Rock Out Shake Up

"We're throwing a block party," I say over a bowl of strawberry oatmeal.

Dad glances from the window and down to his tablet. There are very important emails on that tablet that he has been ignoring and will continue to ignore.

"Alright," he says, "We're throwing a block party. I'll let the guys know."

He types something on the pull out keyboard. I go back to my bowl and take another bite. The berries are fresh from the Polts two doors down. They burst between my teeth and I'm done. Like the responsible adult I am, I stand and take my bowl to the sink. I do not rinse it because I am not perfect. There are other, more responsible, adulter adults that are still interested in taking care of me.

It does hit me that there should be bit more push back. That's just how parents are. That's just how kids are. It should be a fight. It never was, no matter what I asked. I was denied a wolf. I was granted a tattoo. They were both discussions, pros and cons, and always met in an acceptable middle. No fights, no groundings, no hitting, just paths and guidance, a firm jerk of the steering wheel at worst.

I get a glass of water and stare into the back yard. There's mom's little hideaway in the corner, next to the rain garden. There's the vegetable patch with heavy tomatoes threatening to drop. I bite the inside of my cheek at the next part. Mom and mama are bending and flexing, saluting the sun, downwarding the dogs, and just generally twisting themselves into knots for their better health. Dad goes back to staring at them, hips raised, head low, and I push all the things I know about this family out of my mind.

There's a ruckus above me and that means Maty is finally up. Dad perks up too. This is all something we've built. That's the core of this. The house, the yard, the shed, Victor's trailer out in the mountains, whatever hotel room Trisha has claimed, all of those are pieces to the greater whole. Even our work, that is another strut to support both ourselves and everyone else around us. We built this.

"Has work been quiet?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say, "that show the other night just got a little rough."

"You were saying that. Couple of the town halls have gotten a bit heated too."

"School budgets?"

"That, and more police union stuff. They're asking for some expensive toys."

"They already have some pretty expensive toys."

"That they do, but I think a block party's going to be a fun reminder about some of their other options."

"If you say so. I just want to play another show."

He huffs and smiles, not breaking his gaze from mom and mama. I turn away so I can just keep blotting that out.

Maty comes down the stairs, yawning wide with Ruslana darting between her legs. The dog breaks away and finds dad, sitting dutifully at his side and begging for whatever he has. The table has good food and she wants good food. She just gets a good set of scritches behind the ear. That appeases her for the moment. Maty focuses on the backyard and what my other parents are showing off.

"Rache," dad says, "we're doing a block party."

She perks up from the display in the backyard before letting a smile grow up from her chest. It's a subtle thing, the way she stands straighter, digs her heels in, clenches a fist. She runs the idea through her head and savors the fact that something will break the world for an evening. Her shoulders are nice and square, looking at her partners with sharp teeth catching her lips.

"Good," she says.

She saunters over to dad and folds him into her, nice and tight. I focus on the clouds. I don't know where their hands are going and I don't want to know.

"Morning, by the way," Maty says as she finally breaks from dad and collapses onto the couch, "You have everything you need for work?"

"Yeah," I say. I am only half at attention. The rest of me is already go through the motions of what we're going to play.

"Someone's excited," dad says.

"Of course Ash is excited," says Maty, "It's a block party. I'm excited just saying the word."

Mom and mama reach up one last time and are at one with the universe. I am hitting a rhythm on the counter with my finger and I want to say goodbye to them before I'm off. They hug because that's what our family does. That's what everyone is supposed do every waking moment of every day. We don't because we lie to one another that there are other things to do.

My phone buzzes and that means Nathan is opening the shop and I am not there to help. I was not technically scheduled to do that, but it would be nice if I was and the rest of the co-op will know about this and judge me. I ignore it. I have parents to hug and they are not here where I can hug them.

Maty beats me to the punch. They're beautifully sore, tinged with grass stains and Maty does not care. They are in her arms, one not even coming up to her chest with thick dreads down her shoulders, the other almost as tall as her with fiery red hair. Dad recognizes the moment and slowly gets up, shutting down all his distractions and joining in. Together, they are locked and held, impenetrably strong.

"Ash, come here," says Maty. I do as she says because she is right and this is what we are supposed to build. I slip in between her and dad and we are all together as we can be with two missing pieces. One's still in the mountains, but he said he's coming back. The other's on the road, but she should be back soon and she'll bring the part she's added to all this. I miss both of them so much. It's a shame they can't help with this.

"We're doing a block party," I say to the huddled mass.

Another wave hits us all. We're doing this. We've done this before. Mama almost starts vibrating once she realizes that we're going to do it. Mom recenters. She's tired. There's probably a good amount of soreness she has to work through. She will be the friendly weight grounding us in the river so that we don't get carried into the rapids.

"I'll get the garden club on board," says Mama, "Troy, we're dancing."

Mom's quiet. She's running numbers and time tables and all the nitty gritty boring stuff that we don't want to do, but probably should. She likes what she comes up with and that's going to be something practical. We have the tools and knowledge and a nourishing root system spreading out into world at large.

Dad's the one the break the beautiful huddle. His tablet yells at him that someone is trying to talk to him. He squeezes us all because he loves each and everyone of us. Mom gives me a kiss on the cheek before she starts to go about her day. Mama has to leap up to do the same.

It's just me and Maty left. It usually is and we wouldn't have it any other way.

"I'll let work know about this," she says.

"Same," I say, "do you want me to bring anything back?"

"Saoirse could use some more coffee if there's any on the shelves. And some croissants. And some of those chocolate rolls."

"I'll just bring home the whole bakery then."

"Please. Have a good day, sweetie. I love you."

"Love you too, Maty."

---

I can walk to work. Dad can't do that. Maty can't do that. Mom can, just because she works in her little shed doing what I think is just magic. This conundrum doesn't apply to Mama, because she has a tomato patch which is much more important than any paycheck.

I can walk to work, down a few blocks of suburban homes slowly being reclaimed by a creep of intentional rewilding. I like to think that my parents had a good bit of push on that, but I'm also pretty sure there was a tax credit to help conserve water. A few of the more stubborn one keep the work going, keep the grass green and short and ruin it for the rest of us. Eventually, the lawns turn into a more utilitarian sort, an auto shop that dabbles in smaller repairs as well, a smoke shop that has changed signs and owners more times than I can count, a tattoo parlor, a bar and finally my work. Everything's brick and worn with stapled on conveniences that came with time. Everything here has just witnessed a long stretch of mundane history that is only a fun little anecdote. The lamp post outside has not protected its stickers that well. Most of them are scratched off.

Rise & Shine sits on a corner, a set of iron lace tables accompanied by the same type of chairs outside, a smeary sunrise painted on the windows with an artist's hand. The sign outside still says closed, even though the hours say we should be open. I do my duty to actually flip it over and make sure the good people know.

"You fucking suck," Nathan says as he finishes doing all the good work.

"I had to say goodbye to my parents," I shrug. I hop the counter and set my bag down, get myself situated. I was going to get a tray of mugs going, but he's already done that. I was going to write today's roasts on the blackboard, but he did that too. The brewer's already have their first batch done, bakery stuff's already in the case. We're just waiting for the world to wake up with us, blearily ask us for a cup of coffee and a treat so they can face the drudgery of their lives.

"Ash, if you're going to come in late, give me a better excuse than that."

"I have four parents. It takes a while. I can't play favorites. And you know Olivia doesn't care. You can come in late too."

"I could. But I don't. And whether or not Olivia cares does not impact whether I care. Just for that, you're dealing with the delivery guys when they come in."

"I do that anyway. I like the delivery guys. Even if they're late sometimes."

Poor, poor Nathan sighs and hates the fact that we are temporally locked together. He shouldn't. I'm a treat. He pinches the bridge of his nose and plays with a barbel in his eyebrow. That turns to a hand scratching the thin stubble across his scalp. He loves me. Everyone loves me.

I love this little cafe too. There's a succulent wall that's a bit overgrown, behind a set of mismatched tables and chairs. Another wall is covered in flags, colorful, political, antagonistic and welcoming, for anything I can think of, with a low couch for putting tried feet up. In front of me is the counter, all important and all encompassing. It's an eclectic place, slowly built up as an identity brick by brick over the years. Flyers on the walls for bands and notices, a schedule of town hall meetings, calls for park clean ups, the odd children's drawing, every inch of the place has a purpose a million times over. The only advertisement is a small flyer, canary yellow, for Taskmasters Moving and Logistics Company, a garish cartoon man with a tall hat riding a whirlwind.

I start tapping my fingers against the register, simple and slow. The rhythm is in my head and Nathan's in the back, making sure that everything is perfectly stocked. It is. It always is. Olivia is good at her job, and the roots spread out from here make sure that we every part is always nourished. The donut shop down the street certainly helps.

"Did everyone get out ok?" Nathan asks after we all settle into our rolls, "Wyatt said the last show got a little heated."

"Yeah," I say, "Or I think so. Band's ok. I don't think anyone got nabbed for too long. We're throwing a block party soon."

All that hate just kind of bubbles away with that little announcement.

"God dammit," he sighs, "That's a late shift. And you're going to make me lug your amps up to the roof."

"I don't make you do anything. I just ask very nicely when Olivia's around and you seem to do whatever she wants you to do, despite the fact that you can say no here and you can actually do something else if you think it would help."

"That's the rub. I do think you help. You just have a knack of being kind of a brute about it. You are a strong arm that I have to deal with because I work with you."

