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Sex is absurd.

Instinct makes sense, at least. Procreation. We wouldn't be here if evolution hadn't pushed us this far down the path of wanting so desperately for something to survive of us. But sex? Sex isn't procreation anymore. Maybe it never was. As soon as we gained intelligence as a group, sex got bigger. Sex became more. Sex became the limits of what everyone decided you couldn't do. It became what just the both of you wanted.

It got maddeningly emotional in every way.

It doesn't actually matter how it all started, though. I'm just waxing poetic as best I can. I just want to figure out why it matters so much now, the little parts outside the humping or the kissing or the sleeping by each other's side after the act is finished.

Why aren't they only little parts? Why is it so important for some people to control, or hold, or choke, or push, or kneel? Why are there any other needs besides love when it comes to lovemaking?

Why does it have to matter to me, specifically? To Harley?

And why the hell does it matter to anyone else what we do about it?

When you're not in the mood right that minute, sex is fucked up. And yet I'm in the mood every moment I see her. I don't know if that's romantic anymore. Makes more sense if it's just evolution's practical joke on me.

What do you think, Clover?

And Clover hardly blinks at me. It's her last day with us here, and it seems to me she's not sentimental about it. Not that she knows what any of my signs mean. Not that she can even see half of them in this dimness.

It's not only me and Clover in the barn right now, but none of the Miltanks with us give me a second look. Harley's out getting soaked in the bad way, rounding up the rest of the queens before the storm gets any worse out there. Not too many of the queens have to be rounded up in the first place to skedaddle into the barn with us at the first drop of rain, but some of them don't mind getting a little wet. Doreen, Joshua, and Harley have to mind for them, apparently.

Rain, I like. It's pretty. All the bigger drops coalescing and spilling off the top of the barn doors—the rude part of me likes how much it scares some other people, just a little water.

Not that I'd ever go out in that shit. I try not to get wet from rain.

The sky lights up a perfect split second for me to see it all at once, yellow and blue streaking over an even brighter black canvas. A crash only nature can bring echoes through all the little bit of water and gives us a special show. Clover watches, too, and without neighing or bucking, I think we found some feeling we have in common.

Another Miltank strolls inside the barn at her own pace after the dim sky comes again, Harley clambering in behind her. A little bit of water dripping down every point of themselves, the queen still chewing bent blades of wild grass, only Harley bent at the hips, gasping, wiping her face off with a sleeve no dryer.

I'd bend her at the knees if she'd have me right now.

Sorry, you.

“Christ in a basket," Harley breathes. “It just had to get fuckin' harder when I'm the one outside, didn't it?"

Doreen and Joshua, don't you know, left the last of the rounding to her.

Straightening back up to squeeze out her ponytail, Harley says, “How's Clover? You good there, girl?"

I amble out the way of a queen who cares equally little about me and say, Dry and warm. We were just starting to get along.

“Dry and warm…" Harley mutters, tramping around her latest liege. She smiles at Clover, to say, “Don't look like Rosalie's goin' make it today. You want us to keep you company some?"

Clover keeps the same sharp gaze on us, from Harley, down to me, then away just as quick. She has no remarks for us.

I hope she's not always so scared of everyone.

Harley thumps onto the straw beside me in front of Clover's stall, crossing her legs and leaning her oh fuck goddammit—her wet hair all over my shoulder, then hugging me closer so we have to suffer her pain together. Now she grins at me.

“You two still ain't talked any?" she says, her tone a kind of wispy somewhere between concern and seduction.

I've got plenty to say to her, I sign a little cramped. She's got nothing to say to me.

Harley pats me twice and releases me, but signs, You think she maybe came from wild generations? Maybe she really can't understand us.

I take a pause in stroking dry my fur. 'Wild generations' just means stupid to the people who believe in that difference between where you're born.

So I shake my head, No.

We get another crash of thunder and half the queens nearly hit the deck in their pens or where they wander, but it's the lightning that gets me this time. The figure of a giant stands at our doors through the flash.

