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love when we get freaky on camera

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"You wanna run that by me one more time?"

"What? I thought it would be the next logical step, sugartits."

"I said we should try something different. I wasn't expecting you to to just leap over the entire fuckin' staircase."

Trevor snorts and snatches the joint from Micahel to take a long, drawn-out drag. "I forgot you're a fucking wet blanket. My sincerest apologies."

Michael makes a mental note to never break out his confiscated stash of Jimmy's weed around Trevor ever again.

He really wishes he could go back in time to whack himself senseless before he found Trevor's shitty third-rate homemade porno. Not only does Trevor constantly hold it over his head whenever he sees the opportunity to do so, he also never shuts the fuck up about Michael finding it hot. Kind of. Hey, he's a man with a perfectly working dick (citation needed) and heart (citation definitely needed), stick vanilla porn in front of him and he'd be hard pressed to walk away without a semi. Trevor isn't that special.

(Okay, so maybe that was a little cruel. Fine, Trevor can walk away with the prize of starring in the only gay porno Michael would willingly watch. Happy now?)

Michael picks the joint out from Trevor's mouth and grinds it out in the ashtray on the coffee table. "And that's why I don't let you smoke any goddamn weed anymore."

"C'maaaaaannnn Mikey, you can't lie and say you didn't have the idea pop up in that noggin' of yours once or twice. You're a miserable, egotistical, wannabe director and I'm quite a fine piece of ass if I do say so myself." Trevor leans back on the couch and downs the rest of his beer, grinning like he's come up with the plan of a lifetime. "It's a match made in heaven."

"I'm not fucking making a porno with you, Trevor."

Trevor throws up his hands in mock frustration, though at this point he might actually be mad. "What the fuck are you so hung up about?"

"For one, we have nowhere to film." Michael takes a sip of his scotch. "Secondly, I don't have a camcorder I want to scar for life. Third, and most importantly, it's possibly the dumbest idea I've ever heard come out of your mouth, and you've had a lot over the years."

"You have a goddamn bedroom right upstairs, I don't see how that not a good enough set for you, Mr. Director. Second, you have a state of the art camera attached directly to your phone. Third-" Trevor stops to tilt his beer upside down to get whatever could left at the bottom. "Third, you've had even dumber ideas, and you don't see me bitching about it."

Michael squints at him. "I'm not defiling my bedroom."

Trevor laughs. "I'm sure that wouldn't be the worst thing that's occured in there."

"Also, do you actually think I'm going to film our potential sex tape that's not happening on my phone, which any fucking tech geek who's bored enough to hack into the cloud can get?"

"Just upload it on your computer and delete it when you're done." Trevor makes the herculean effort to get up off the couch and make his way over to the fridge for another beer. "Put it on a USB. Fucking bury it outside if you're really that worried about someone seeing your flabby ass."

"I don't care how many justifications and work arounds you can make up, T. We are not filming a fucking sex tape."

Trevor slams the tip of bottle on the edge of the counter with his palm, sending the bottle cap flying. "Is it the whole cloud thing? We're bank robbers, Mikey, not D-list celebrities trying to get the front page of a supermarket tabloid." He runs his tongue up the bottle to catch the foam spilling from the top, then takes a normal sip. "Nobody is gonna want a video of two middle age men getting it on."

"We're. Not. Doing. It. End of story." Michael finishes his glass. "And use the fucking bottle opener like a civilized person, unless you want to gift me new marble countertops."

"I'm not civilized, you graciously point that out to me at least twice a day." Trevor takes another drink. "And you said potential. Your words, not mine. Means it could happen."

"I said that to make my argument. That's not an agreement, T." Michael unscrews the bottle in front of him to pour another drink. "I'm sorry to crush your dreams."

Trevor sighs dramatically. "I'll survive, you've done it before. You'll come around on the idea sooner or later."

Michael scoffs into his drink. "Don't hold your breath."


"I found my VCR recorder in my garage yesterday. You're welcome, by the way."

Michael's golf club misses the tee by about six feet. "Come again?"

Trevor mumbles various elderly insults under his breath before he repeats himself again, louder this time. "I cleaned out my garage and found my VCR recorder yesterday. You're. Fucking. Welcome."