He sighs and shakes his head. The street outside gently comes alive. Cars, mostly, a few of the lucky ones walking, all pass us by. None of them come through. I tap my fingers against the counter and consider changing tactics. They should be in here, discussing ideas, relaxing, flirting. But they aren't.

"Stop it," Nathan says, "You are not enacting an Ash plan to get more people inside. Take the slow morning. Keep talking about bullshit with me. Which one are you taking home after the party? Please not Wyatt."

"Not good on planning ahead. All of them. None of them. Some of them. They'll sort themselves out or maybe I'll find someone there. Or you. I'd be down. I like the piercings. I've told you I like the piercings."

"Nope. Another one of the rules I like is no dating coworkers. I can barely stand a shift with you. I couldn't even imagine a night."

"Your loss. You don't know what you're missing. I'm very, very good."

"So I've heard. But no. Just let us do the shift and have the most boring conversations and maybe serve some idiots some coffee."

The bell above the door chimes and we get to serve a handful of said idiots. I am at attention, customer service smile carved onto my face and placidly obedient. Nathan is hiding in the back, ready to take whatever the orders are and start them.

The grin falters when I register what they are. Cops, a trio of them, posturing and puffed up to dominate the space. They eye the flags, faces betraying nothing. We are all ice cold, waiting patiently for the words to make this entire interaction start.

"Hi," I say, "what can I get started for you?"

They say nothing, just posture a bit more. Nathan is still in the back, keeping everything in sight. He's near the phone in case something jumps. My pleasant smile doesn't falter when I notice that the one in the back has a good thick bandage on his nose. It wants to grow a bit wider, but that would give away the game too. I just wait for them to order whatever it is they want and we'll get on with our ways.

"Derek," says the one in front, thin mustache brushing against the words, "What did you say was good here?"

"The baklava," says the middle one, eyeing the display. Those are the day old ones. We're still waiting on the new batch to come in from across town. They don't need to know that. I'm just pleasantly making sure that my hands are visible and that Nathan is safe in the back room.

Mr. Broken Nose keeps locked on me. I can't see the eyes behind his shades, but I know that they are staring at me, trying to place me, trace whatever he think he sees in me again and again and again. I am slowly slotted together into something he doesn't like. His mouth turns to a hard line and nobody has ordered. They should order so they can leave and we can actually move on with our day. They are not doing that. These are cruel creatures, making sure that the moment is ground under there heel, twisting skin and flesh and bone into a fine pulp. I drum my fingers on the counter and they don't seem to like that.

"Do I know you," says Mr. Broken Nose. There's a stuffy echo to the words as they hit the shattered bone and bounce back down his throat. The impact of the other night runs up my shin. I could do it again. I wouldn't walk out the door alive, but I'd get one of them down at least.

"Don't know," I shrug, "I've worked here for a while but I don't think you've come by."

He doesn't like that answer for some reason. There is a missing amount of reverence to authority that I don't care to give. But this is also my shop, in the sense that this is the one where I work and the structure does fit a 'me' into the larger 'our.' Broken Nose steps forward and looks at me. I drum my fingers against the register.

"Stop that," he says. I do it one more time and then stop because I am a terrible person. His nose clicks as something in his neck twinges as he keeps staring at me.

"I know you," he says from behind those big scary lens.

"Yeah, I'm the barista," I say, "If you guys are having trouble deciding, we have a seasonal Honduran roast right now that our delivery guys like. We can also do nitro brew if you want something cold. And Derek was right. The baklava are good. You can also get them at Kahvehane on May Pole Drive across town. They also get our coffee."

"Peter," says poor Derek, "c'mon. Just get a coffee or something. Sorry about him. I'll do a medium Honduran black and a walnut baklava, please. Barry, what do you want?"

"Just the coffee," says Barry, "Peter, we gotta go. Either get something or don't."

"Where were you Saturday night?" Peter asks me. He must have the aftertaste of my boots between his gums. I can give that again while I figure out what lead tastes like.

"Hey Ash," Nathan calls out, "Can you tag out? Delivery guy's here. I can take care of the register."

"I'm sorry," I say, "I have to go handle the deliveries. Nathan can help you out."

The man in question slowly ekes forward from his brave hiding spot. He's got enough steel in his nerves to take this and I just walk away. Peter starts to call out until he sees the friend that Nathan brought in. I smile.

"Hey Lenny," I say as I get a friendly side hug.

Lenny's not the best hugger, but he is still decent at it. Most of it comes from the yellow shirt, sweat-stained and just a bit too tight over his heavy frame, with a cartoon man with a tall hat and whirlwind legs on it. The rest comes from the build, definitely indulgent to certain vices, but also indicative of a lot of hard work lifting and carrying and moving around. He scratches the stubble on his neck and cracks a lopsided grin.

"Morning officers," he says with a two finger salute, "Sorry, but I need the trouble maker to sign for the delivery. Go for the Honduran and the balaclavas. Fresh off the truck."

Peter starts again before Derek gently points out the Taskmaster flyer on the cork board. For such a funny little guy, there's a certain weight to him that can't be ignored.

---

"Cops came by work again," I sigh to an empty room. My feet hurt and my brain doesn't work. I was on all day and I can't think. I lay on my bed, stare at my ceiling, feel the ink of my posters slowly radiate numbing familiarity until dinner's ready.

"Fuck," says Maria, "Did they start anything?"

"No, but the guy I stomped showed up. I don't think he had me pinned but maybe. We'll see if I finally get shoved in a van after this."

The phone's on my stomach, gently rising and falling with my breath. The speakers drum against my skin as Maria sighs. Her shift's starting soon and it is our shared duty to help me wind down as we help her wind up. It's a raw spiritual transfer, a balancing of the energy scales. The bar will certainly need my boundless rage just as the coffee shop needs her driving annoyance.

"Don't joke about that," Maria huffs, "It's so hard to find a drummer that shows up on time."

"Glad to know my worth," I say, "It's not even my raw talent. It's my punctuality."

"Just the truth. I know you have a biological need to hit things. That's the carrot. The stick doesn't need to come into play."

"Drummers have two sticks though. That's twice the carrot. I think I'm getting a raw deal."

"No, you're just confusing me. No sticks. All carrots. You get to hit things and I don't have to put up flyers again and do a name change for the band. That's the relationship we have."

"We have more than that."

"We do, but I also have to get to work. So we'll play some other time."

"After the block party?"

"So that's happening then. Heard the murmurings, but good to know that it's an official move."

"Still some things to hammer out once the union gets involved and how we're going to set up. The police HQ redid their parking lot after last time, but the thinking is if we route through the two side streets that should get us our space."

"Whatever you say. On top of Rise & Shine again?"

"Of course. I don't know where else we could possibly be."

"Good. Good. Shame we can't do anything hard."

"It'll be good for us. Show our softer to the people. We can be among and of them. we are just a part of them as they are a part of us."

"Stop. I'll be fine. I'm already running through the set list. And I'm running later. See ya, Ash. I'll get word to Lisa and Wyatt if they don't already know. Love you."

"Love you too. Give 'em hell."

She huffs and that's the last bit of noise I get from my belly and it's done. I'm alone again with my thoughts, my posters, and my practice pads in the corner. There's something else in my core that I m slowly feeling out. Maria was there, right there and I can take it wherever I want.

I just put an arm over my eyes and sigh. It is definitely something I want and I am going to take it. There's enough out there for me and enough time to take it. I sigh. Dinner's going to be late, probably. Maty went in late and Dad usually likes to stay to make sure she doesn't get lonely. I'm just alone now and staring at a band poster full of jagged letters and harsh skulls. My attention drifts and I am on the next one. I like this one, even if it is a bit in excessive taste. A blonde woman in a red leather jacket with nothing else stands in front of an unknown mechanical contraption. Deep, deep cleavage draws me at first, but I always end up on the hand. One on her chin, almost playing with her lips, and a hand drifts off screen right to where her legs would be. She's lost in a pretend ecstasy and I can't help but think of all the things that could be there with me.

It's juvenile, sure, but it's perfect in it, designed for a brutish gaze that we all have. No one actually looks like that, no one should look like that, but I like the way this fantasy looks. I drum my fingers against my stomach, let the breathe cool over my lips. My hips shift and I keep staring at the walls. Someone starts a lawn mower off a few doors down and I bite my cheek. Pointless act really. It forces shallow roots on the grass, weakens the soil. You want nice deep roots to keep everything stable, variety in what comes up so all the bugs have whatever they need to carry off, hidey-holes for the furry things, a general mix so that every part has a counter part. The breath stops in my chest and I am going for it.

It's always better with a partner or two or three or ten. The need is still stated and I can't complain. I take in another deep breath and hold it tight. I stretch again, feel something give in my back, my shoulders, my knees. I am always so cramped up after a shift, even with all that time spent on my feet. Variety, I need variety in my day.

I don't even have to work my length. I'm already there, getting all tightened against my jeans. I need to wear something else. I need room to grow. I shift again and get all of me on the bed, springs bouncing a bit as I find the me shaped groove.

There's no show to anything of this as I get myself undressed. I toss my shirt to the corner pile near my hamper. I get my bracelets off next and on my night stand. I trace the ink on my arms, the angular wolf bleeding into a smear of forest on my side. The skin tingles with the memory of the needles. It all leads down to my waist.

