air, hands trembling at his sides on the mattress, eyes glued to the makeshift weapon that’s found its way back into Trevor’s hand.
He feels the weight of Trevor shift on top of him and hears the rustle of fabric as he leans back before the sharp ends of the bottle nicks at Michael’s exposed hip.
“Pull up your shirt."
He has his cock out now, fully hard against Michael’s thigh while Trevor stares at his chest with the expression of a starving man who’s just discovered hamburgers growing on rocks in the desert.
“What?”
Trevor responds by slapping his palm against Michael’s side and baring his teeth again.
“Pull your fucking shirt up. Let me see those tits!”
Something in Michael’s stomach curls and threatens to make its way up through his throat as he slowly fists his hands in the sweat-soaked fabric of his wifebeater and pulls it up to bare his stomach and chest.
He knows what kind of sadistic shit Trevor gets up to in his own time, the things he does to his meth minions and random poor fucks he finds on the highway. This must be his punishment, Michael thinks dazedly, for not caring enough to really give a fuck until he found himself at the receiving end of it.
“That’s the stuff,” Trevor groans, and the dick against Michael’s thigh twitches while a hand moves up to grab greedily at his chest. “Fat and juicy, just how I like em’. Fuck yeah.”
Michael swallows down the colorful retorts he wants to make and closes his eyes when a ragged nail flicks across one of his nipples.
”Get them hard for me.”
The glass shards press against his hip bone when he hesitates and Trevor slaps his side again.
“Come on! Play with them. Do it!”
He has no choice, Michael reasons as he swallows again and brings his shaking hands to his chest. He’s never felt this humiliated in his life, and he knows his face must be beat-red as he begins to rub and pinch at his nipples as he’d do with a woman.
It could be worse, Michael tries to convince himself while Trevor lets out another disgusting groan and rocks against him. Better than having to suck Trevor’s diseased dick at glass-bottle point. It’s not painful or anything, he’s just touching himself, and maybe, please fucking God, maybe Trevor is bluffing, and after this, he’ll be satisfied and calm down, laugh at Michael for thinking he was actually going to do it before fucking off to eat hitch-hikers or whatever he does to get his rocks off.
Fat fuckin’ chance.
Michaels body recoils and he pauses when Trevor’s hand moves down to grab at the hem of his briefs. “That’s it, sugar,” he whispers in a low, raspy voice. “Putting on such a good show for your Uncle T, ain’tcha?”
When Michael doesn't move, hyper-aware of the fact that Trevor now has his hand wrapped around his dick, his voice turns forceful.
“Did I tell you to stop? Huh? Did I?”
Michael winces, shakes his head, and goes back to groping at his chest.
He entertains the thought of kicking Trevor when he lowers himself, but the bottle still presses against his hip and Trevor literally has him by the balls, and Michael is such a fucking coward, he doesn't do anything to stop it or push Trevor away when he feels him slide further down and take his cock in his mouth.
Trevor swallows him down in one go like a goddamn pro, and fucking hell-- Michael jerks into it and moans like some idiot teenager getting head for the first time while Trevor's hand flattens over his lower stomach.
He keeps running his own fingers over his pecs and nipples, terrified of what Trevor will do to him if he stops; almost more terrified that he’s starting to somewhat get into it.
He hasn’t been sucked off with this kind of enthusiasm since-- forever. And something about the messed-up situation, fucking Trevor doing this to him, Trevor, who can and will mutilate him with a single snap of his teeth if Michael says or does the wrong thing, slobbering over his cock and moaning around it like it’s the best thing in the whole wide world. It’s unreal. It’s a bizarre fear-high unlike any Michael has ever experienced.
Hysterical laughter almost bursts out of him, but it gets caught in his throat when Trevor’s fingers dig harder into his stomach and he presses so close his nose hits Michael’s pubic bone, throat flexing around him, thumb darting out to brush across his thigh in an almost loving gesture.
There’s something eerily familiar about it - blurred, drunk, half-memories from years ago Michael is starting to suspect aren't just figments of his messed up imagination or dreams.
They used to bunk together all of the goddamn time, him and Trevor, and they’d get fucked almost every night.
He's always known Trevor to be the sort of sex-crazed freak who'd jerk off next to him or hump Michael's leg in meth-induced, horny desperation, but it isn’t until this moment he realizes Trevor probably felt him up while he slept too, and those mornings where Michael would wake up with dried cum on his inner thighs and a weird buzz in his lower body weren't due to wet dreams, too much blow or prostitutes Michael doesn't remember calling, but Trevor being a goddamn grade-A creep.
He blinks his eyes open to stare at the hand on him, riddled with cuts and infected sores, before focusing on Trevor's face.