Michael tries so, so hard to not bust out laughing. He fails miserably. "Y'know, you give me so much shit for mentioning your hipster tendencies, and then you go and tell me you have a fucking VCR recorder in your possession. What, do you have a fucking DiscoVision lying around in your trailer somewhere?"

"You think I was privileged enough to have that back when I was scrounging my floorboards to eat?" Trevor pauses, and shakes his head. "Not my point. Point is, now you have a cloud-free method of recording. No excuses to be made there."

It takes Michael a second to realize what he was talking about, but once it connects, he groans. "Do you seriously think this a good time to bring this shit back up again?"

"Oh, so now I have to set up a fucking appointment to discuss something with you? What are you, my therapist?"

"God no. I think that's going to be my purgatory punishment once I finally croak." Michael connects with the ball and sends it flying across the pond, landing safely on the other side. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you this, but we're not doing it."

"I keep bringing it up because you brought it up in the first place." Trevor grabs his club and sets up the tee. He takes five seconds to look at his surroundings, and swings hard. His ball almost looks safe before it plops into the pond.

Michael starts laughing again, quieting down when Trevor whips around to give him a death glare. Trevor always bitches when he joins Michael's golf games, always asking why he's forced to play. If he was being honest with himself, Michael just loves seeing him fuck up royally at every aspect of golf. Plus, it makes Michael's game look Masters-worthy in comparison. A win-win scenario all around, really.

"I said we should spice shit up, I don't get how that translates to 'sex tape' in your head." Michael waits until Trevor storms over and sits down in the cart before he heads off to his ball. "Normal people usually go for handcuffs. Bondage, if they really want to go crazy."

Trevor shrugs. "You've experienced both. I thought you'd be bored."

Michael parks the cart and gets out to set up his shot. "Yeah, lemme count the time I was strung up and almost fed to a meat grinder by Chinese gang members as a sexual experience." Michael somehow is lucky enough to make it across the green and into the hole. He figured he'd definitely make par, but hey, he doesn't mind having more shit to rub into Trevor's face. "Sorry, but that's more in your line of thinking."

Trevor cracks open his third beer before he gets up. "Fine, you don't like getting tied up. Sorry it's such a touchy subject for you, princess." That rubbed Michael the wrong way enough for him to be a dick and let Trevor aim out of bounds. "Which makes my argument even stronger."

Michael grins when Trevor curses in time with his ball hitting the ground. "Keep telling yourself that, T."

Trevor chucks his club into the back of the cart before plopping beside Michael. "You're just fucking bitter because I make a good point and for once, you can't figure out how to make me look stupid."

"Don't worry, you do that all by yourself. No need for my assistance."

"I get it, I get it, I'm just a jester in the court of King De Snake. Need me to jerk off your ego anymore?"

Michael sips his beer. "Go set up your tee."

Trevor looks at him. "You go first. Or did your dementia set in early?"

It takes everything Michael has to not give Trevor his biggest shit eating grin. "I'm already done with the hole."

Trevor hands clench and unclench as he gets out of the cart, and Michael's pretty sure Trevor's imagining his neck being between his fingers. "I fucking get it Michael, you're so much fucking better at this fucking geriatric game than I am." Trevor doesn't even care anymore and just drives the ball as hard as possible. Into the second water hazard. "Lemme get down on my knees and put your sweaty fucking balls in my mouth while I'm at it."

"There's a kid's lesson going on. I'm not joining you on the sex offenders list."

Trevor has that twitch in his arms he gets when he wants to beat someone an inch from their life. "Hardee har-har, I'm not a fucking molester. That's Lester's job, not mine."

Michael watches in amusement as Trevor fishes his ball from the pond. "Hey, you're the one who suggested you'd suck me off in public."

Trevor's shot actually lands him a few inches away from the flagstick, a miracle. "It was a figure of speech. I'm sorry you're so deprived of a consistent sex life you thought I was being serious."

Michael stops the cart a few inches from the putting green. "Didn't know all those times before were just 'a figure of speech'. You really have a way with your words, T."

Trevor grip around his club tightens when his ball skips over the hole. "Say another fucking word and I'll bite your goddamn dick off right here. Kids be damned."