My stomach flexes and tenses and I give that beautiful tension as a shape to overcome mountains. It's down my leg, thick and heavy and long. It's work, hard work to get all of me free. The stitches fight me. The bulge fights me. The button and the zipper both fight me, too tight, much too tight. I struggle with it, grimacing. I get the button free and the rest of the armor falls away with a bit more work. My length keeps fighting its own freedom. It doesn't understand that I am helping it. It wants to rip itself free and bask in its full glory and any hindrance to that needs to be destroyed. I agree with the sentiment, but I only have so many good pairs of jeans.

It's burning once it's free, hard and long, eager and brutal, standing straight and tall. I kick my pants away to join everything else near the hamper. I stretch again, eyeing my carnality with a self important awe. Wyatt's taken this. Maria's taken this. Lisa's seen this and just balked at the idea of anyone being able to take this. I am too much and I am not enough. I am something terrible and feral and designed to be as such. I raise my hips to make myself look that much bigger.

There's a set of unresponsive eyes on me from the dresser. A ratty stuffed wolf, older than I am but well cared for, survivor of many trips down the stairs and tumbles in the dryer, sits there in silent guardianship. Mr. Fangy judges me and my urges. He is understanding, but there is still a shame in the act that he does not approve of. I swing my legs off the bed and hide him in my closet so he doesn't see me.

I see me though, in the mirror behind the closet door. The ink draws my eye first. I want to add something there, more forests, maybe a stag or a snake, something under my breasts maybe. Those rise and fall with just a good amount of bounce. Those I like as well. I am a being of raw contrasts, wide shoulders, defined arms, round, soft hips, all of me carved and worked and knotted to what I am. I flex and make my length bounce. My thighs tense with it and that is another part of me made thick and strong.

My hands go to my length and even both can't quite cover it. I am big. I am monstrous. I am an intimidating climb for the most seasoned veterans to simply cower under. Mr. Fangy keeps his disapproving gaze fixed on me and my ego stroking. I shut him shadow and he shall bother me no more.

I saunter over to my bed again and drag my pillow under me. My hands never work right. I need to get my whole body into the act. I press against the pillow and start rolling my hips. My length presses into my stomach and the heat bounds and rebounds back into my body. I sit there and feel it, propped up on my forearms. My core tightens and I am flooded with raw heat. It is all for this purpose, all I am and all I do. I breathe out and let go.

I start slowly, eyes gently closed as i saw back and forth to give myself something like the urge. I keep it gentle. Nothing wants to break right now. Nothing wants to bend. I keep moving, keeping my eyes trained on the mostly naked woman hanging on my walls. She's practiced. She knows what this is, as self indulgent as can be. I know that this is nothing more than a personal fulfillment, using and being sues by my urges because I have nothing better to do. In and out, or at least its counterpart, side to side, making sure that I have an arrangement to my liking. I work. I work my body and feel the urge rise in me. I breathe deep and just work.

It's mindless. It really is, lost to my own thoughts and an indistinct shape of my desires. It is warm. It is tight. It is endlessly strong against me. I batter into it, feel my length rub up against my stomach and reach to my chest. I can fit my length between my breasts if I try, but I prefer this. I prefer the act, the facsimile of what we are trying to do with everyone all the time. I thrust against the pillow and the silky case traces my shape.

The weight sinks into the pillow, even it the moment. It is reckless and stupid. My parents have to know. They know what I do. They are doing the same thing against one another every hour of every day. It's what we are. It's what we're meant to do. I close my eyes and give myself over the indistinct ride of what I want.

I want bodies, strong bodies to grind myself against, to feel the give and take of strength as we break each other down. My length twitches hard and a puddle of my pressed stains the pillow. I don't care. It's all primal marking for my own purposes. I put more of my strength into the act and the bed moves with me, softly creaking in protest. I ignore it. We all have thick walls and thick doors. The installed soundproofing to counter act my drumming has been such a godsend for this. I just rut against the pillow as more of my length hardens into brutality.

Heat so much heat, hips raised and legs tensed and flexed. I feel the work start to slip into more of my body. My arms start to burn with my weigh in such a sweet way. I keep going harder. Indistinct shapes, chests, hips, thighs, stomachs, arms, drifting forms designed to worship me. There is Wyatt with his own decorative bits of metal and pain on his face. He can keep up with this, take and give it just as well. That's what I love. As much as I tear, there is another bit of weight to orbit and play. He is intimidating and smug, basking in his own power with mine. There is a sneer in there as well, goading me on because I am not enough. I go slower, elongating the motions so that the dream know what I am capable of. I sigh and open my eyes again, gazing at my bed posts and slowly come back to this.

There's a mass of my preseed slowly spilling up my stomach and along my chest. The pillow case is saturated and I don't care. I have more. We have invested in an industrial washing machine. All of this is wiped away and I don't care what happens next. I slow and keep everything shallow. I just sit in my silence. As far as I know, I am still alone in the house. Mama has her garden parties to attend to and Mom is still in her shed, entertaining whatever phantoms inhabit the far side of the screen.

I discard the pillow and flop onto my back. A slight chill hits me and there is something else to fight. The heat In my core rebounds and enters my length In a hard throb. A thin line of heavy preseed lands on my chin and smile. A beautiful trick, lost on my lack of audience, all of my body slick with my prerelease and the flow slowly beading down my length. My hands come into back, both stacked and incapable of doing anything other than showing the world I have so much to give. I raise my hips and let my length slip through my grip. I drop them and the sensations return. I am rewarded with another long pulse of preseed down on to my chest. I rub it into my breasts and feel the heat enter my heartbeat. I grunt and thrust, running my hips ragged. My thighs burn and I do not care about the pain. I keep the seal tight and the motion swift. I move and I savor the touch I give.

I still miss a companion. The phantoms in my head shift away from Wyatt and the hard lines of his body. The shapes morph and I am left with something softer. Maria forms for me, having her favored war paint for our shows at first. It slowly melts away until I am left her fresh faced and bare. She's smirking at me and my complete loss of self. The ghost is no better, naked, darkened skin playing against mine, the heat of her breasts pressed against mine. Her thighs envelope m length as it spires against her back. There is no true substitution to her actual presence, especially when she is doing this with her actual body, her actual heat. She is so soft, toned in her own way, but built for something different.

The flow of preseed keeps spilling against my chest, pooling across my breasts and flooding my sheets. I don't care. It's nothing more than a distraction and that's all I am. I am made for this. I am made for giving this and receiving this, rending down the rules around me so that everyone can see their farce. I keep thrusting my hips and I move my hands in time. The length is red and furious, needing more and more and more. I have given it more than everything I have an it will sate me fore a few hours before I slip back into feral need. It will never be enough.

Something twinges in my core and the phantom of Maria kisses my ear and goads me to impress her. It won't. She isn't here, as much as I wish it. I widen my stance on the bed, arch my back and slam my hands to my base. So, so much is now free and that's all I ever wanted. My breathe catches and holds and I feel everything in me collapse to a single point.

The first pulse comes hard and heavy and long, slowly wiping away anything else. Long, thick ropes of my seed coat my chest and pool on my stomach. It's warm. It's so warm, I slips been my breasts, paints over my ink and bleeds into my core. So much, I have so much to give in me and it will never run dry. I am vast and infinite, crashing against the walls of my cage until the bars are bent open. I keep stroking, keep the first pulse hard and tense. It rocks through my entire body, pulling ever ounce of strength I have through gritted teeth and hissed breath. It reaches my chin and the rest pauses for a moment.

The next one starts, just has heavy. I lower my hips and setting into the weight of my body. The next pulse hits my stomach after a long flight towards my ceiling. I feel every impact against my skin. There's so much, so thick, so heavy. I breathe through it, relaxing every thing I can so the tense power of my body is in the rhythm. It's slow, so incredibly slow, so much of me is in the march of my body and my visceral needs. There is so much and I am inexhaustible. I feel more of my seed flow across my chest and ricochet though the rest of my body. It's what I'm made for. It's what everyone is made for.

The third, the fourth, the tenth, the millionth, I've lost count and I don't care. I want to give more and there is more in me. The flow keeps spreading and I am laden down with an infinite ocean of my seed. It should be shared. It should be spread. There is nothing here but me and the phantoms I conjure and the images on the wall. They are happy to receive it all, but they can't hold it. It keeps pulsing from me and I am just lost the white behind my thoughts and the heat in my core. I throb again and I hear the heavy seed land against my stomach like a bass drum. It's not enough. It's never enough. Another shot rips through me and I am slowly becoming empty.

There are no minutes, no hours, no time vast enough to leave me spent. But there is still an end to this round so I can just start again. The shots no longer reach my entire body, slowly growing weaker. The pool still grows and I let the bridge go. I collapse on my bed and breathe through it, nice and calm, forcing my strength to unwind and break down into a calm tempo of pulse and release. There is more in me and it can wait. I'm hungry. I'm tired. I have another shift tomorrow and I want to get some band time again and run down the set before the show. For now, I bask in my unsated lust and threaten the universe with violence if it doesn't provide with a harem in the next five seconds. My erection throbs in agreement. I get none of that so I guess I'll have to end the world as recompense. It instead responds with a gentle knocking at my door.

"Ash, honey," calls, Mama, "If you're done, can you help me bring in the tomatoes before Dad and Maty get home?"

"Yeah," I shout back, just to make sure it gets through the door, "Give me a sec."

