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(Fonte: amazingbecca)

trekwhojohnlocked:

The delightful thewhipandtheunicorn very kindly gave me permission to upload something Michael/Trevor-y based on this piece of lovely artwork she’s done, which inspired me no end. I’d love to link you to the actual artwork, but I’m new at Tumblr and kind of suck at it, so I can’t work it out! xD Lol. Rest assured though, only the following fic’s mine - that wonderful image is all of her talent.

(P.S. If anyone fancies telling me quite how the fuck to link Tumblr posts, you’ll be my new best friend, and I will happily edit such information into this!)

I’ve been on a bit of a M/T angst/joy loop recently, so this essentially follows that, and delves into Trevor’s fucked-up brain. God bless that dude. I’ve never uploaded Tumblr fic before, so I hope you all like it - and I hope I’m doing your pic justice, ma’am!

Potential trigger warnings: Self-hatred, grief and stupidly large amounts of cute.

Also, guys, on posting this, I’ve realised I’ve fucked up the HTML nature of it and everything looks sort of italic. I’m so sorry. xD Please pretend it isn’t. Help would be appreciated with that, too! Lol


——Here’s a lovely line break because I can’t do those either, LOL——


The Fly


It begins, always, with a telltale buzz at the back of your head; a housefly that’s found a home, secure within your ever-thinning hair. The little bastard’s you, in insectoid form - a lone wolf, perfectly content to stay that way… it doesn’t do friends. Why would it? No one else cares.

The buzzing, however, quickly grows; against all odds, another housefly, a kindred spirit, joins the nest. At first, the resident won’t hear of it (“My home, Mikey - fuck off! I don’t need your fucking sympathy!”), won’t permit the inevitable (“You’ll leave. Everyone fucking LEAVES!”)- but painfully slowly, the second fly begins to leave a mark (“You ain’t gettin’ my fucking sympathy, you nutjob!”), persuades patiently (“I’ve got no goddamn intention of leaving ya, T!”)… becomes irreplaceable. They share space for a while and affection blossoms; they feed off the same stool, terrorise the same flies, take on wasps, spiders, even cats…

You get a moment’s respite as they precariously live their tiny lives to the fullest.

But, of course, it doesn’t last. It can’t.

The second fly takes on too much one day, becomes a little too cocksure, and before the first can quantify it, it’s alone again.

As a logical man, you know what’s coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with; the buzz deafens now as the miniscule creature roars in protest at the solitude and starts to lose control (you smoke, drink, inject, snort and fuck away the memory, but it never LEAVES and you don’t know what you’re supposed to DO because nothing HELPS) -

This is the state Michael always finds you in; unconsciously trembling, sick to your stomach, fists clenched white with pain.

Don’t want to be alone, the fly shrieks. Don’t want to, don’t know how, can’t breathe, my fault -

You’re well aware that you can cope… you did, albeit badly, for nine whole years. The guilt, grief, shame, loss never left - but you survived.

Sometimes, though, like today, your meth-addled mind and its damned representative housefly can’t endure sense; instead, it burns, aches, itches, pleads, and it never weakens until -

"Trevor," Michael whispers into your ear, a bolt of sanity straight to your core, and it’s enough for you to begin your fight back.

Not alone, your heart snarls at your mess of a mind. Not anymore.

The fly’s roars begin to quieten, and Michael takes the impetus via instinct; knowing that much in the way of physical contact is likely to lead to an accidental barrage of violence when you’re like this, he gently prises apart your fist and tightly binds your hands together. The simple gesture provides you with an anchor, an entwined, tangible link to reality, strengthens you when you’re at your most pathetic -

He’s with me. He always is, now…

The fly’s yells soften; they’re loud whispers now, and sometimes, that’s enough - but tonight, suffering particularly harshly from the pains of withdrawal, it isn’t sufficient. The goddamned little fucker will just not shut up.

Michael understands, though. He always understands. Your hands still locked, he removes the spare one from his pocket and unbuttons the top of his shirt, pulling out a chain a heartbeat later. He takes it from his neck and holds it steady, its locket hanging before your glazed gaze - a simple, shining gold band that your career choice means you can’t display openly. It’s never served one well to showcase such an obvious weakness to those intent on hurting them… and there is no better way to hurt either of them than to target each other.

"Read it," he encourages quietly, always patient. "Make it real, T.”

The ring spins slightly as it glistens in the streaming moonlight of the kitchen’s stained-glass window and the soft glow of the ambient lamps around you; you force your stubborn eyes to clear themselves of unshed tears and peruse the succinct, meaningful inscription on its inner rim.

My Porkchop - forever

The words sink into you, permeate every fibre with their associated warmth; the trembles steadily recede, the nausea fades, your sanity returns and the fly falls silent, astonished to see its friend in the distance.

"You don’t ever have to be alone again," Michael and the returning insect whisper as one.

You’re too overwhelmed to grin, too guarded to weep and too old to pretend you’ll ever get over his former abandonment - although you’re trying, and it’s improving with time. But he comprehends that, too, because he’s never forgiven himself for it either; instead, a deep, desperate gratitude eclipses you, suffused with a joy and a relief so profound that lesser men would collapse beneath its weight. Subconsciously, you draw up your own free digits, the others still entwined tightly with his, and feel the ring against your own chest (it reads, simply, ‘My T - forever’), and suddenly, you remember what it’s like to breathe properly.

"Alright?" Your husband, the second fly, asks softly, eyes aglow with concern and wisdom.

"Alright," you and your fly confirm, giving a single, honest nod.

And you mean it, too. However much your mind tries to convince you otherwise, however frequently it turns against you, you no longer have to face it on your own.

After a lifetime of solitude, neglect and agony, that simple fact means everything.

As long as you’ve got Michael De Santa (Townley, Sugartits, Sweetheart, Porkchop, Mikey), you will always be alright in the end.

He tugs slightly on your hand, not a request to release your grip, but to catch an early night - this anxiety always leaves you exhausted, and it’s the only time your bedroom becomes a tale of something other than sordid sex and life-affirming blow jobs; you can weave a sexual prose worthy of Shakespeare, but you can also write sonnets in your unspoken love of simply being with him. You’re no wordsmith in romance, but you don’t need to be.

He knows.

You squeeze his hand tightly - an agreement, always silent - before your other fingers caress his cheek, pull him in for a kiss that says everything you can’t. He smiles into it, responds gently, doesn’t utter a syllable - it’s simply not necessary.

Minutes later, still dressed and wrapped in his embrace beneath a feathered comforter, you doze off almost immediately, knowing you’ll be back to your sarcastic, foul-mouthed, overconfident, recovering addict of a self tomorrow. You’ll never mention this - you never do. You refuse to acknowledge the tangible weakness aloud, and he knows you far too well to do so - but there’ll be a boxset of his favourite films and snacks cued up for tomorrow night, and a pack of his preferred smokes on the countertop. It’s just your way.

The fly falls into a soft slumber, four of its friend’s six arms enveloping it tightly, as contented as the man it occasionally tortures.

ship-hoarder:

I WAS LOOKING AT AN IAN PHOTOSET AND HOW DID I NOT SEE THAT BEFORE HAS ANYONE ELSE SEEN THIS?!?!???

lizziear:

shamy:

all-shamy:

cfnml:

Now I can’t stop wondering how the next Shamy kiss will be.
I feel greedy, I wanna see more touching, more hugging, more, more…
The writers awoke the beast. I hope they know that.

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That’s all

Can you imagine sheldon kissing Amy against the apartment door and knocking things over

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