Michael is silent as Trevor finally sinks the shot. He has a change of heart and decides to just mark down this hole as a triple boogey.

Trevor tosses his putter into the back, and sinks into his seat. "Fucking finally. How many holes do we have left."

Michael sighs and takes a sip of his beer. "We're on the fourth hole in an eighteen hole course, T. Do the math."

"Fuck you. I can't wait to destroy you the next time we play tennis."


"just rent out a motel, y'know."

Michael realizes Trevor is talking. He sits up and pops out an earbud. "What?"

Trevor is laying on one of Amanda's floats in the middle of the pool, the sun glaring off his red aviators. The chaotic side of Michael wishes she would come home four days early from her yoga retreat just to see Trevor chilling on her favorite neon green one, sullying their pool water. Now that's something he'd want to get on film. "I said, we could just rent out a motel, y'know. We don't have to bother with clean up and it's not in your precious house. People go in there to shoot porn all the time. I found a camcorder, by the way, so we don't have to lug the other one around. It has the ease of uploading it somewhere without floating around in internet limbo for eternity."

Michael seriously considers chucking his cigar at Trevor. "You're lucky I like torturing myself with your company, otherwise I'd be in there drowning you."

"What?" Trevor almost slides off the float trying to turn towards Michael, but he catches himself. "I figured out all the kinks, Mikey. We're set to go."

"How many different ways can I say no before it finally gets to you, T?" He taps his ash off before he brings the cigar up to his lips. "What's 'no' in French?"

"Just because I lived in Québec for a few years doesn't mean I'm a walking fucking translator." He shifts back to his original position. "It's 'non'."

"Non, T. I'm not filming myself fucking you."

Trevor chuckles. "It's a one syllable word, yet you still managed to mangle it." He scoops up some water and pours it over his chest, trying fruitlessly to cool off under the oppressive Los Santos sun. "And don't say it like that, you make it dirtier than it really is. I was thinking more like 'love making'. 'Fucking' really makes it sound like a seedy porno."

Michael gags on his bourbon. "I don't want to hear the phrase 'love making' come from you ever again. My dick just retreated into my body."

"That'll make fucking me for the camera a lot harder."

"Good." Michael picks up his cigar from the ashtray to take a long drag. "Means I don't have to do it."

Trevor sighs. "What do you want me to do, grovel at your feet? Cry?"

Michael pinches the bridge of his nose. "You can always just drop the fucking idea, which you should've done a week ago when it crossed into your mind."

Trevor doesn't answer for a full minute. Michael waits, then goes for his dangling earbud so he can get the full Bob Seger experience.

He's ready to shove it back in when Trevor finally pipes up. "Y'know, if you really didn't want to do it, you'd just ignore me every time I brought it up. Instead you argue for minutes on end." Trevor's aviators flash when he turns to look over at Michael, earbud in one hand, abandoned cigar in the other. "Says more about you than me."

Michael sits there dumbly, the other portion of Night Moves between his fingers. "If I didn't say anything, you wouldn't shut the fuck up about it."

"Maybe the first few times. Then I would've given up. Eventually." Trevor rests his sunglasses on the side of the pool so he can dip his head in the water, his wet hair sending droplets onto Michael's chinos when he eventually flips back up. "It sounds like you're just trying to convince yourself you don't want it more than discouraging me."

Michael's pissed, because Trevor has a point. Originally, the majority of him definitely didn't want to do it. It's dumb, pointless and potentially dangerous. Really the only thing he would get out of it, maybe, was an ego boost. Not everyone was meant to be behind a camera.

But it's not like he's never wanted to do it.

He's suggested it to Amanda once or twice, sort of jokingly, sort of serious. She scoffed at him both times, and told him his self-respect finally went down the toilet.

In his mind, there's just something different with it than polished studio porn, other than the obvious amateur aspect. For one, the people in it actually are enjoying the sex. It's goddamn nice watching two people who actually want to fuck. It's just an added bonus that he would just happen to be in it too.

Nobody's home right now except for the two of them. And Michael doesn't feel right forcing a hotel cleaner to wash their bedsheets.

"Get out of the pool and go up to my bedroom. Dry. Before I change my mind."

Trevor drops his aviators into the pool. "Wait, you're being serious?'

Michael takes a drink. "Dead serious."

