hiii ok so trevor w/ a girl whos just his complete opposite. like is kind, gentle, just everything trevor is NOT and is basically universally liked by everyone loll
Opposites Attract
(Trevor Philips x Sunshine! Reader)
The first time Trevor Philips meets you, you’re the only person who doesn’t flinch when he kicks the kitchen door open at 3 a.m., blood and other fluids on his shirt, screaming at the staff for “watering down the piss-flavoured coffee.” He points a finger around the room, determined to find the “cocksucker” who dare ruin his morning.
Everyone else in the kitchen scatters or freezes, avoiding his gaze. You, unfazed from long nights and in Sandy Shores, look up from your station where you’re folding napkins and frown at him. “That looks like it hurts.”
He stops, ready to ask what the fuck you mean by that, until he realises you’re talking about his knuckles— red raw from where he’s abused them on somebody else, or a brick wall, or the nearest surface he could find in his most recent rage. He hadn’t noticed they stung until you pointed it out.
Your eyes, big, kind, and unafraid, confuse him: you look like you belong in a library or a bakery, not this grease-stained hellhole at the ass-end of Blaine County.
And so, he stares: long enough that the waiter who made the offending coffee starts edging toward the back door, hoping to escape without being noticed. “You’re not off the hook, cocksucker,” Trevor growls the second his eyes spot the motion, a predator who misses nothing. The waiter is halfway down the road by the time your eyes lift to see the kitchen now empty.
Trevor turns back to you, voice lower than usual. “You’re an odd little thing, aren’t you?”
You smile down at your hands as you resume your deft work. “I don’t think so.”
He sits down across from you, facing the wrong way round; the cracked pleather squeaks under his weight. He’s still bleeding from his knuckles, which now grip the back of the chair’s flimsy metallic frame. You don’t comment again, but you do push a napkin toward him. He takes it, eyes never leaving your face, and wipes the blood off. He throws the rag over his shoulder when he’s done.
That’s how it starts, anyway.
Soon, he learns that you are everything he isn’t. Gentle where he’s brutal; quiet where he’s loud; kind where he’s cruel. You say “please” and “thank you” to waitresses and you tip extra. You smile at people who don’t deserve it.
Everyone likes you. Truckers call you “sweetheart” without being sleazy; local junkies nod when you walk home late; even the LSPD (on their rare trips up to Sandy Shores, the armpit of Los Santos) soften when you say good morning. You’re the kind of person who makes small-towners remember why they stayed there.
Trevor doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t understand how someone can be so soft and still survive; he doesn’t understand why you don’t scream back when he yells, why you don’t run when he comes home covered in blood, why you still kiss him goodnight even after he’s spent the evening terrorising bikers.
Still, he’s addicted to it.
He starts showing up at the diner every night that you work, sat in your section. He orders a coffee he doesn’t drink and watches you move between tables— gracefully, never raising your voice even when some drunk asshole gets loud and Trevor wants to pummel them to death. When the inevitable happens and a fight breaks out between the drunks, T’s on his feet in a heartbeat, but you always get there first, diffusing it with a few soft words. Trevor sits back down, stunned.
“How the fuck do you do that?” he asks later, when you’re in his truck on the way home, something he insisted on doing for you when he found out you walked home every night or caught the bus — “a sex-trafficker’s dream,” he called it.
“Do what,” you ask.
“Make people… do what you want without pulling their teeth out.”
You laugh, somewhat confused. “I just talk to them like they’re human, I guess?” He stares at you for so long the truck almost drifts off the road.
“Christ, Trevor, eyes on the road!”
The first time he says “I love you,” it’s not romantic. It’s after a bad night. He came home wired, screaming, throwing things when he found out he’d been betrayed by an old colleague. You didn’t yell back: you sat on the sofa and waited for him to work through it.
When he finally ran out of steam— panting and shaking— he dropped to his knees in front of you on like he’d been shot, and dropped his head into your lap.
You reached out to touch his face; he flinched like he expected a slap. Of course, you pulled him into your arms. He buried his face in your thighs, arms wrapping around your waist, and broke. “I love you,” he choked out, voice hoarse, almost angry. “I love you so fucking much and I don’t know how to do this right. I’m gonna ruin you. I’m gonna drag you down with me. But I can’t—I can’t stop!”
“I’m already ruined for you. I’m not going anywhere,” you whispere. “I love you, Trevor. You’re a good man, even if you’re a wounded man.”
He cried hard, then— ugly, raw sobs that shook his whole body. You stayed wrapped up like that until dawn.
After that, he tries. He still yells, steals, gets into fights. But he really tries to be more like you. He stops the hard drugs; starts washing his hands before he touches you; starts asking— awkwardly, at first —if you want to go for drives or with him to see Franklin or Michael, instead of him disappearing for days on his own and leaving you worried. If he heads out before you, he leaves little notes on the fridge in his jagged handwriting: “Coffee’s brewed. Don’t work too hard. Love you.” “Stole you a candy bar. It’s my favourite kind but it’s yours.”
He still calls you “baby” and “sweetheart,” but he adds “my angel” when he’s feeling soft. He still wraps himself around you at night like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, but now he whispers “thank you” against your skin after you fall asleep, instead of threatening to burn the county down if you leave (he still would, but he’s realised it’s better to keep that thought inside).