"Take your time. I think they're picking up pizza so text them what you want."

A soft pattering of footsteps leaves me to my shame. Panting, a bit sore, still needy, but the thought of a parent so close to everything like this just smothers it into cold embers. I'm still hard, but that will fade in a while and I'll deal with this after I've had something to eat. I have a stash of towels ready because I know how this all works. There's a protocol to follow and we know. No questions asked, no judgment, just a responsible bit of care after everything's said and done and no one is supposed to care. The rules hold and I slowly get myself clean after a lot of work. As important as my urges are, there are still other things to do.

---

The amp's really aren't that heavy. Nathan's just a wimp. Maybe he just gave me the light one so he can show off what a big strong man he is. He's not doing a good job considering Lenny has to help him up the stairs with the thing.

"You really should have let me help," Lenny sighs, "Union says two per heavy load. And you should really be wearing a safety vest for this."

"That a union rule too?" Maria asks.

"No. People just don't question a vest. That, a hard hat, and a walkie on your hip can get you straight to the president, easy."

"Do you have plans with all that?"

"No. But look into chlorine and brake fluid. You can get some fun things done with that."

"We're going for noise complaints, not actual felonies," says Lisa.

"Same difference," I say, "Give them an inch, they take a mile, so might as well hit them with a marathon."

"Ash has got a point," Lenny says, pointing at me, "Nathan, you good? Need to take five?"

"Give me ten," the poor thing pants, "Ash, how the fuck did you get your drums up here?"

"Very easily, as a matter of fact. I know proper lifting technique."

Lenny gives me an affectionate pat on the back and does his requisite union lean against the AC. Nathan's doubled over, flushed. He's dressed for this at least, nice and loose, finding his refuge in looking down at the street. I join him as Lisa fiddles with her guitar.

A few of our provocateurs scattered around like jacks, but it's mostly innocent civilians who may or may not be smart to all this. Unwitting pawns in a war beyond their comprehension, but they'll have fun with all this. A particularly alert one catches us on the roof. It can't pick it out from this distance, but I imagine they smile and settle in for a good time.

We are all in our summer uniforms, more room for things to breathe with the wind. It's better up here than it is down there. We can dodge most of the asphalt heat, get more of that breeze. There's little hope of rain on the forecast for the next week or so, but I hope. Despite the world and how it works, I hope. Maria's not wearing her full pastel goth get up, just hints of color, something sleeveless with a loose skirt. Lisa's in a halter with very, very short shorts. Nathan's in a t-shirt because he's no fun. Lenny's also in a t-shirt, because he's a working man. I'm in a t-shirt, but I also ripped off the sleeves because they are just in the way. No color on my face, but a bandana around my neck in case I need to not be myself. Nathan stretches and turns and gestures for Lenny to help him finish out this stupid thing so he can get the shop prepped. Maria sashays over to me and my rooftop vigilance.

"You're worked up already," she sighs, "I can almost smell it on you."

"And?" I say, "Is that a bad thing?"

"It means you need a shower and I have one you can borrow. I'm calling dibs on you now. Cops came before my turn at the warehouse."

She openly ogles me, first my chest, then to my arms. Her gaze turns to my crotch and takes that in. I'm certainly not hiding it. I'm already half there, snaking down my thigh and drawing her in. I shift closer so she can just feel it. My arms distract her for moment again. She wants to touch them. She wants to feel what they can do.

"I'm going to brutalize you when this is over," she murmurs.

"I thought I was the one who was pent up," I say.

"You are. So am I. So's Wyatt, but he's parking the van and we don't care about him right now."

We break from one another and gaze back down into the crowd. People, so many people, some tired, some angry, smite blissfully unaware, all corralled into one long street. They didn't plan for all this when it was laid hundreds of years ago. The police station, all the way down the block, only had one exit from the parking lot. They thought that would keep them safe when the last wave of rowdiness came through. Not in time, we are still here, and the second exit they put in can be blocked just as easily. Through the roots, I feel the rumble of heavy tires across the road, battering away the malcontents with a bit of horn.

I'm tapping out a simple rhythm on the lip of the roof. We're not alone up here. I recognize a few faces from the warehouse setting up their own stations. We simply go down the line, starting next door and ending over by the station. We come back and forth, keeping the crowd moving, drawing more and more people into it from their secluded nests scattered and atomized. We are the joy of saying 'yes in my backyard.'

Maria sets her hand on top of mine. She's done her nails In a perfect reflective black. She's even added little dots of starlight right in the middle of them. She has a steady hand with all this. I don't. Mine are just rounded short to balance out the callouses.

"Lisa," she says, "Get over here for a sec."

She gently sets her guitar down and joins us. The poor thing is still a bit skittish around me, even as she eyes my arms, my ink, the more carnal indulgences I can offer. Maria is here to tame me. Lisa will not be harmed. Slowly, she folds herself onto the hot gravel of the roof, making sure that nothing is breaking into her soft skin.

Maria gently cups her chin and brings her in for a chaste little kiss. Lisa falls into it, gentle as a feather. No tongue, no teeth, nothing untoward. My erection lurches and I shake it off. I have work to do. Maria breaks and Lisa is stunned.

I grab Maria by the collar and just drag her into me, hard, too hard. She's unprepared and now we're both rolling on the roof, hidden by the ledge. I glimpse Lisa, hand over her mouth and nervously glancing at any authority that could stop this. There is none. Even a barrel to my head couldn't stop my hands from immediately going to her ass and gripping tight. She presses her knee against my erection and I am just going to rip straight through them. Tongue and lips, tangling and biting and knotting together.

Something hits my side. It's a shoe, low top sneaker, nice bright red. The tread has been customized with a marker to look like a shark's mouth. My gaze turns to Wyatt, tank top nice and loose and showing off that wonderful chest of his.

"Save it," he says, "Showtime's soon. We want you hot and bothered for that."

"She attacked me," says Maria, unfortunately breaking from us.

"Talking to you sweetie. Looks like a good crowd. Trucks are almost in position and MC's getting set up next door. We need you loud."

She sighs and takes that knee right into me, just so she knows that I am about explode.

"You're spending the night with me," she whispers as she presses her teeth against my ear. I grip her nice and hard and tight. But Wyatt has a point. We have work to do. It will make the next part all the sweet when we finally break the veil.

I spring to my feet. My throne awaits, simplified, but still holding the divine power as is my right. Lenny's poking his head out from the stairwell. I give him a thumbs up and he goes to work the front room, making sure that only the right people get bounced. Lisa's focused, all other thoughts out of her head. Wyatt's loose and flowing. Maria's front and center, poised on the lip of the world and gazing down on our empire.

To our left, there's an another set up, a bit smaller with only two turntables and a microphone, but just as important. Scattered over the rooftops are the other bits of color, waiting their turn patiently. More of the people on the street are glimpsing us, the unfurled banners, the bits of mania they can pick up on from so far away. It infects them. The doldrums turn into wild surge. They congregate and wait for the moment we all know is coming. The cowards, the traitors, those who see life as something to sequester away from behind concrete walls and iron vaults, they are blind to all this. I pick up my sticks are start the dance around my knuckles.

Our gracious MC steps from the shadows as we officially hit twilight. Mask up, hair long, bounding graciously flowing with the rustling trees. Every one of her footsteps echoes with the weight of the earth. In the distance, a truck lays on its horn.

Perfect coordination, perfect timing, a fleet of box trucks appear from the suburbs and take up the natural space. The smaller cars make their displeasure know, but they do not move. The roads still wind out and about through the town, just not here. Not this street. This is ours for the night. The cops are boxed in their safe little cave and we are wild. The noise is the signal for the rest of us. Budding like a flower garden, every rooftop unfurls its own banner, rainbows and pastels, hints of gray and green, bits of red and black, all seeped in a sin of pride too rough for the hammer to pound away. Sin, human pure sin runs in all us and cannot be extinguished. I burn my gaze into Maria's hips as her skirt rides up on a breeze and I get that smooth expanse of her thighs.

"Good evening ladies, gentlemen, the esteemed group of 'prefer not to answer,'" says that one benevolent guiding hand, "We, your friend, neighbors, countrymen do not mean to inconvenience you this evening."

Foot on the lip, mic in hand, our master of ceremonies gazes down at the milling crowd. The people cheer, bolstered by audience plants certainly, but authentically. The saboteurs are excuses to throw off the shackles and hold themselves to this higher standard. They all turn to the voice and she holds the world in her hand, passing it back and forth along her knuckles like a coin.

"We are here to have a grand old time," she continues, "We have all decided that there is a distinct lack of good spirit in our community and are now taking measures to change that. I am just here to ask a simple question. Do y'all wanna party like we do?"

Horns, angelic horns, loud and beautiful and pure, echo down the street and bounce off the exposed brick. Flares join the flowing banners from the roof. Colorful smoke, just as vibrantly rainbow as the flags, take the wind. Our grand flow of chaos takes and more people join the dance. It's simple and clashing. The horns rise with the synthetic drums. As offending as they are, they work better with the turntable than I can at at this distance. Maria's bouncing a bit and her body follows the motion in just a bit of a delay. Wyatt and Lisa are slowly circling one another in some constrained dance. My fingers match the machines and I slip into it.

