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A Hand Grenade That Never Stops Exploding

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It starts as a simple slip of the tongue, the kind of shit you start bringing up when you’re well and gone. Maybe tanked, so much liquor sloshing in your stomach a fish could swim in it. Or high, someone’s brick of weed fell off the back of a moving truck, who cares how much you do when it’s free. Rolling, taking a pill in a club that Alfredo’s sourced to a very trustworthy dealer. Sleep deprived, manic and scratching yourself because the sunshine feels weird. Michael’s had a lot of opportunity for conversations based on not being completely in his right mind, and tonight is just another instance.

In this case he’s flying on adrenaline, enough of it coursing through him to make him throb. They’re speeding away from a successful heist in six different directions, and Michael’s so hard he could cut glass, and it just seems like a good idea to say “is anyone bi enough to fuck my brains out?”

The comms are silent for a moment, then the replies start. It ranges from Geoff’s “what the fuck” to Jack’s “you remember I’m dating a woman, right?”

“Look,” Michael says. “I’ve got sudden thousands in my pocket, I didn’t get shot by the cops, and the night is young. I want to fuck.”

“Hire a hooker,” is Jeremy’s helpful suggestion.

“Wouldn’t be the same. What’s she know about how your dick gets hard when you rob a bank? I love this gang too much for a prostitute to work.”

“Are you suggesting a Valentine’s Week love exchange? Way better than bloody flavoured chocolates, right lads?” Gavin sniggers.

“Like hell is this waiting until Valentine’s Day,” Lindsay declares.

“Wot?”

Trevor announces his side. “Linds is right. Waiting ‘til February for a connection like this? Why put ourselves through that? Who wants to wait?”

“Those who enjoy edging?” Jack laughs. Michael respects the hell out of Fiona, enough to hope that one day she drops the solo mercenary thing and joins the crew, but it’s comments like these that have Michael falling in love with Jack all over again.

“I will edge you until you cry, but it’ll happen over seven hours in the evening, not because you have your dick hard for two months waiting,” Trevor insists.

“Ditch your bike, Michael. We’ll come pick you up.”

“Alfredo!”

“It’s 2019, I’m not playing ‘It’s Not Gay If’ you’re in a gang together. I don’t need excuses to make this okay to want.”

“Fuck yeah,” Michael sings into the evening air, a perfect Jean Ralphio. Lindsay and Alfredo isn’t quite the crew orgy of his filthiest dreams, but it’s a fuck of a lot better than a sex worker who doesn’t even know his name.

The next five minutes are spent giving directions to his location, and delighting in the many angled argument about whether everyone being somewhat bi is a good enough reason for group sex. Knowing he’s going to get what he wants from his on-again off-again best friend ex and his favourite new member takes a lot of the pressure off arguing his position. Trevor’s got it covered anyway, to the point that Michael won’t be surprised if he shows up after dropping Geoff off at home.

Finally though, Michael can spot Lindsay’s car coming. She’s in the far lane. Michael has no fucking clue how she ended up on the opposite side of the street as him, but he’s not going to let something as stupid as jaywalking laws stop his sex life. The Hellfury is properly abandoned in a nearby alley, surely destined to be scattered parts by nightfall. With nothing else to tie him down, Michael sprints into oncoming traffic, flipping off the horns of offended drivers. Their feelings are not his problem. They can run him over, but if they don’t he doesn’t give a fuck.

It’s not quite as quick as sliding into the backseat though. When he approaches Lindsay and Alfredo both step out of the idling car, a symphony of enraged horn blares erupting as they hold up traffic. Lindsay underhands the keys towards him and Michael catches them with a burst of gratitude, because another lane of cars is not going to stop if they miss him and fall to the ground ten feet away.

“You want me to drive?” he asks incredulously, even as he slides into the driver’s seat.

“We may have... riled each other up?” Alfredo offers.

That sounds pretty bullshit if you ask Michael, considering he was the one to get horny and instigate all of this. But he’s had the duties of a considerate lover hammered into his head since his big brother decided to correct the info a wide eyed little Michael picked up in sex ed, and one of the main duties is let your lover come first. He didn’t get a hypothetical for threesomes, but he’s certain the same rule should apply. And hey, it’s not like listening to them fuck in the back seat will be a disappointment, just some of that edging shit Jack apparently does with Fiona.