I don't know how long she's been there.

She takes one horrifying boot step inside the barn, and she says, “Nice. How's that for a dramatic entrance?"

And Harley only turns and stutters, “Oh, uh, hi, Rosalie."

“Good morning, Harley. Good morning, Apollo," is all the more Rosalie says. She looks on just as quick past us and says, “And good morning, Clover. How are you feeling about all this rain, huh?"

Every corner of her drips like a showerhead just shut off, but Rosalie just sticks out her elbows and folds her arms one over the other, smiling bigger than my entire head. And Clover doesn't make a noise, but she shakes her mane back at the human.

“How did you, uh, get here?" Harley says, pushing herself back off the straw.

Rosalie strolls right by the queens and edges past Harley the same, just saying, “I rode."

“Isn't that—dangerous?"

“Riding a motorcycle is always dangerous," Rosalie says, reaching Clover with a petting under her chin. “But it was more dangerous today, yeah. I rode slowly. Clover and I still have a lot of work to do before we start at the Hendersons' tomorrow, and I couldn't just skip out of it while she's stuck in here."

I see Harley tuck her hands behind her back, tapping the toe of one boot behind the other, her saying, “Oh. Right. You need us two to clear out of here, or—?"

And Rosalie snaps just the lead rope to Clover's halter, opening her pen, barely glancing back at Harley to say, “You're fine where you are."

“Christ, you're goin' be training out in that shit?" Harley says. “Can't you just do a little in here today?"

Rosalie pokes up her brow at Clover. “Do you mind a little rain?"

And Clover whinnies outright, talking back the most we've ever seen, clopping one more step away from her pen.

So Rosalie shrugs back at Harley. “She doesn't mind."

Ever since their first day together, Clover's never even pulled away from Rosalie. Tied up every day around her whole face, and it makes me wonder if Clover's got the same kink as Harley, or if she and her trainer already met in another life.

But Rosalie just tugs free a coiled little umbrella from the strap of her satchel, slinking the pole loose and flapping it open over Clover, smiling back to only Harley.

“We'll be fine. You just keep your bessies comfortable in here."

A woman that big is about all who the queens get out the way for in a hurry, same as Harley already did. Now Harley just watches her go, still tucked out of the way, no more objections.

I was out of the way from the beginning, apparently.

Lunch. Floor. Dog food. You heard this one before?

At least I can brush the crumbs off my chin as free as I like. The rest of the crowd in here pays attention to either reading the paper or looking out the window. Lewis—constant, ever-present Lewis—pokes his attention out beside Harley, both of them watching mostly rain pattering in front of their faces.

“It's professional of her, I guess," he says, dumb fucking camera left in its fancy-pants bag behind him on the table. “And it's a good sign, right? That's a good accord she must have with Clover if she's willing to follow her out like that."

Doreen and Joshua, too old for giving a shit about the world right around them, are the ones sitting down, drinking their coffee, reading faraway news. Joshua's the one who says, “How's that thing's mane stay alight out there, anyhow?"

“Prolly the same way she stays alight and alive at the same time," Harley says.

“Never liked them horses," Joshua mutters then. “Ain't nat-chrul."

Harley leans back and points her hand plain out the window, gesturing with her brow, too. She says, “It is happening. Clearly, it is nat-chrul."

It's not strange anymore, being the only one who doesn't get to join a conversation or laugh with the rest. It used to be, didn't it? I used to be a kid, too, back when I thought I was already everyone's equal.

Now it just feels like whining, even to me.

“Don't make fun of your uncle," Doreen chuckles for the room. “You'll get to be our age one day, and you won't feel so snappy then."

“I know," Harley mutters. “Pray for me."

Doreen looks better up from her section of the newspaper and says, “Lewis, are you still going to be able to get home all right?"

“Oh, yes ma'am," Lewis slavers. I mean says. “The tractor won't have a problem rolling through this. I don't mind getting a little wet again."