Bloodshot eyes full of predatory intent stare back at Michael as Trevor slowly slides backward and lets him slip from his mouth. He looks intensely focused, not even bothering to wipe the strings of drool and pre-cum from his face before he crawls up and batters Michael’s hands away so he can suck on one of his nipples.
"Ohfuck-- T, Jesus Christ!"
The hand goes back to Michael’s cock and begins stroking it, and he closes his eyes again and arches his back with a curse, balling his hands up in the bedsheets, unable to stop himself from pushing into the motions while Trevor switches between kissing and sucking at his chest.
Trevor is repulsive; a fucking devil -- psychopath, human-eating, piece of shit, but he’s also stupidly good at this, and Michael is hard and almost able to forget he didn’t agree to any of it when his briefs are pulled further down and Trevor positions himself between his spread legs.
He stiffens up when both of his thighs are suddenly lifted and pushed up against his abdomen followed by a warm, terrifying pressure against his ass.
“T, stop--”
“Shhh, let me have this, Mikey. Just let me,” Trevor shushes him and moves up to mouth hungrily at his neck. Both of his hands are on Michael, meaning he let go of the bottle.
Fear and adrenaline pumps through Michael’s veins and animates his limbs, and he jerks his knee up hard into Trevor’s middle while simultaneously elbowing him in the face.
“You--FUCK!”
Trevor howls and rolls to the side while Michael throws himself off the bed and onto the floor with his underwear tangled around his ankles. He tries to roll around, get up so he can defend himself, but once he’s on his knees Trevor has already launched himself at him like some manic chimp out to rip off his face.
Before Michael even manages to turn, hands grasp at the back of his head and begin repeatedly smashing his face into the floor.
“You fucking-- lying, snake-turd cocksucker!” Trevor roars, and Michael feels the bones and cartilage in his nose shatter, teeth clamping down too hard on his tongue and filling his mouth with blood while the yelling turns anguished.
“You left me! You fucking left me!”
Trevor keeps shouting at him, screaming while trying to level Michael's skull with the floor.
He coughs blood and groans when his head is pulled back. His entire face is on fire. He can barely see or do anything when Trevor turns him around only to punch him in the face.
“I was going to make it nice for you!”
He’s bitten through his tongue, and when he tries to talk, all that comes out is a wet, pathetic gurgle.
"St-"
'Stop, you’re killing me, you’re fuckin’ killing me’ is what he attempts to communicate, but he doubts Trevor is even able to listen to him at this point.
Nausea locks up his throat. He recognizes the telltale signs of a concussion; splitting headache and dizziness tuning out the furious shouting from above.
Everything blurs together for a second, but he regains consciousness while Trevor is mid-sentence, “-- not going to happen now, princess. You gonna act like a bitch, I’ll treat you like one.”
Michael is turned around again and his throbbing face is pressed against the ugly, too-expensive fuzzy rug Amanda insisted on buying last time they refurbished the house.
“T,” he wheezes and swallows before trying to talk again. “I know I-- fuck-”
He cuts himself short with a fit of wet coughing while Trevor proceeds to ignore him and pull his hips up from the floor.
“I let you down,” Michael rasps, and his voice turns thick with desperation when he hears the sound of spitting followed by a wet finger pressing against him. “I’m sorry. I’m so fuckin’ sorry!”
He means it. He is real fucking sorry he ever crossed paths with Trevor Philips.
¨You don't wanna do this.”
He sucks up blood and tries to lift himself when Trevor slaps his thigh, but immediately, there’s a hand in his hair and digging into his scalp, forcing Michael’s upper body against the floor while the finger prods at him. His broken nose is crushed into the carpet, and he’s momentarily paralyzed from the pain blossoming out from the center of his face.
“Boo-hoo, ohnoo, 'T, you don’t wanna do this' don't hurt meee,” Trevor mocks him in a high-pitched, whiny voice before switching back. “What the fuck is that? Jesus. Do you even hear yourself?”
Michael’s erection has completely faltered once Trevor’s finger enters him. His body locks up and he grunts and grits his teeth when another immediately presses in beside it. Trevor’s nails are uncut and jagged, and his spit is the only attempt at any kind of lube.
The pain is worse than he imagined. It’s just a couple of fingers, but it’s fucking awful. It might as well be the goddamn glass bottle.
All he can think of is the amount of shit that must be under Trevor’s nails and in his body, the kind of people he’s been fucking and sharing and doing who-the-fuck-knows what with, all of it seeping into Michael’s bloodstream.
“Wait!” He flails his hands and tries to turn himself around, voice teetering on the edge of hysterics. “Condoms,” he wheezes out while frantically gesturing to the nightstand next to the bed. “I have- in the drawer. Please!”
He is about to be assaulted by a walking cesspool of STDs.
"Trevor, please, fuck-- you piece of shit! Fuckin'--stop!"