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a stone’s throw from the precipice

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They move in sync, like they share a mind or a soul or a past, and the thing is that they do, they share a whole history that Mags knows she will never be able to access. She feels like she ought to be more insecure about that. Instead, the knowledge sends goosebumps down her spine and a warmth between her legs.

They know one another so well and yet - yet they use their bond solely to make her feel so good . 

It is exhilarating . 

The first time they do this, Mark holds her in his arms, his back against the headboard with her chest pressed against her shoulder blades as he teases her nipples with fingertips callused from years of sketching and Sam kneels between both their legs, her breath hot and warm and eager on skin. Mags thinks she is going to combust. Her mouth is being occupied by Mark’s, her thigh is being kneaded by Sam’s gentle hands, and - and - 

The two of them seem to be of some sort of agreement because simultaneously, Mark latches his mouth on her neck and Sam on her clit and Mags actually cries out, her back arching and lifting off the mattress through no telekinetics at all. 

Mags has never been loud in the bedroom, though she’s been known to make the condoms hover and the lube fall to the ground and on one notable occasion, guided the dildo into herself with only her mind, but this - fuck, she can feel Sam smiling into her, can practically taste the satisfaction that rolls off them both from the sounds alone. 

Mark’s breath is fire-hot in her ear and his words burn through her veins, but God knows if she can process what he’s saying. Sam sucks harder through the dental dam and teases at her folds with the barest whisper of fingertips, and Mags distantly wonders who taught her that and if she can send flowers or chocolate or cash to thank them. 

Sam pulls away and laughs into her thigh, and Mags realizes, mortified, that she said it out loud. 

“I think he’s appreciating it right now,” she says with a nod toward Mark, who has shifted to run his nails down Mags’s sides in searing tracks, then lowers her face to lick long, hot trails through Mags’s folds. 

Mags gasps, the remnants of thought vanishing from her mind as she flails out, her fist curling in Sam’s hair on instinct. She releases her instantly, unsure if that’s too far. 

Mark takes her wrist and lowers it back down until her palm rests gently on the base of Sam’s skull. “She likes that,” he reassures her. “A lot.”

Sam clasps her right hand over Mags’s and guides her fingers into a firm grip. Mags is more than a little breathless. 

And Mags likes it too, likes feeling the silky strands between her fingers and Sam moaning between her legs and Mark’s dick, hard and hot, pressed against her back as they all rock together, Mark’s fingertips fluttering around her clit the way his hands twitch when he wishes he could snap a picture. 

She still can’t believe she got this lucky. 

Mags had never been the one to get the guy or the girl, let alone both at once. She had never been popular in any regard - among the general population, she was strange. Among atypicals, she wasn’t strange enough . If she didn’t know better, she’d say her ability was invisibility.  

She doesn’t feel invisible right now. 

It’s that overwhelming sense of being seen and wanted and loved and so thoroughly fucked that sends her over the edge, Mark’s teeth making crescents one her shoulder and Sam’s tongue laid flat against her clit, long strokes substituted temporarily for a firm steadiness that grounds her while she shakes. She comes hard with a whimper rather than a moan, and hears the lamp on the night table crash to the carpet with an unsatisfying plunk. 

The world comes back slowly after that. 

She’s vaguely aware of being shifted, her skin sticky with sweat as Mark peels himself away to settle her onto the pillows. Sam is still between her thighs, covering them with little loving nips as she presses her palm against Mags’s too sensitive clit.The marks she leaves are small and pink, and Mags sighs into the feeling of being their's as she twists just enough to meet Mark’s lips.

“Let me -“ she starts to say, reaching out to both though she doesn’t know what she wants to do, where she wants to start. Mark’s chest heaves as she lays her palm flat against his stomach. Sam grins smugly as she wraps her hand around her wrist. “I want to -“

“Sh,” Sam says and creeps up the mattress to nestle on the other side of Mags, encasing her between their bodies. She presses a kiss to Mags’s shoulder. “Rest first.” 

“But -“

Mark laughs and rolls to his side to press her closer. “Sam said rest,” he murmurs. “It’s always better to listen to her.” His hand seems to fit perfectly on her hip. Sam’s slots into the curve of her waist. 

“We have all night,” Sam adds on, and it makes Mags dizzy to think that they could spend a whole night focusing on her. The little breath she has left is wiped out of her. 

They lay like that, drinking each other in and tracing patterns on each other’s skin, until Mags can’t take it any longer and makes her mark on them both. Sam instructs her, voice low and calm, how to make Mark squirm and moan and writhe until he begs. They then work together to dismantle the pieces of Sam. They lay her out like a map and follow it to her heart, then start all over again until their sweat soaks through the sheets.

If she is Sisyphus, doomed to reach this peak again and again for the rest of her life only to tumble back into the bed with a crash and a bang - well, Mags is more than happy to endure it, as long as she can fall in their arms. 

It isn’t until dawn, when they’re laughing until they cry over a burned batch of French toast, that Mags realizes she feels like a part of their history. 

Not bad for a first night.