“Oh, yeah, you'd just be heartbroke if the road flooded, wouldn't you?" Harley says, crossing back her arms.

Lewis pulls back from the window and shrugs like he thinks he looks funny in a good way, saying, “I have no idea what you're talking about."

“Lewis," Doreen's the one to say, “not even I will sit here and pretend this whole room doesn't understand your infatuation with my niece. Will you be able to get home all right?"

This whole room. She doesn't even know she really means it.

But Lewis still smiles, because as much of a stupid dipshit as he is, he's not completely oblivious.

“I'll be fine. The road can't flood between us and you," he says. “I'd be more worried about Miss Rosalie's route, to be honest."

“Don't you be worried about her," Doreen says, taking a quick sip. “She's actually welcome to stay the night with us."

Harley grins through restraining a giggle that Doreen has no struggle against. Lewis just coos, “Oh, Missus O'Pine, you're the coldest one of all."

“I was once your age, too," is all Doreen quips to that.

“But," Lewis says anyway, “despite any other reasons, you can believe I'm here for Clover right now. I want her to know she can count on me when she needs to. Ronnie'll need the help being her friend, too, before I'm gone next semester."

“Bein' her friend long as you're warm and dry," Harley drawls.

Now Lewis gets this indignant sort of look that he can only pretend he's faking, and he points out the window and says, “You want me to go out there right now, prove myself? I'll do it. You just tell me to go on out there and I'll do it."

Harley finally steps back toward me, edging away from the window, still smiling toward Lewis. She says, “I don't need you proving yourself, but I sure would like to see that."

Lewis folds his arms tighter and huffs, “You want me to go out there or not?"

Harley drops the little nicety in her tone.

“Lewis, I ain't really give a shit."

He pulls his arms apart just as quick, stamping them akimbo.

“Feel like my honor has been encroached upon," he mutters, tilting his noggin back toward the window. Then his tone lightens as he points out again, saying, “Actually—I think she's got the same kind of umbrella as me. That's a good brand. She's a smart shopper."

And then I swear to their god the earth trembles underneath this whole house.

No, I mean literally—Harley nearly topples, the table scrapes some inches over the tiles, and there's some kind of boom just outside. All the windows shake at once, just for a second, and for just that second I think they'll implode.

And I know what the hell implode means.

Joshua's the one who shoves himself up from the table first, shrieking, “Christ! Is everybody all right? Is anybody hurt? Sound off!"

“Oh, my God," Lewis says, shoved up beside the window, still peering out. “I think Rosalie did that."

Harley does not sound off. She bounds for the door. Goddammit, I follow her.

The storm's splashed every goddamn square inch out here into mud that I will not ever get out of my coat, but it's past the splashing I look as Harley and I run alongside each other in a mutual fucking mess—Rosalie's still in the middle of the yard holding Clover's rope tight, the neither of them perturbed at the sight of a—

A canyon. Struck straight down all the way to the road, cratered earth gaping full of rainwater pouring down the sides of this fissure.

And Rosalie just glances back at us as we reach her, and she says, “Sorry about that. I didn't think about how it'd feel inside."

“How what the fuck is that?" Harley bellows, half her voice cut out of over the water.

Doreen tromps out behind us with Lewis and his umbrella, but not Joshua. Her expression's screwed tighter than usual. She takes one look from the fissure to Rosalie, but she just says, “What happened? Are you two all right?"

Clover's even calmer than Rosalie as the latter wipes pink strands off her forehead, saying, “There was—more water than I've ever seen coming down your gully all at once, headed straight toward the road. It was about to flood all over, cut you off from town."

Doreen breathes again, setting a hand over her chest and sighing, “How did you even do this?"

Rosalie shakes her head and motions to the starting end of the fissure. “Jojo managed it for me."

A Diglett, nearly the smallest little person in the world, is who pokes his head out from the wet dirt at the end of the fissure, nothing but big beady eyes and the blankest expression of all staring back at us.

