#hes calling her a brat to give her a setup to go Now Listen Here Buddy

[larnax]

oh yea i never did post that therion/temenos analysis bc it refused to get under 2k words but the crux of it was that therion is a very passive character to the point that not killing people is about the only choice he personally makes(even in their final argument, darius is the one who starts it and therion is just defending himself for the majority of it), otherwise he's always following someone else's orders, whether it be heathcote or barham and he fucking hates his job. temenos on the other hand is an intj empath with a savior complex who is extremely active, refuses to listen to anyone he doesn't respect which is all but one person who dies before the first chapter is over, and his job is his life's calling.

[peachymilkandcream]

Written In Blood|Part 15|Modern Yandere Levi x Evelyn

WARNINGS: noncon/dubcon, graphic descriptions of violence, domestic violence, manipulation, mind breaking, yandere behaviour/themes, forced marriage, forced pregnancy, wishing rape upon someone, misogyny, mentions of child abuse, blackmail, revenge porn, murder, etc.

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Levi sighed and took the gag out of Evelyn's mouth, chuckling softly at her exhausted expression. She was worn mentally and physically, forced to endure the toll he had put on her for his own sick desires.

"When will this be enough Levi? When are you going to get tired of all this and let me go?"

Levi rolls his eyes, her rebellious spirit annoying him. "When you understand it will never be enough, you hear me? Not until I'm satisfied with how you turn out."

She opens her mouth for another retort but he shushes her.

"I don't want to hear it. Now listen. As much as I'd like to sit here with you forever and fuck you I still have a job to do. And so do you."

"Me?"

"You're a writer, right? You have deadlines and things that have to be done. So I'm going to give you the opportunity to do what you enjoy."

Without much of another word he reaches over on the end table and gives her a blank notebook and a pencil.

"I can't trust you to not try and communicate somehow with the outside world, but I can do this."

"Why do you give a fuck about my job if you've captured me and brought me here?"

"Because your work is inspiring. Didn't the setup in the bathroom look at least a little familiar to you?"

When her expression remained confused he continued.

"I forget the fucking title now, but it was the one where the killer invites the woman over and tells her she can use his bathtub after passionate sex and then he electrocutes her."

"But- her throat was slit- the blood-"

"I wanted to see if you'd still bleed after that. Most of the dripping was the bloodstained water."

"You're disgusting- how come no one has ever caught you-"

"The simple answer is you. All of your methods, how the killer continues to escape again and again after all of these insane ways of torture and murder, I used them to do the same for me. Framing others who have been caught and are currently spending life sentences under my crimes. Everything is as you described. Mix that with my knowledge of the law and how police proceedings are handled I have quite the knack for it by now."

"I can't believe you tainted my best friend by having sex with her-"

"Is she your best friend? Really? Look what she's done to you. She was masturbating to you at the mercy of my dick. Maybe even deep down she knew that you weren't consenting the whole time."

"She never found your secret huh."

"And I doubt she ever will."

"So what about me huh? Now that I know your secret I could get you caught."

Levi laughs. "I'd love to see you try."

Now he stands and puts on his suit jacket, staring at her with a smug expression. "Get to work, I need new material."

"I could just refuse."

"Do you want all your holes stuffed with cum?"

She bites back her remark just then.

"Then I suggest you at least have a draft of an idea by the time I get home." Levi walks over and kisses her forehead. "And try and get some rest, too, might help your boredom."

Finally before leaving he clicks on the television and turns it to the news.

"So you can watch how everyone's forgotten about you."

Once he ties his shoes he gives her one last look. "I also gave you a cellphone with just my number. The number pad doesn't work so you can only select my number to phone. If there's a fire or some shit don't be a brat and call me, I'll come get you. Have a good day."

With that he leaves her all alone, tied up, exhausted and with her own thoughts.

But he was right about one thing, she was a writer, and that meant she had lot of ideas how to get her victims out of situations if she so chose.

Evelyn held the fork from her breakfast over the lit candle near the bed. She had to stretch with all her might to set it on where the prongs tipped in the hot wax but eventually was successful.

She would not be another one of his victims.