Crowd work, plain and simple, call and response, each call getting more complex, each response getting louder. The flow of noise is turning swift. Our MC turns the will once they realize it's what they want. The stores are open, the trucks are open and our hearts are open. Food and drink, raw merriment, slowly spreading out from the edges and flowing in. A vaccination against misery, we are a raw shock of ecstasy against the hardened heart. I hear ever bit of bass run through the street. I see Maria turn over an idea in her head and I keep my eyes on the drum heads. They are silent. They want noise. I have a running bass line and a slow creep of energy to muster.

The horns stop and the crowd cheers. The favors start circulating. I know we got kebabs at one station, some sandwiches at another, and a taco truck in one of the alleys. Every festival needs a taco truck. It's the mark of any good party and one of the few marks against the warehouse venue. The rooftops have a bit of dancing. The clouds and the banners and noise, the beautiful noise, is all mixing together and joining the heat inside of me.

The MC starts again, playing a simple game and making sure that each minute is a joyous one. She's never going on for long, but we're warming up. I see a few of the house out there in the sprawl open up as well. The smart ones start dragging themselves out to see the neighbors and have a good night under the warm summer sun. The are always the hold outs that prefer their vaults and their distractions. They are losing out on free food and smuggled kegs, a banner for us all to fly, even so sequestered away.

"You're thinking again," says Lisa as she wanders so close to nabbing distance. I respect the boundaries ans sit on my haunches, still spinning those little wooden sticks.

"I tend to do that," I say, "Is this going to be a conversation on internal monologues? I have one of those I think. I tend to get caught up in the words."

"You say that, but I never believe you. You're a drummer. You hit things. That's your purpose."

"It is. But I think about things while I hit other things."

I slowly set my sticks down. She keeps glancing down the way at the fortress intent on ruining our good time if they can just figure out how to make it out of the parking lot. I can make out tired yells and curses, weaving under the beat.

"Sorry if that kiss thing made you uncomfortable," I say.

"You're fine," she sighs, "It's what you guys do. And I like parts of it. You're just a lot. Maria's just a lot. Wyatt's not quite a lot, but he can be a bit much. You're all a lot to deal with and I'm not always good with this."

She gestures at all of this, everything, everywhere, the colors, the flags, the people rumbling along their merry way. It has to be immersive and complete, but that jump is always a something of faith. There's nothing at all that can prepare us for that second. She knows the breathing. She knows the techniques. It might be scarier at the front lines, but it is arguably safer when we are all linked together.

"Stop it," she says, "Just stop thinking. We're almost on and I need a good rhythm section."

"I can do that," I say, "I can do that very well."

"You can and that's why we love you."

She darts in, finch quick and lands a soft peck on my cheek. That's all I get and that's all I need. Wyatt shakes his head and keeps his eyes on the crowd. Maria's waiting for the moment and it is rapidly approaching. The horns hit their groove again and slowly wind down. I take a breath in and feel my chest expand. It's not enough. It's never enough. Lisa hurries to her spot. More of me grows from my core bulging the cage and bowing out the bars. The sticks in my hands are eager and my arms are nice and tense and ready.

The song ends and the crowd's with us now. Clapping, whistling, cheering and finally slipping into the vivid world of color, we are all along the route together.

"Alright, beautiful people," our MC says, "Good to have you with us for this. We're not going anywhere. We have a wonderful line up of talent, all up and down the block. And now, it is my pleasure to introduce to you, Doom Darling!"

The crowd cheers again and that hits me beautifully. I watch the tinges hit all of us, Wyatt bouncing on his feet, Lisa twiddling with her guitar pick and Maria, beautiful Maria, slamming a boot on the lip and shaking the earth.

"Are you all ready for rock, death, metal and love?" she screams. The crowd screams back, indistinct and raw. To my immense joy, I pick out four little voices of the symphony, all directed to me. Maria points back to me and I bring us crashing through the next moment.

As much as I want it to be, it's not as hard as we can go. It would scare the mixed crowd, rather than excite them. We are still incredibly fast, but we are singing of full moons, bright balloons, off-season swallows and nonstop love songs, universal things that everyone enjoys. It's gentler on Maria's throat and I can appreciate that. I have plans for that once all is said and done. Lisa's dragging a bit, and I adjust to bring her in line, gently but firmly.

We come together just in time for her solo and I keep the bed rock steady. The crowd loves it. The roof across the way even pops more smoke for her, bright sunshiney orange, to tinge the creeping violet night ever brighter. And just like that we are all back together. Running the bars up and down and side to side. I end it all with a hard cymbal crash and let the metal ring out into the night.

I see the flashing lights go up on the horizon, red and blue and furious. Something ignites in my core and I swear to God, we need to play something heavy for the riot brewing. The band sees them too. The crowd's focused on us and our next act of defiance. Maria bites the inside of her cheek. A flash in the eyes, an idea forms pure from the depths of her soul. The looks she gives me brings a raw flush to my face.

"Ash," she says off mic, "Give me something slow and heavy. Wyatt, same. Lisa, come in where you can, but this is a rhythm thing.'

"We're gonna jump 'em," Wyatt says, his own smile breaking free.

"Yep. Lisa, this is a fun one. Hold on to something. Ash, on you."

I take a shaky breath. I want fast, something fast, but the direction is clear. As much as I hate it, it is better than mindless crashing against the wall and hoping the break through. I do as she says, breaking the time into digestible chunks for the masses, heavy on the bass, light on the snare, making sure they can feel the weight, every ounce. Maria spins the confusion into her hand. Wyatt hits a string line and we're there together. Our MC picks up the vibe and we are on time with a little more noise. The lights draw closer.

From that one point of conduction, it spreads up over the rooftops. More drums, on my cue, echoed only in syncopation, another bass, upright and classic, even a trumpet daring to raise its head above the crowd, all tectonic in scale. The milling crowd take is pause and waits for us to give it will. Maria takes her place at the head of the world. The lights grow closer and the sirens fight for every scrap of noise they can take from us.

She does a little hop on the start of the bar. We loop back around and she does it again. Her hand joins the motion, getting everyone the cue. A few of the more energetic ones pick up the cue. A little girl, already over stimulated, goes double time while begging her dad to the do the same. His poor knees won't take too much of the work, but he joins when he can and will regret it come tomorrow.

Maybe a third get in on the next pattern, and we start feeling it. The entire block shudders under the combined weight. Some of the timid ones look around as the animal parts recognize the tremors. The more brazen ones feel the flow and give themselves over to it. The hit comes and more are. Weight, endless weight like a tidal wave ripples down the street and through the fortress. I feel it from my throat.

We go again and the crowd's all in on this one. The world ripples, asphalt liquidizing in a pure sound wave of people. A car alarm joins the din on the far side of the building. The poor thing is scared with all the noise. The little girl is over the edge in to full mania now. She knows her power, knows what she can do in the midst of all of us, gently pushing against the world. It's now hers to hold and grow how she wishes. We jump again and Lisa stumbles, looking around. The world just shakes now that we know what we all can do.

More sirens, more alarms, and the crowd is now unruly and directionless, held together only by the linked arms of solidarity. The trucks are are the vessels, rocking and flowing with the energy. It bounces and shakes, flowing with their will.

The sirens butt against the truck and none of this is in my hands anymore. I keep the beat and feel the work rise and fall. Maria's jumping with Wyatt. Lisa's still just holding on, trying to wittiness the moment when the lights come down and end all of this for their own purposes. It is down to the beat.

The cops come, in the sharp blue shirts and hands to their toys. The boys are there to meet them in silence, jumping with the crown and keeping their gait unsteady.

They want to. They really, really want to. It would be so easy, to give into that little voice that says we are lawless and sinful and deserving eradication. We are not doing as we were told. Someone gets on a bullhorn only to stumble over the words as the next jump wave hits.

Behind the police station, the rest of the cars go up. Every alarm, every instrument, every voice, every ounce of weight just hits the moment and silences everything else. The cops look towards one another. There's heavier stuff. There's always heavier stuff. Tear gas, rubber bullets, tasers, noise canons, just beating everyone here with a baton until everything is bruised and broken, and then they could just shoot us all. A dead world with a boot stamping on the ashen pulp, that's all they want before they go home and get bitter about the fact that the sludge dared to cling to their soles.

The beat starts slipping away from me and I don't reign it back in. We have our street until it is colonized, but we will fight for every second. And now, right now, it is ours, shared and held in common, every inch of concrete and asphalt and brick. The cops talk among themselves, look to their guns, look to their trunks, look to something higher than them and find a group of people jumping up and down to summon the pagan gods of earth.

Needle thin under the ruckus is a defeated sigh running through the wire. Too many moms, too many kids, too many picturesque families that wouldn't look good smeared as gore against Americana. They still want to do that, but enough familiar faces stay the hand. Just like that, the energy fades and dissipates, back into each individual looking to themselves for guidance. It is vast and powerful, made actually infinite once it has more pieces to lock against. Links in chairs, bricks in walls, just not cogs in a machine. We are those old stone walls before everything was poured concrete and steel girders. Every rock is unique, chipped and worn against its neighbors, with none above the others.

The MC slowly reigns in her power and tosses it out across the street to the next act. It's the trumpet and his accompaniments now, something a bit more mellow, giving everyone a chance to connect and dissect the moment with one another. Food starts getting passed out again, someone opens a keg and we are officially a party now that the threats have been smothered. Shame, such a shame. My arms aren't even burning. Tense and worked, but there is so much more in there. Lisa's just high on the moment. There's no tremors, but she's wobbly. Wyatt's the one to step in and support her as Maria waves me over with a sardonic grin.