“God," Doreen says, talking for Lewis, too, by his continued breathless look. “I appreciate you thinking so fast, but if it's this bad here, it's already flooded much worse another mile down the road. Now I'm more concerned about this new hazard."

Rosalie just looks at her canyon again and says, “Oh."

“Christ..." Harley mutters within reach of only my ear. She still looks down the whole thing, hands on her knees, hair splayed down her shoulders, staring back and forth at what can only be described as… really, just being in control of some incredible power.

Beyond everything else I've called it already.

But Rosalie settles a control in her own voice again as she lifts an arm and ushers us back, saying, “All right, careful here. Just stand back. Jojo, close it up for us, please!"

There's hardly a second between Jojo's blinking and a dangerous kind of look overtaking his face. He strains underground and the earth before us crashes back together, cascading us in a miniature wave of goddamn mud, flattening his work all over again just as sudden as I can believe.

“Now come on back in, buddy," Rosalie says, pulling the pouch of her satchel open.

It's just dirt inside. Still mostly dry. She's been carrying a habitat over her shoulder this whole time. Jojo blinks at her, then bolts under the earth and back up out of it in the same sort of leap, basically just flying into Rosalie's satchel before she clasps the top shut for him again.

And Rosalie holds her satchel steady as she sets her other hand against her side, lowering her umbrella, and... bowing, basically, to Doreen.

“I apologize for the trouble," Rosalie says a little loud, maybe just to be heard well enough over the rain, but definitely a little formal enough to creep out even Doreen. “I didn't stop to think how my instructions to Jojo might affect you and your family. It was his effort, but my idea he carried out. Please forgive us."

Even Clover kind of trots in place beside her, though maybe from getting wetter without any cover. If this is what city girls are like now, I was wrong for what I said to Harley.

“It's fine, Rosalie," Doreen says, though only as she sets her hands over her hips. “There's just one thing you can do for us to make up for it."

Rosalie lifts herself straight. “What would that be?"

Doreen kind of frowns politely. “Stay the night. Don't go trying to ride back to your hotel in this weather."

“I wouldn't want to make any more trouble—"

“It's far less trouble than you dying out on the road," Doreen says. “If you really mean to apologize, don't argue with me. Just let us keep you safe for a night."

Rosalie smiles again, the same kind of big grin I think's won over everyone else already. It's like the rain avoids her face completely even as the rest of us get soaked, and she just glows. Even Harley, even out in this shit, soaked again—I see her boots tip one behind the other, one hip thrust careful to the side like in case Rosalie notices her, too.

I guess my waterlogged ass isn't worth checking on compared to that.

You ever feel like the whole point of having a bedroom is just having a place where you get to act like yourself, no matter what, but you only realize it when you can't act like that anymore?

I don't care if you don't. It's how I feel. I've seen the way Harley looks at Rosalie. Every single time, the same look.

I am jealous as hell and I can't dare say it because it's only stupid.

Harley's leaning over a towel on our bed and she's still looking out the window because Rosalie is still out there, faking her training with Clover the same as she's done four days now, fleecing the goddamn Hendersons, but they deserve it anyway, so why am I even angry about that?

This isn't some kind of righteous anger. I know. It's the kind that's taken over all the pent-up rest.

“Shouldn't have called her lazy," is what Harley mutters. “That's just dedication. Just wish we knew what they're up to down there."

My own towel has only cleaned most of the mud out of my fur. I'm still wet. Should I care? Harley doesn't.

I stamp the floor to catch her attention for once more, at least, today. I ask her, So, do you want to get some work done on the applications now?

She just glances at me and I swear she actually says, “Oh, the college applications?"

Yes, the college applications.

And she looks back out the goddamn window.

“I don't think we should go."

That's what she says. That's what she has to say about it by now?

“I'm already more 'an a year late, and… that ain't really our environment, anyway, I'm thinking. We're as comfortable as we can get here, right?"

That's really what she says, not even looking me in the eye.