Michael’s got his hands on the wheel, barreling down the street at sixty miles an hour. It’s only fifteen over the speed limit, and if he tried to go any slower he’d get run off the road anyway. Is it technically fucking stupid for every citizen to be speeding, an excuse for a pig to pull anyone they feel like over, when at any given time three cars outta five in this city hold a criminal? Maybe. But try to tell Gavin or Ryan they can’t race, see how many heads would roll. Los Santos is not for those who drive minivans full of car seated children.

He’s a man with concentration, he is. If he wasn’t he’d have cocked the rearview mirror to angle to the back seat, instead of through the back window. It’s sure the fuck a better view than the road. Unfortunately Michael has to drive in a fashion that won’t get everyone dead. He owes Lindsay and Alfredo the respect of keeping them not launched through the windshield, considering there’s no way they’re wearing seatbelts as they get busy. Michael doesn’t care about keeping a lot of people alive, body count isn’t generally one of his concerns when planning the next crime, but these two are on the list.

Turns out they care about him too. He’s ten minutes into driving when Lindsay dives through the open space between the driver’s and passenger’s seats. She’s stripped off all her clothes, and she’s as hot as she was the last time Michael got to see her naked. She doesn’t give him much chance to bask in her gorgeous heavy breasts and thick biteable inner thighs though. Understandably, his concentration is split from her splendor and what sounds like ‘Fredo jerking off in the back seat when Lindsay unzips his jeans. She half straddles him, giving him a very limited view of the road and not seeming to give a fuck, but Michael can’t pretend to care about the hazard because she’s yanking his jeans and underwear to his knees before settling back on the passenger’s seat.

“I don’t know if this’ll work. I only had enough time to download one app.”

Michael doesn’t have the chance to ask her what the fuck she’s talking about before she puts her phone against Michael’s balls, positioned for as much coverage as a flat object can have on a vaguely spherical shape. Whatever app Lindsay’s chosen is making her phone vibrate nonstop, like she’s getting a hundred texts a minute.

Lindsay spends the next minute biting a hickey into his neck. As always, her bites are for keeps, her aim to leave a mark that’ll take weeks to fade. Michael’s so focused on the sharp pain on his carotid and keeping his hands on the wheel instead of curling them into her lush red hair that he only realizes he’s run a light when a horn blares at him. He really can’t give a fuck, he’s incapable when there’s so much other stimulus, but Lindsay takes it as a reason to unattached herself and clamber back into the back seat.

The moment it’s gone Michael misses the suction. He shifts in his seat, the moderate vibrations of the phone doing nothing to release him of his desire. But there’s something exquisite about being trapped on this razor’s edge moment, like the minute before you storm a building with a carbine rifle, like the timer of the c4 being zero in almost all positions. When your soap bubble is made out of glass shards and barbed wire it’s always a little more exciting when it pops.

“Drive faster,” Alfredo moans.

Michael should have guessed this was gonna be a thing for Alfredo. After all, ‘Fredo owns about a dozen motorcycles, each customized in a different way for a different purpose. You don’t buy that many of one thing without being a little too into it. Not a ‘having the vibrations driving right into his taint’ kind of kink, though Michael can sure the fuck sing the praises of that right now. No, Michael’s sure ‘Fredo’s got a thing for the way vehicles make him feel powerful, feel fired up. That sort of shit gets imprinted on you young, and it never really goes away.

Michael decides once again to be a good lover, to prioritize others. He switches lanes so that he’s headed towards Mt. Chiliad, rather than back to his condo. It prolongs his inability to get into the action, but the road is empty enough that he can press the pedal to the floor.

“You three chucklefucks need to get off the comms.”

“Why,” Alfredo asks petulantly. Evidently he’s got an exhibitionism kink too, though who doesn’t?

“Because Geoff’s getting an erection but he’s your boss and he wants to respect you,” Trevor explains, only a hint of laughter in his voice.

“I promise to not call HR if you stick your cock in me.” Michael’s still like to get plowed tonight. Geoff seems like a great choice for it.

“Take your comms out or you’re all fired! I will shoot you in the knees!” Geoff screeches.

Refraining from pointing out that Geoff hasn’t removed himself from the voyeurism, and in that case is it really the exhibitionist’s fault, Michael takes off his unit and tosses it into the drink holder. If Bossman comes around later, lets his curiosity win over his sense of status, well, Gavin knows how to find Lindsay’s car.

The downside to not having the constant chattering of his crew to listen to is there’s no distraction from Lindsay and Alfredo and how much he fucking wants them. It’s only so long before Michael screeches to a stop halfway up Mt. Chiliad, stomping on the break hard enough that he hears flesh slam against the back of the seat.