Fire in her eyes, we are in the same state. More, we can give more to the people, to ourselves, but it's no longer our turn with the talking stick. She's working her cheek between her teeth and fighting the urge to throw herself from the roof and meld into the crowd. I catch the flush in her cheek, the heaving breath as she jerks her head into the crowd. I groan.

At first, I think Maria's point out the neutralization tables in case they finally have the balls to gas us. Then there's the medic tents in case someone gets a bit too violent. But no, there's a gap in there in the middle of the street, perfectly circular. Dad's dancing while Mama cheers him on.

"I think that's yours down there," Maria says with a little huff laugh.

"Yeah. Yeah that is," I sigh, "He gets like that when he's riled up."

"He's honestly not bad. On rhythm, decent flow, knows what he's doing. Doubt he'd survive an actual club, but still, probably the best down there."

"I'm just glad it's not Maty."

"Oh, now that I have to see."

"Hey guys," Wyatt calls, "we're going to get something to eat. Want to come?"

"You guys go ahead," Maria says, "We'll catch up."

"Sure you will. Let me know if you need a ride somewhere."

"Ash is coming home with me. We'll be fine."

---

We're surprising not that handsy on the route back to Maria's place. Hands together, right against one another in the night, watching the windows of the bus in case some colorful lights decide to get some revenge for having fun without their permission. Dad and Maty will deal with that on our behalf though. They have the paperwork and the connections to tug on to keep the reigns from getting tangled, Maria lays her head on my shoulder and gazes down my body. I take my legs a bit wider so she can see the shapes I make.

"Fucking bull hung stud," she murmurs, "Should just keep you tied to my bed. Keep you all to myself."

"Do you think you can handle that," I whisper back.

"I would devour you. I would break you. You will beg for the privilege to curl up at the foot of my bed when I am done with you."

The hand breaks away and grips my thigh, right on my length. All night that's been bothering me. I've watched Wyatt flaunt himself for me, some of the other acts lean into a bit more risque areas to entice with just enough exposed skin to bring out the censors. And now Maria's whispering into my ear and threatening to murder me if I don't make her cum constantly over the next several hours. I will do my best and probably fail and end up in a body bag while Maria just moves on.

The bus runs along its route until a soft screech and hiss drops us to the curb. Maria shoves me out into the night. We are on our own, in front of her apartment block on the edges of the city proper. I see the skyscrapers with the handful of candle lights fighting back the stars. We're across the river from all that, next to the gentrification that's slowly butting up against what was originally designated as something to avoid. Maria cuts through it all, soldiering along the brick and concrete to come to a row of townhouses just a bit nicer than they probably should be for the zoning laws to be in full effect. Maria pulls her keys and fumbles with them. No one every looks refined working through their key rings. The jangling certainly doesn't help.

I sidle next to her and just grip her ass. I do the work for her, making her fall back into her body. This is mine. I grip and roll and refuse to let go of that wonderful soft mound. This is mine, completely. I am to be tethered to her bed, tied in iron chains, but she will be the one crawling to me.

The lock clicks and she grabs my collar, throwing me inside. I drag her with me until I am slammed against the wall. Her arms tense and I am reminded that I am not the only one to put in some work into all this. It's how we first met really. She's smiling now, gazing at my chest, the hollow of my neck. A thrill runs through me as she gently runs her tongue over a canine.

She buries herself into my neck and there is a bit of teeth, just a bit, against my skin. There's enough threat there to keep me still, even if I am gripping somewhere soft and sensitive. Her knees between my leg and threatening more crushing pressure than I can weather.

"So soft," she mutters through my spine, "You taste so good."

"You needed this bad," I hum back.

"You have no clue. Why are you still wearing clothes?"

She does make a good point through the feral need. Her training doesn't account for more strength than she can handle. It's her turn against the wall, next to the coat rack. I don't give it any show. I just shrug off my shirt and let it fall somewhere forgotten. There's a tremor in her lips and another run of her tongue as she seems what I am. She looks to the ink, the lines along my stomach, everything smooth and hard and honed.

A moment of silent worship breaks and she does the same. No show, no grand tease, it's almost ripped off, but her shirt's gone and a clasp's undone. Her breasts fall against her body. She doesn't have the same work done to her that I have, no pictures or lines, just smooth skin marked every so often by pale scars. Accidents and intents, a little mark where she fell off a bike, a line where a march turned into a riot, nothing covered up or hidden.

We find ourselves at a stalemate. She wants to fondle my body. I want to do the same to her. We are in her narrow hallway, nowhere near enough space to circle and pace as we size one another up. We do that at arm's length. She's bigger than me in this regard. I'm not the hardest to beat, but I have enough to entice and enthrall.

"On your knees," she says.

"Make me," I say. She smiles as her eyes go wide.

"You spoiled little mafia princess. You think you're so bad just cause daddy has a few box trucks. Get. On. Your. Knees."

I take a step closer, shutting off her escape. I'm taller than her. It doesn't really make me more intimidating, considering that my neck is that much closer to those sharp teeth. I feel the breath trace across my throat.

"What did I say," she says. Such a hard line to the words, such a temper against a bit of power in disobedience.

"Something about a mafia princess," I murmur, "I think mafia prince works better."

"Oh no. Princess. You're a princess right now since you're being a brat and it's my job to drag you back over the line where you belong."

I tilt her chin with my fingers and she's the one being obedient with all this right now. Even more so once I get my lips to hers again, tasting the endless rage, feeling those sharp teeth play with my lips and try to draw blood. She's voracious for it all.

It was all a ruse. I've dabble in more striking her arts while she's gone into pure grappling. Raw strength doesn't matter in her world. A bit of pressure, the right configuration and I am not where I want to be, in a sense. I am on my knees, gazing up a long expanse of darkened skin, glimpsing a feral smile over a set of heaving breasts. This is till more or less where I want to be. One knee instead of two, but it's a victory.

"Don't look at me like that," she hums, "You wouldn't be there if you came to classes with me."

"Unless the next thing you do is a knee across my face, you're not winning this," I say.

"I'm not your sister. I don't need a belt to be better than you. Lick."

For such a command, she is still doing a lot of work for me. Now, she's undoing said belt with a bit of fumbling until it drops with her skirt to the floor. I am left with just the barest veneer between us. Her arousal bleeds through the utilitarian cotton as she keeps grinding me under her boot.

Before her hands can do anything else, I do what she tells me to do. I take the cloth in my teeth and just rip it away. The force shifts her weight and I am pressed fully into her pelvis, a soft tuft of neatly trimmed hair brushing against my chin. She yelps. Her hands grip my hair for steadiness and a bit of tug runs through my scalp. I kiss the soft skin and feel her muscles twitch in response.

Now that I'm being good and doing what I'm told, she doesn't want me to do that anymore. She wants space and time to collect herself so she can keep steering me along. She can't. My hands go around those wonderful wide hips and drag her into my lips. I kiss the warmth of her ore and bring it back to the surface for us both to fall into. I hold her close and hold her tight. This is mine now and nothing will take it away. I kiss it again as she pulls against me. Then she finds out that I am right where she wants me and I am doing whatever she wants me to do. I have lips and tongue and teeth, just as hungry as she is. I kiss her stomach, tracing around the sensitive nerves needing brutal attention. I kiss her thighs, lick the soft flesh, feel the muscles clench nuder me. I push her against eh wall again, shifting until she is trapped fully. Her hands try to reign me in and hold me down. I have nowhere else to go and neither does she. It's all an enmeshed union where nothing else matters.

I lick up her thighs and feel her heart flow through my face with her arousal. I find the spot and hold there, just giving her my breath. She shudders. She sighs. The moment holds quiet until she drags me into her and I make contact.

She tastes heavenly. I give her my tongue and she takes everything I can give, nose pressed into her pelvis and lavishing her with attention. The heat rises up her chest as she lets it out in a long, loud man, enough to shake the foundation. So much power held in her chest, so much energy. I can rip it from her and swallow it all. Her legs tense and her back slides down the old wall paper, only to find my hands lifting her up and raising to give her rest. I feast on her, tongue lapping up her arousal and fueling my own needs. I throb hard in my pants, stretching the seams out. I respond with my own need and go deeper.

Despite my eagerness, this is not my best task. I am good. I have had practice and Maria has certainly done her best to train me, but this is not where my natural talent lies. It's enough for her right now, especially, when I shift her weight in one hand help my mouth with the other. A bit more pressure, a bit more spread and she moans for me again.

Raw endless power from her chest, before it slowly fractures into a deep growl. That's much better. That's so much better. She is with me in as an animal rutting on the forest floor and doing nothing better. Her leg sets itself on my shoulder and I take the weight. I take every bit of it and sink into the earth. I go deeper into her, fingers nice and curled, tongue circling and playing until I find the spot again and hold there.

It hits her quick, quicker than we were both prepared for. That one errant leg circles my head and squeezes hard. I tide it with her, feeling my body tense into hers as hers shatters to pieces. Everything's hard. Everything's tensed. Everything's flexed. All of her is crushed around her breaking core and it's enough to start dark edges bleeding into my vision. I can't breathe. It's incredible. Once more I lost to the strength of a body that is and is not mine. Maria's swearing at me and cursing the very air I am not breathing.

I keep going. She needs to know her place even as I slowly break down everything else. I snatch a few drops of oxygen and that just keeps me going for a little bit longer. A little bit longer, her orgasm continues, spasming over my tongue and scrabbling against the wall.