"Fuck, fuck, thanks for giving me time here-" Trevor ungracefully flops off the raft, disappearing underwater for a few seconds before coming back up with his sunglasses. "Didja at least bring out a towel for me?"

Michael points at the three towels beside his lounge chair before he puts his earbud back in.


Trevor looks up from his phone when Michael finally comes into the bedroom, camcorder in hand. "Finally. Thought you pussed out."

Michael goes to the other side of the bed to move the nightstand to the window. "I haven't used a camcorder in eight years, T. I honestly thought I threw it out."

Trevor tosses his phone to the floor. "And you called me a hoarder."

Michael flips the camcorder open and powers it on. With fresh batteries, it still works even after all these years collecting dust in the coat closet. He turns the dial to the record option, and sets it down.

"There. We're live."

Michael stands there staring at it.

He hears Trevor shift behind him. "So? The fuck are you standing there for? You expect me to just solo this shit?"

Michael turns to him. "Honestly, I didn't really have a plan past this point."

"And you call yourself a fucking director?"

"I produce movies. Whole different ballpark, Trev."

"Oh for fuck's sake-" Trevor grips Michael's wrist and sends him tumbling into bed. "Just ignore the fucking camera and just do what you normally do. I swear to god if you blame your 'performance issues' on that thing, I'll drown you in the fucking pool."

"Fine, fine, fuck. I get it." Michael's hands migrate to beside Trevor's semi-wet Speedo. "We haven't even started yet and you're already hard. Jesus, you're impatient."

Trevor groans. "I was sitting here for twenty minutes while you were taking your good, sweet ol' time finding the fucking camcorder. Can you blame me?"

"Kind of." He slides his hands closer. "And you were worried about my performance issues?"

"You better not forget to edit this dogshit in post." Trevor moves in and pulls Michael down by his button-up for a kiss.

Michael's fine like this, just lazily making out on top of his slightly damp bed, the afternoon sun washing over them. He can tell Trevor's already getting riled up, because he feels his hips moving up, trying to grind against his thigh. Let him get frustrated. Michael's comfortable.

Trevor has the restrain to hold off for another minute before pulling away from Michael, a glint in his eye. "Are you gonna let me do what I wanna do, or do you just wanna bust one out in your boxers?"

Michael smiles at him while he unbuttons his shirt the rest of the way, tossing it onto the floor near Trevor's wet towels. "Lead the way, captain."

Trevor rolls his eyes, but gently nudges Michael with his knee until he gets the hint to roll on his back. He props himself up on the pillows behind him while Trevor moves his way down. He unbuttons Michael's chinos and hooks into the waistband, taking off both his shorts and boxers, letting them fall off the bed.

Trevor looks like he's about to make a snide comment about Michael also being almost fully hard not even ten minutes in, with the way his mouth is moving. Michael is about to say something, but it's choked off when Trevor opens his mouth. He's close enough for his tongue to almost touch the tip of Michael's dick, and his saliva drips off, trickling down.

Michael watches as Trevor leans down to clean up his mess, lapping at his balls before running his mouth up his dick and rounding at the head. He sort of hovers over it, his tongue just gently lapping. He looks up at Michael, like he's telling him to do something.

Michael hopes he got the right hint when he rounds up a fistfull of Trevor's hair and guides him down. He's right, because he sees Trevor wrap his lips around his teeth to take Michael's dick. Michael closes his eyes and just holds him there for a few seconds before collecting himself to move Trevor to his own rhythm, sometimes dragging him gently back up to let him get a full breath for a second. It doesn't feel as robotic as it must look, more of a comfortable pace. He knows where Trevor's limits lie, and he knows he's equally torturing Trevor with the slow in and out. He gets what they both want, but hey, Trevor called him the director. He's the one running the show.

Trevor finally snaps the sixth time Michael pulls up for air, albeit a bit harder this time since Trevor actually tried to fight back and held down a little bit harder. "This is hot and all, but I'm bored and fucking horny and it's not cutting it."

Michael laughs. "Fine. Tell me what you want."

"You know what I want."

Michael raises an eyebrow. "Do I? Tell me."

Trevor sighs. "Are you fucki- Fine. I want you to fuck me. From behind."

