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Probabilities in View

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Things that bring people together, in the naked sweaty sort of way: Stress. Adrenaline. Shared near-death experiences. Weeks and/or months of involuntary abstinence. Curiosity. Instant, undeniable chemistry. Sheer boredom, if you wait long enough.

Alec's got a list going, right, and it's maybe a little too skewed toward the "post-mission/unexpected survival high" end of things, but it just about fits his life. Except he can't think of a single factor that could explain how he ended up where he is right now: lying on his back on the floor, clawing at the damp concrete while Max rides him like a rocking horse, one little hand planted hard in the middle of his chest-- Except, hell, even that he could figure out, considering the general weirdness of the universe. The part that drives the whole thing over the edge of "surreal" is how Max's other hand is hanging out just at the edge of his vision on the left, working away between OC's clenching thighs. They're kissing, too, deep wet girl-kissing that Alec can hear over his own hammering pulse.

Pretty much the only way this could be stranger would be if Alec could get his own hands on Cindy, which is definitely not happening--she'd made that crystal clear, even amid the frantic undressing. And honestly, it would be a little too weird. OC is fine as hell, for sure, but she's too--well, she's Max's. She's that part of Max's life, even now in Terminal City, that Alec's got no part of, and he likes it that way. He doesn't want to get too weird about Max. Not more than he's been since the day he met her, anyway.

So there's probably a good argument to be made that he shouldn't be lying here fucking up into her tight little cunt with helpless, jagged thrusts, watching her fingerfuck her best friend and kiss with tongues and now Cindy's got her hands on Max's tits, pinching her nipples up and making her wriggle on Alec's dick. There is definitely a reason why this is all a bad, bad idea, not the least of which is that it doesn't make the slightest bit of sense according to anything Alec's figured out about the world since he started keeping track.

But really--Max's nails dig a little deeper into his chest, forcing out a groan with breath he can't quite draw--really, the hell with it.

Though it's just as well Max would murder him if he ever told anyone about this. He's pretty sure no one will ever believe him.