"Fuck me," she huffs once something like reason comes back to her.

"That's the goal, right?" I manage to squeeze out beneath her muscles. She goes a bit harder, just to make sure. I eventually manage a bit of leverage to get that leg out of my way bad back to the world at large.

"You are so bad at that," she sighs. The flush has still yet to leave her cheeks.

"Not even a minute," I say, "You didn't even last a minute."

"I've had it at first contact. You're not special. And I want more. That's not a good sign if the goal is the satisfy me."

"Never said it was. I thought this was all a game of mutual assured destruction."

"It's not. I destroy you. That's how this plays out."

I manage to squeeze my other arm under her and we start doing what I'm made for. I lift, with my knees, manual approved. The union boss would be proud. Maria has to fold herself in half so her head doesn't bash against the ceiling. I am right against her stomach, on my feet, nothing my the lines of her stomach to worship and adore.

"This is very impressive," she says, "but now you're blind. Good luck getting to my bedroom, genius."

"Who says we're going there," I mumble.

"We're not doing it on the couch. I do not want to clean that thing again. Left a bit. Back. Ok, now careful so you don't make me hit my head."

I obey, mostly because I also don't want to hit her head. Most of my thoughts are lost in the prize I've snagged. I don't need to worry about navigation as I keep kissing and licking. She's still so warm, so ready for me. Her heart beat marks my time. It's steady. It's strong. It's pounding in my head at the perfect tempo. The weight in my hands shifts again as Maria folds to avoid another nasty bump on the head. I bite the skin and make sure she has at least some pain to get through this. The deep noise I get in response is perfect, especially when paired with the pressure on my skull. This is mine. This is all mine and no one can take it from me.

Maria jockeys me a bit more, through a low doorway that I remember fondly. There's a hole in the wall still from our first time trying each other out as mates. There's a halfhearted attempt at a DIY bookshelf with stolen cinder blocks. Records on top, then a set of comics, then a set of wonderfully transgressive literature that always boils down to being kind to one another unless they are not kind in turn. In that case, overwhelming violence is necessitated. Maria kicks me to the mattress and I throw her on. The whole room shakes with my power. She bounces, once, twice before coming back to rest on her forearms. Her tongue runs over her teeth again, fixated on the space between my lengths and the bucking shape that is going to kill me if I don't get it out immediately.

"Ash," she says quietly, "Take that out for me."

The problem with her authority is that it's right. I have a similar problem with Maty. At my core, I know there is now a chain around my neck. At the same time, it is tugging me in the direction I want to go. My length pulses hard against my thighs again as she works her hips back and forth for me.

I fumble with my zipper, so taught against everything I want. The struggle works for her entertainment, making my chest bounce slightly, making my eyes nice and honed for her. There is so much of me and there is not enough of her. I throb again and a small rip appears on my thigh, right at my thickest point. She gives a soft gasp that I am in no position to appreciate. I fight it. I fight everything in me to get me out. I am just too big for my sleeve. Cracks at the sames, bulging at the weak points, I get a few teeth down with a struggle. That's enough to set the momentum back in to my favor. A few more teeth struggle and I hit the base.

Even now, it's a bit of a fight to get my entire length out in the open. She watches the force I give and one last bit of strength gets me out, hard and burning red, jutting out of me like a mountain spire. I sigh as the relief runs through me. The cold room of the air and I let off a thin plume of steam, if only in appropriate imagery.

"Fuck," Maria mutters softly. Her tongue does the same thing it always does when she wants to voraciously consume the pleasures of the world until she she slips into repose in her den. That one word is all I need to take myself long, bask my self In that syllable like a cat in the sun. It's warm across my skin, down my spine as I bend with the sound and show off just how long and thick and brutal I am. She's panting now. My preseed forms a thick bead at my tip, hanging in pure distance of anything sane.

"Ash," Maria says, "Why aren't you fucking me?"

"Because I know you like looking," I shrug, "I like looking too. And you look good like that."

"Ash. Get over here. Now."

Once again, I am aligned with something higher than me in the hierarchy and I don't like it. I choose to obey as slow as I can. Sauntering over with my length bobbing up and won with my steps. She's trained on it, ready to pounce at any moment. I just start crawling on the bed, letting her know that I am that much taller than her, that much more than her. She is still under me and I know that her expertise can turn that around at any moment. I kiss her and that gets a hand around my head. Pulling me deeper. That's another bit of strength I can't fight right now. She tastes the same, just as she always has, heat and noise, a bit of a whimper for me to roll through mine teeth. Our tongues play together until she decides that she wants to tug at my lips. She does that more, taking her hands to my breasts and just drawing everything in my closer. My length lays along her stomach, past her navel tracing that domination path it will take. She raises her hips to get the pressure even deeper. I will go the entire distance and then even more. Her entire body will be mine. She works her teeth a bit more and gives me pressure on my chest. I nudge her legs out of the way. That's mine most of all.

She pushes me away and a the gap between us is sharp and cold. It runs across my stomach and along my length. I lay all that size along her stomach and she shudders, wide eyed at everything I am. I brush the hair from my eyes and take her in. She's the same as she was before, tight and toned, marked and darkened just a bit. I keep her pinned, hands to her wrists and she tries to fight it. That's not the game. But I am slowly moving down and giving her what she wants. We are aligned for the moment and that's enough to keep her still.

I prod her open with a bit of force. She is so ready for me. Her arousal drips from her and makes my work just a bit easier. It's still takes so much effort from her to relax. I feel it all travel through me, the tight space, the needless grip the will to take it all just a bit more. She doesn't even have my whole tip in and that's the first bit of work. It always takes work. It always takes more from us. I want her in agony but I don't want her in pain. I slowly, slowly, push deeper, feel her legs quiver and shake. Her arms still fight me as she closes her eyes and forces herself to just breath through it all.

More pressure, more heat, more strength. It all works through us and I brace myself on her head board. Such a sturdy, useful thing, it's the work I've made for and it's the work I love. He hands ball the sheets and she lets out the tightness in her chest slowly from her lips. That just makes more room for me and my length. I feel the shape I make, so long I her body. She hisses at me and takes in another breath. We set our pace and just pulse with it. There's a bit more and I'm a set amount deeper, maybe halfway, maybe a quarter, maybe the whole thing. It's all so much and it's never enough.

I feel our hips meet and we were making this entire much more difficult than it need to be. I let out a low laugh and set my shoulders. Maria sighs and moves her hips so I lay a bit more to her liking.

"Fuck, you're huge," she moans as she plays with the orientation again.

"I know," I sigh. I take a deep breath and recenter.

"That's the worst part. If you didn't know, my job would be much easier."

"But I do know. I know that I am the biggest you'll ever get. I know that you can't feel your legs right now. I know that this is exactly what you want and you'll be worshiping the ground I walk on once I start working."

"You'll have to make me then. Get to it."

She doesn't have quite the power behind the command, but it's there in the shadows. It's there in the gaze. It's there in the way her hands find my shoulders and digs her nails into my skin. A spur to get me going, a bit of power to get me moving and I do, calmly softly, savoring her body and the thigh vice she is giving me. She is doing so good for me, breathing nice and relaxed. She knows me. She knows that this is going to get intense. Everything is calm for the moment for me as well. I feel the prerelease flow from my tip, mix with her arousal and start to spill over onto the sheets. We are staining the world with our primal excitement. It's all the same need, across every synapse. It's what we want and we we are tearing from one another.

I am out of her for a good long while, with still so much in her. I push back in and it's easier now. Her body remembers me and accepts me. She bites her lips and gently works the flesh. It's all pain transference. She focuses on that so she doesn't focus on me. It hurts. It hurts her and she is furious that reality is not to her liking. She opens for me and I hilt in her again. I withdraw and that's the act.

It's slower than what I give myself, in part because of how much she fights me on it. She wants to fight me. It's only sweet if there's conquest. It's only pure if there' s a challenge. I am that to her and she is that to me. She cuts into me with her grip and I go harder. She takes the impact and the head board bangs against the wall. It's the same act. It's the same thing I'm made for. It's a steady rhythm, and my only complaint is that I can't add the flourishes that make this fun. I don't have the configuration of limbs. I can only saw in to her, feeling her swears run over me. I am too much. I am not enough. I keep going because she is raking my back and about to draw blood if I don't demolish her first.

I saw into her and feel the rip around me change and relax, just a bit. I feel something sensitive brush into her and I keep on that spot. I can't miss it. I am too big to give her a moment of rest. We fight the act together, against one another. I keep thrusting, keeping pounding, our hips meeting in time with the rest of our dance, shaking the bed, quaking the floor, every bit of stable foundation slowly crumbling to dust underneath us. I keep going because it's what I need.

Maria's swearing at me and the shapes I give to her. She feels me brush past her navel, up to her sternum, crushing down on everything I give her until she breaks down. Every muscle is taut. Her breath is shaking and tenses, eyes screwed shut and everything tense. I keep working her, keep increasing the pace until I am where I need to be. She's swearing at me. It take the choked syllables and give them back with a touch of lips against hers.

That grounds her. I am still something so incredibly psychical and real. I am here for her and I will break for her. I press my tongue against hers and feel her response try to press against me even tighter.