"A little louder, the camera doesn't pick up sound well."

Trevor stares him down. "Michael, I want you to get up, shove me into your pillow, and fuck me from behind. As hard as possible."

He didn't have to tell him twice. Michael shifts himself up, letting Trevor move off and get into position while he leans over to the drawer of the nightstand, trying to stay out of the sightline of the camera. He comes up with his bottle of lubricant, the cap already undone and the lip wet.

He's confused for a second. Michael never leaves his shit messy. He turns back to Trevor, and notices a slick line down his thigh shining in the light.

Smart bastard.

"You already did my work for me?" He wipes the excess off the top and recaps the bottle, moving behind Trevor. "Seems like you did a little more than jerk off while I was gone."

Trevor is quiet. Michael reaches down to gather a ponytail and jerk his head back to be somewhat closer to Michael's face. "What did you do while I was gone."

Trevor has to take a second to gather his words, but he doesn't falter. "I fucked myself. Waiting for you. I couldn't wait."

Michael tsks and loosens his grip, letting Trevor's head fall down. "God, you're impatient." Michael rewards this bad behavior by not even teasing Trevor, just pushing inside.

He doesn't move. He can feel Trevor's head move under his hand, not on the same page. He leans down and meets Trevor's face again. "You did it before, you can do it now."

Trevor doesn't need any time to dicipher. He pulls forward, and then pushes back. Pull, push, pull, push. He's in control, so he sets his pace to be fast and irregular, sometimes almost thrashing back and losing his balance before he gives himself a second to reset before he starts back up.

Michael's content to let him have the reigns and do most of the work for a while. It feels like hours pass, the only noise being the continuous slapping skin and Trevor's breath catching every once a while. He's honest with himself however, and he too is impatient.

He waits for Trevor to push back and stumble for him to grab onto his hips and force him to stay still. Trevor tries to buck him off, but he gives up easily.

Fuck it, Trevor said he wanted to make love on camera. Michael moves slow and with a purpose. He can hear Trevor's voice and breath mumbled into the pillow, and he can't have that happen.

He frees his hand to flow back into Trevor's hair, and gently moves his face to look at the camera. "I bet you look completely fucked up right now." He doesn't stop as he speaks, his words punctuated with his own panting. Fuck, Michael should play something a little more invigorating than golf. "I want to see it when I watch it again."

Trevor's own heavy breathing and cursing is now fully audible. Trevor was never quiet, basically ever, but especially in bed. Michael isn't sure if he's hamming it up for the cameras, or if it's genuine. Either way, it's turning him own.

Michael slows down to lean down to Trevor. "Go ahead. Let me know how good it is."

Trevor tenses, and Michael can just picture his face telling him just how fucking corny that sounded, but he doesn't waiver. "Fuck Michael, you feel so fucking good, I don't want it to stop-" He's choked off when Michael doesn't warn him he's picking up the pace more to Trevor's liking. "God fuck, faster, just like that, don't fucking slow down-"

Michael grants his last wish as he shoves his face into the duvet, thrusting into him a few more times before he quickly draws himself out and cums across Trevor's back.

He takes a second to catch his breath, then taps on Trevor's back. "Sit down against the headboard."

Trevor is slow to move, but he's eventually there, against the backboard and a sea of pillows.

Michael doesn't do it often, but he should at least thank Trevor for indulging him. He moves Trevor's legs to get better access to his dick, which at this point is thobbing and begging for his touch. He runs a hot stripe of spit against his hand and grips his dick, startling Trevor just slightly. He strokes it for a few seconds, and pushes back with his elbows to get closer.

He makes sure his eyes are open and his head is up when he wraps his tongue around Trevor, who's looking down at him like he can't believe this is happening. He unfortunately has his eyes closed when he bobs down for the fifth time and Trevor grips his hand, releasing into Michael's mouth.

Strangely, Michael's not really that pissed. He pulls out and reaches over to the coffee cup he took off the table on the floor to spit. He lays there dangling halfway off the bed, before getting the willpower to pull himself up and reach around the camera, hitting the stop button before flopping back into the sea of pillows and blankets beside Trevor.

Trevor is the first to speak after they lay there in silence for a few minutes. "If it's really good, can I make copies?"