“I just don't think they got any room anywhere for people like us, Apollo."

The argument crosses my mind whether to communicate what I want for me and her both and to explain how I feel about what she's said, to discuss this reasonably with her, to hug it out, or to just give her all she fucking wants right now.

So my towel goes over my shoulder and I stamp the floor harder. Harley looks at me again, and she looks me in the goddamn eye this time as I tell her something firm.

Then get on the floor.

Her brow goes up and the beginnings of a grin reach her lips, not mine. She sets her hands over the edge of the bed and eases herself down, leaning against the sheets and the towel, her hair still wet and hanging over all the fabric and waiting for me.

This is what she's given for me to take.

And I will.

She presses her knees lower at my approach, but my paws shove only her wrists against the bed. I shove my lips over hers and take them. I hold her against her towel and steal every breath I like and keep her tight, tighter than she can move out of my grasp, mine alone—and she laps at my tongue, my teeth, my flesh, like she wants me again. She tastes me, and I know I'll make her want more than she can bear.

Her fingers curl. Her arm tries at pulling away from me and I squeeze it back into her place beneath me.

This is that moment I will lay into her mind forever. She will remember my goddamn name above all.

I pull away from her, leaving her tongue dangling wet down her filthy lips. Let me just watch how she sees me now. Let her look my eyes up and down, gaze back into my control, let her know that she's back in her cage.

She pushes her chest toward mine, still trying to touch me more, still meeting my gaze high above hers.

“Let me take it off for you," she whispers, rubbing me, freckles bouncing in her very eyes. “They're all yours, Sir. Please take all of me."

I release her arms, growling for the words I can't just speak while my paws are busy—I reach for her jeans and tear the buttons open, just the buttons—and I tell Harley, Turn around. Now.

Her eyes fall to herself, lift back to me, and there's a greater pout in her gaze than I like.

Turn around.

Finally she obeys by slipping one knee over the other and bending back toward the bed. My paws find her pants again and I yank them down from what's mine. She tastes my touch again. She feels me. I see the shiver reach her spine deep inside.

I brush her own fire out from my way and taste her nape, brush my tongue and my teeth over her skin—hold her down, keep her compromised, let her gasps escape now as I rear up to her.

As comfortable as we can get here? I'm about to be, at least.

Give me just the littlest bit of room in her ass and I will take the rest, I swear.

And I do.

My thrust comes in one go, and Harley's the one to taste it much deeper. She moans for me in the most difficult way, the way I demand from her with every further thrust, every inch penetrated. I hold her arms back from clasping her own mouth closed, so she bites the towel. Now I taste the muffled cries in her throat.

She knows who's inside her. She knows I'm the only one who can do this to her. She remembers well the feelings only I, just me, no one but Apollo, her goddamn Sir and her master, can fucking pump into her.

This is her domination.

Isn't this all she wants?

Isn't every little thump—every pound I'm the one to force into her—every wet, tight sucking of my cock she takes into her ass—isn't this what I'm still good for?

Can't I be the one to fuck her until she's sopping with juices and tears and sweat and my cum, just mine—mine—can't I be the only one whose arms she wants wrapped around her until she's just—goddamn—filled—?

Just—

Just me, please…

She doesn't deserve anyone else using her as bad as I just have.

Goddammit.

She's the only person in the world I have, and I treat her like an actual rag as soon as I'm angry and she'll let me. Not even Clover will talk to me, and she'll be gone tomorrow anyway.

Harley drops the towel out her mouth and pants back toward me, her arms dropped out from my paws, and she's the one who presses her hand back up to my shameful cheek. When she looks me in the eye again, I can only say one thing to her.

I'm sorry.

I don't know how she musters it, but Harley kisses me. I see the disappointment in her eyes even through her touch. She caresses me despite herself. Despite me. All the difficulties I've endured, but only pitifully compared to her grace now in how small I really am.

“What are you talkin' about?" is what she mutters. “You did great."