I feel it grow hotter and I grin. I swallow that beautiful choked noise she makes when she realizes that she is already tumbling over the edge. I feel her clench and tense and relax in erratic spasms. All of her is just obliterated with the simple push and tear of her body. I kiss her and she moans, powerful and deep. My name is in there. God is in there. So much Is in that long, ragged moan and I am there to take it all. I am reward with another hard tremor and a warm spray of her release against my stomach. I smile through it. She will never live this down and I will gloat about this forever.

"I hate you," Maria murmurs, half drunk, "I hate you so much. I hate you and your stupid huge dick."

I kiss her neck and trail up to her cheek. She meets me there and I am still. I am in here, and it is not enough, but we need a moment to recover. I kiss her cheek again, her noise, her forehead, all feather light ans d soft as she mutters 'I hate you' over and over again while refusing to let me go. I gently grind my hips a so she is still left over sensitive and raw.

She pushes me and I give her space, still deeply hilted. A few calming breathes and the light's back in her eyes. It burns into me as she kisses my neck and brings back her teeth. The poor thing likes biting. It's a bad habit but one I can't really break. In a way, it's even fair. I need to receive a bit of pain for the anguish I cause. I give back gentle tenderness and everything is made even. She shoves me even more and I give her more space. I calmly slip out of her, slick and burning and throbbing, my own preseed still weeping from my tip and pooling on the sheets.

Like a newborn kitten, she meekly crawls forward. I watch every muscle twitch with the echo of me. Even better, I can see where she's headed. Gently onto her side, then a bit clumsily onto her stomach, she drags her hips up and up and up. It's taunting me

I bring a hand down hard on that beautiful pound of flesh. A loud slap comes from the point of contact and she yelps underneath.

"That's your one," she moans, "I hope it was worth it."

"You have no idea," I sigh, "you're beautiful like this."

She hums and starts another bit of sway again. It's tight. It's round. There's enough weight in there to crash against me. I knead it. I hold it. It fills my hand. I don't give it another open palm, but I am giving it strength, spreading it, groping. This is mine too. She is all mine. I have to rip it from her and she has to rip all the same things from me. She arcs everything high and long.

My hand goes to my length and we both work to get us in line. It is the same goal, if easier this time. I just push while she takes. She pushes back and give in turn. It works. I feel that same grip start to flow around me. She's so tight. She's burning hot. I start sawing and thrusting. On my knees, hands on her hips, I work. Muscles and bone, all of me just starting the flow and feeling her respond.

Maria's loud. She can breathe now, and that turns outward. There's my name again. There's more swearing. Most of all, there's just a primal communion with me and our sound. Our hips keep the tempo, each impact making such a beautiful noise. The bed creaks and moans all the same. It's just the work. It's just the joy of being in a body capable of whatever we want to do. I feel her tense and break over me. Her hands slip and she's even lower.

Hands ball the sheets, teeth bite the pillow, I keep thrusting into her. The skin around my fingers turn white with my grip. It's worth it. It's worth the burn in my muscles, the tremble in my strength, the ragged breath and labored work. I keep moving through it. I keep in the moment and that's all that we are.

Something breaks in my core and that's exactly what I wanted. Maria starts shaking again and I feel her climax start once again. I feel the urge run up my stomach. I grit my teeth and slow, putting as much power as I possible can into the work. Slow, so slow, all the urges colliding in me like an earthquake. So much of me is in the act. So much of her is slowly being scraped out again. I am there with her this time, losing my thoughts as the sparks give me everything else I am. Instinct and urges, needs and wants, it's all the same thing. Everything else doesn't matter. I just keep the work and I feel my stomach tense one last great time and I feel the first pulse start.

Hard, so hard, my entire body folds into the simple bit of pressure. All that strength, all that power, all that flow starts going into her. I scream with her, low and primal and free. It harmonizes with her, shaking down to the foundations. She pushes back against me and I just fill her. I fill her with so much of my thick, heavy seed, slowly, distorting her shape and giving her all of that weight. Her legs shake. Her arms shake. The whole structure is coming down and she is screaming my name so that the world knows that I am the pinnacle of it's damnation. The second shot starts and I fill her.

I collapse along her back. She is still strong enough to support us. She is still strong enough to start clawing at the sheets as small rips appear in the threads. Like a cat in heat, she starts to rip and tear. Her nails rake down and down and down, her mouth goes to the pillow. I'm not here to cut away. She will make do with the forgiving cloth slowly taking her weight as nothing else can. I am still filling her, not a drop lost in the transfer. It is not enough. I still have more.

The overflow finally breaks the seal and I feel our mixed releases hit my thigh with searing heat. It only abates in the gap between pulses and only for a moment. The next pulse starts and the growing sea saturates the sheets. The next shot starts and we just fall apart.

I collapse onto her again and the entire bed threatens to break. It doesn't matter. It's just a thing. It's a worthless thing, a broken thing, something just in our way. The bed needs ups to be careful and we don't need careful at all. My weight collapses into her and she scrambles a bit for a fresh air. I am there, right there, and instead, she decides that I am worth kissing instead. She gets my cheek, my nose, my neck, running back and forth without a pattern. I keep filling her.

With her last remnant of strength she nudges us both onto our sides and that finally knocks me free. I have her thighs to play with and those are still pulling deep pulses from me. I am vaguely aware that I clear the lip of the bed and add the floor to the list of things I will be made to clean. I don't care. Another deep pulse hits and we also add the wall. I am too spent to feel any pride in that. It's all lost to the mouth I am kissing, the legs I am feeling and the numbing warmth that has taken over my thoughts. My hands go to her chest and I hold all of her perfectly close.

It ends, slowly. It ends with me marking this entire room as one of my nests, Maria just happens to use it. I carefully take my hand and lay it across her stomach. It plays on the tension, slowly petting the new shape I gave her. She sighs and it is ugly and low and raw. I nestle in closer and she keeps circling her hips. She tortures me so sweetly.

"I hate you," she murmurs under a yawn.

"Yeah, sure," I say as that sets me off too, "Hate you too."

"I hate that you're right. Why would anyone do anything else other than this? Breaks for food. Breaks for naps. Just people and sex and an endless party."

"I really don't know. Maybe no one else has had good sex."

"Probably. Cops for certain at least. Cops have bad sex."

"And they even have the handcuffs to help out."

She laughs again and it melts into an exhausted yawn. She sets me off with the same thing and that's something she's right about. I still have more in the tank, but there's only so much time before morning comes. We can have that later. I can have her in my arms now.

---

I walk into work, fashionably late because that is my prerogative. I had a Maria to shower with and makes sure she was on her way to recovery. I had a bus to catch from the city and those are always late. I had a nice long walk from the station light on my heels and feeling incredibly, pleasantly spent. No one accosts me. No one judges me. I am blissfully unaware of anything grand and sweeping because I got fucking laid and covered a block with pride flags and made an earthquake happen with just my incredible sense of rhythm. Even Nathan's withering gaze from the espresso machine cannot cut my wings.

"You're late," he says.

"Yes. Yes I am. Had to come back from Maria's last night," I say, hopping the counter, "And you're on time, so I can only guess you stayed here and did not go home with anyone."

"No, I did. I had to help Wyatt load all your bullshit into our van."

"His van."

"No ours. Our parents taught us to share. I just so happen to also have a bike. I, not we, by the way."

"So, I'm still hearing that you didn't get any action. That's a shame. You totally could have."

"Who or what I do is not any particular interest of yours. It just involved a lot of hauling things and driving things and now I am here, bright and early, because I am a responsible adult and apparently you are not."

"Nathan," says a voice in back, "Don't disparage your coworker. Ash is here now and ready to work. Isn't that right, Ash?"

"Yes, it is Olivia. I didn't know you were coming in today."

From the little office in the corner comes a woman decked out in a loos shirt, beady necklace and pale dreads, even longer than Mama's. She's tired behind those glasses, but she beckons me over and I give her a hug. Olivia is a good hugger, not as good as my family, but she at least understand the importance of that part. Nathan doesn't. Wyatt does because he is the good twin in this. I didn't get my dad hug this morning, but this is a good substitute.

"You were great last night," I say as we part.

"So were you. Haven't had a good jump like that in a while."

"Maria's idea. She's good with crowd work. I just hit things."

"Sometimes that's all you need. Nathan and I discussed this and it's your turn to wash the mugs. He was here on time and it only seems fair."

She scoots me along while I pout. It is fair because sometimes following the rules is nice and efficient, even if I was not a part of the process. And he did do that last time, plus all the other things he did today. I can do this. I can be a productive little cog in this particular machine.

"Ash," Nathan sighs, "You have to handle this one. I don't think the union rules allow me."

"By the book, it would be a type of scabbing. I won't be long. I just need to see my kid," says a wonderfully warm voice.

I peel away from the machine and see Dad there in his beautifully professional polo shirt, just as undone as I am considering what he stumbled through last night. There's a truck behind him in the window with that same cartoon man from our cork board painted on the side. Dad scratches at his stubble and I move around to his open arms. Still not as good as Maty's but at this point, it would just be splitting hairs. He kisses the top of my head and gives me a tight squeeze.

"Did you have a good sleepover with Maria," he says quietly.

And just like that the hug's over. That reflex will never, ever go away. I have very important dishes to wash and Nathan can upcharge him all he wants. Dad laughs and shakes his head. I do get a set of paper cups lined up. I imagine there's a bulk order for whoever shows up at the office today. That's his machine and it does good work. I think mine's just a bit more fun.