“Okay. No more. Get out, we’re done.” Michael can’t handle it any longer, he’s phosphorus within sight of air; ready to go off.

Exiting the car means for the first time Michael can get a good look at his people. Alfredo and Lindsay both used their time in the back seat to get naked. Alfredo’s lanky and long, ribs semi-visible and legs that go on for miles. Lindsay’s, well, she’s Lindsay, a gorgeous thick hilarious woman that Michael will never stop loving, even though he fully agreed with her that striving for monogamy and white picket fences was bringing out the worst in both of them.

“Strip down, idiot,” Lindsay commands.

“Yes, please,” Alfredo adds, always the friendliest person Michael knows. Sauce could add manners to blowing someone’s brains through the back of their skull. It’s a gift he has.

Lindsay’s phone dropped to the seat when Michael stood up, peeled warm and sweaty flesh off faux leather upholstery. He misses the sensation, but exposure to hot sunlight is almost as nice. It gets all the better as he pulls off his t-shirt and kicks off his shoes so his jeans can come off too. The air of Los Santos is always lung witheringly hot, but this high up there’s not as much smog. That’s a good thing. It’s important to be able to breathe when you’re exerting yourself.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kiss you now.” See ma, look! Michael can manage manners too. Even if he can’t manage waiting for a reply before he yanks Alfredo towards him and jams his lips against his, the manners have to count for something.

It’s not like Mt. Chiliad is a safe place to be doing this. A lot of people use the mountains as a drop off location or a place to get rid of someone inconvenient. It’s even occasionally somewhere innocent civilians go hiking because some people have no sense of self preservation. Even if there are no people at the moment, the range is home to mountain lions. But Michael could have died a thousand ways from Sunday already, and his dick is hard and so is Alfredo’s and Lindsay’s tits are a freakin’ masterpiece. Any motherfucker wants to come at him he’ll rip their throat open and come down the hole.

They’re reigned in a little by the spontaneity. Michael doesn’t have a condom on hand, and he can’t see either of them having one either. Why would they? It’s not exactly standard heist material. They did a honeypot heist exactly once, and that time it was Gavin’s responsibility. For the same reason there’s no way there’s lube. Fuck it though, Michael isn’t one of those idiots that think only penetration is sex. So what if he can’t rail Alfredo, and Alfredo can’t pound him and neither of them can slam Linds? There’s still mouths, and hands, and the sense of narrowly escaping death to thrill them. Michael shoves ‘Fredo down into the patchy scrub grass and following Lindsay’s time honoured tradition starts sucking a bruise into his pelvis.

Things progress from there. Michael puts his mouth a thousand places, he moves in a thousand directions and gets full coverage. He is the blast radius of a truly beautiful explosion. He never forgets for a moment the dangers all around him, or that he’s a killer in bed with two other killers, but it just makes things better. Maybe that’s perverse, but he’s pretty sure he crossed that line years ago, when he was just a munitions expert who sold off the books equipment to a freshly named by the media serial killer; The Mad King.

Lindsay and Alfredo orgasm first, because he’s a goddamn gentleman. That’s not to say that Michael doesn’t get his own fun, he does. He comes grinding the back of his skull into the scrub, a tuft of untreated grass scratching at his ear. The part his brother didn’t tell him? When you make someone go first, then all the attention is you. Their deviant grins are almost as thrilling as their stroking and pinching hands, and when Michael’s body tightens and his chest arches upwards, Lindsay and Alfredo actually fucking high five. Nerds.

“What do you want to do now?”

“Round two at my house?” Alfredo suggests. “Let the crew know, see if anyone shows up?”

Michael’s not quite back on planet earth yet, oxytocin takes it out of him in a way that adrenaline doesn’t. Still, he manages to nod. It’s the best of both worlds. If Trevor, or Ryan, or Jack and Fiona decide to join in it’ll be great. If not, Lindsay and Alfredo together is no shitty consolation prize.

“Get your pants on folks,” Lindsay declares, thighs still glistening wet in the sunshine.

“Awww, where’s the fun in that?” Alfredo whines.

“We’re definitely covered in grass and dirt, we’re not sitting bare ass naked in my car. Would you want me in one of your cars like this?”

“Get’chur pants on, folks,” Alfredo repeats in a drawl.

With a struggle Michael brings himself to his feet. It’s just like getting up after a blast wave you accidentally get a little too close to; something your body doesn’t feel like doing that your brain has to force for its own good. It sucks, but it’s the best choice. After all, how can he set up another explosion if he doesn’t get moving?