Summary: "She walks over to where he and Mole have been going over the supply lists and grabs hold of Alec's sleeve, yanking him towards the door. "We need to talk. Alone. Now.""
Warnings: consensual power plays
Word count: ~1300
Notes: LC, I followed prompt the first as closely as I could. Thanks to my girls for the quick-n-dirty. Title from that Lords of Acid song. Yes, that one.
"Alec!" Max barks out his name like the order she intends it to be, and he stiffens slightly, trying not to jump to attention.
Mole's snicker tells him he's failed at that, as does the heavy prod of a transhuman elbow straight to the ribs. "She's got you whipped, Princess."
Alec elbows back, but it's true. She does. More than Mole or anyone, Max included, will hopefully ever know. Alec pastes on an insincere smile and turns his attention to Max. "So your meeting with the mayor went that well, huh?"
She walks over to where he and Mole have been going over the supply lists and grabs hold of Alec's sleeve, yanking him towards the door. "We need to talk. Alone. Now."
With Max, that only means one thing these days. Alec scrambles after her, his dick already uncomfortably hard.
They're in the room that holds the basement weapons cache, three locked doors and a series of switchback hallways between them and the rest of Terminal City. It's small, dank, and musty, always reeking of stale cigar smoke and staler cologne, occasionally punctuated by a sour musk smell that tells him more than he needs to know about how much Mole loves guns. The single light bulb hanging on its length of wire does its best to highlight the cobwebs and failing paint on the cement walls. Three large gun safes take up most of the low-ceilinged room, leaving just enough space for a folding chair and a rust-stained cot, both of them relics from the month long standoff with the National Guard, when the cache was under a 24 hour rotating guard.
Alec can't help it: this miserable room's his favorite place in the twenty square blocks of hell they've called home for the last eight months. They were stuck in here on guard duty the first time they did this. Or, rather, he was stuck here on guard duty and Max was using "needing to keep an eye on Alec" as an excuse to avoid Logan after a close call during a fight. Four and a half hours into his shift and they were well into a knock-down, drag-out fight of their own. Five hours into it, and they were frantically taking off their clothes. Each of them swears the other one started it. One of them's right about that, and it's not Alec, even though he doesn't want to give her the satisfaction of admitting it.
Max kicks shut the door, throws the lock and lowers the metal bar, the sound bringing him back to here and now.
"Clothes off," she says coolly, unzipping her coat. "And Alec?" she says, smiling her threat, one finger coming up to press against his lips. "Don't. Talk."
He pulls off his sweater, folding it before setting it on top of the chair. Alec's careful to pace himself: too fast, and she'll smack him for being overly eager, too slow, and she'll get impatient and yell. And then smack him for good measure. Boots follow, then socks, then jeans, then underwear. Max, of course, is still in her cargo pants and bra when he finishes the strip show. He smirks as he lies down on the cot, arms crossed behind his head, the casual pose he's assumed belied by the part of his anatomy that's standing stubbornly at attention.
Max looks at him, frowning over something he's done, hasn't done, or she thinks he'll do. It's her typical expression, one that seldom bodes well upstairs and seldom disappoints down. Then she reaches into the pocket on her right thigh and pulls out a short length of rope. "Hold still." She loops it in a figure 8 around his wrists, then through the metal frame of the cot, which presses cold against the back of his hands as she ties him down. "Better," she mutters, undoing her fly and stepping out of the pants. If he wasn't already rock-hard, he would be now, because there's nothing under the ugly grey cotton but Max.
When she straddles him, cunt barely brushing across the head of his dick, he can feel that she's already wet. She slips down, taunting him with the pressure of skin on skin, then arches off him, her thighs against his hips their only point of contact. Slowly, she reaches up and unhooks her bra, sliding the straps down her right arm first and then her left before she jerks her body roughly, rubbing hard against him as she tosses the bra aside.
"Fuck. Max!" he pants.
She slaps his cheek, lightly. "What'd I say about shutting up?"
He stays quiet, knowing full well how she'll respond, and she does, one hand reaching down to cup his balls, her grip just a little too tight.
"Answer me, Alec."
"But Max," he says, straining to keep his voice steady and his body still. "You told me to shut up."
"Whatever. I asked you a question," she says. "You're supposed to answer when I ask you questions."
"That's what I like about you, Max." He lets himself thrust against her palm until she tightens her grip again. "You're full of contradictions: shut up, Alec; answer me, Alec; get out of here, Alec; fuck me, Alec."
Max takes her hand away long enough to pull a foil packet out from under the mattress and tear it open. She pinches the tip and slips the condom over his dick. "Shut up and don't move, Alec." She gives him a bright smile when she says it, grinding down and mounting him, violently enough to make the cot jump, the rope biting and stinging his wrists as it does.
This isn't how he thinks she'd have sex with Logan, and yes, he thinks about it a lot. More than is strictly speaking healthy. Max with Logan would be the soft focus version, the edges and serial number filed off. Soft and gooey and sweet like marshmallows. Nice, and something she'll never give him, but that's all right. Alec would rather have sharp and salty, and there's nothing soft about this Max, outside of the more literal aspects of the flesh. She watches him while she fucks him, pacing herself by his reactions, slowing her thrusts to a snail's pace or stopping them entirely as soon as she thinks he's about to reach orgasm. For every tell he's managed to identify and eradicate since they started playing at this, he thinks she's identified at least a dozen of which he's still utterly unaware.
It could be fifteen minutes, it could be an hour that she's been at it: Alec generally loses track of time after about five minutes. His limbs are shaking, and he can feel sweat begin to bead on his forehead. Max slides down his dick then up, until she's barely penetrated by it. "Had enough?" she whispers, the soft exhale of it unbearable against his ear.
His breath hitches, but he doesn't answer the question.
"'Cause if you've had enough," she says, "all you've gotta do is say the words." She grinds down again, just enough to take him back to the edge before she stops.
Alec gives her a dirty look, defiantly thrusting up into her cunt, relishing the smack she gives him in return.
"Hey! That's cheating," she chides, and moves like she's going to get up. Her eyes are still on him like a hawk.
He weighs the odds that she'll leave him high and dry and tied up before giving in and saying what she wants to hear. "Fuck me, Max."
For an eye's blink, he thinks she looks relieved, and then she's a blur of touch and motion, hands and body working to give them both relief. She comes, her mouth mashed hard against his as her body clenches tight, and he follows shortly in her wake.
"There," she says, her breathing rapidly returning to normal as she crawls up his body to untie the ropes. "Was that so hard?"
"How long this time?" Alec asks as he rubs his wrists. He's going to have to send the mayor an anonymous thank you card for pissing Max off enough that she needed this to de-stress . And then maybe schedule another meeting so His Honor can do it again.
She rolls her eyes, but he's pretty sure it's with affection. "What? Till you cried uncle? One hour, fifty-three minutes, give or take."