[goddessofthundathighs]

IX. PHILOPHOBIA

Suggested Listening/Songs Mentioned: Tadow x Masego; Body Party x Ciara

Word Count: 7.1K (Grab a snack, kids)

**************

Philophobia: (n). the fear of love or of becoming emotionally connected with another person

In the days following their confessions session, O’Shea and Erik finally committed to having a regular schedule that was conducive to both her therapy and their personal needs.

Mondays were used to discuss the previous week’s activities, whether or not they were successful, and to plan out new activities for the upcoming week. Those activities would then be implemented on Tuesday while Wednesday was a quiet day.

During the quiet day, Erik would see other patients, if any, or meet with Skylar to discuss upcoming research projects. Thursdays were used for mid-week check-ins. O’Shea would contact Erik if she wasn’t feeling like herself or if she felt like the particular week’s activity was a failure. They alternated Friday and Saturdays for personal time outside of the office. During this time, they would go on movie or dinner dates or just chill at each other’s houses, cuddling or playing video games.

Their relationship was flourishing at a healthy rate and while excited for her best friend, Skylar couldn’t help feeling a pang of jealousy.

Erik watched her intensely as she paced the floor of his office, convinced that she was about to create a completely new design.

“Are you gonna talk to me or are you gonna put a hole in my floor?”

She stopped and faced him, her eyes riddled with conflict.

“I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a bitter bitch,” she said, finally taking a seat in the chair across from him. It was Friday so she was dressed down in a black tank that read “Thug Life” in white Old English writing, camouflage cargo pants, and black gladiator sandals. Her curly mane haloed her face and big, gold bamboo earrings with her name in the middle adorned her ears.

“Girl stop all that and tell me what’s wrong so I can help fix it,” Erik fussed, coming around to sit on the corner of his desk in front of her.

“Well, I know I was the main one that wanted you two together, but now that it’s happening, I guess I’m a bit jealous. Not because you both are finally happy and in a healthy space to pursue a relationship, but because I want the same thing and right now. It’s hard.”

“Elaborate,” Erik said, removing his glasses so that their eyes met.

Sky sighed heavily before continuing, “Lately, I’ve found myself missing Monica. I mean, yeah, our relationship was toxic 80% of the time, but things were good when we were on good terms. She showered me with love and adoration and she was someone that I could call mine, even if it was only for a limited time. Occasional hookups are cool, but I miss being in love and the thought of pursuing something of that nature with Oya has me TERRIFIED,” she stomped, pushing his pen from the desk so that it rolled onto the floor.

“For the last time, would you calm down?” Erik’s voice was stern yet soft as he stared into her big doe eyes.

“I can’t help it, E,” she confessed looking up at him. “It’s quite obvious that Oya is interested, but I don’t know if I’m ready to go back down that road again. Not to mention, she wants a full-on domme/sub relationship. Monica and I only did a few scenes during our time together. I’m nobody’s domme.”

“You are,” he said frankly. “Your dick is bigger than mine most of the time, you just don’t seem to realize it. What are you afraid of?”

“Losing my license.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

Skylar furrowed her brows, shooting him a glare that made him square his shoulders and glare right back.

“I’m not lying.”

“Yes you are; your bottom lip is trembling. Just say you’re afraid of giving your all to someone only to get your heart broken again.”

Sky hung her head in defeat. Erik was right and she knew it, but the truth wasn’t what she wanted to hear at the moment.

“This is just so unprofessional. I pride myself on not getting attached to my clients and here I am considering a relationship with this girl.” She sighed again, rubbing her temples as she felt the beginning symptoms of a migraine building.

Erik carefully took her chin between his thumb and index finger, lifting her head so that her eyes met his.

“I understand your apprehension, but you’ve gotta understand that everybody ain’t Monica.”

“I know, but that’s something I’m not ready to deal with yet. When she comes by the office, I’ll propose some things she can implement with her current partners before offering myself up.”

“Good luck with that, but if she’s as straightforward as you say she is, she’s only gonna tell you that nothing worked with her other partners just so she can have you. That’s how brats operate Dr. Greene. I should know; I’m an expert,” he replied with a sly smirk that made Sky chuckle before she could catch herself.

“You’re so fucking arrogant,” she frowned pushing his face away from hers.

“I’m not arrogant, I’m confident there’s a difference. Plus, it made you laugh so my job as Best Friend of the Year is done.”

“I swear you get on my nerves but thank you. This talk was much needed and it’s helped put some things into perspective. I’m gonna go work on a therapy plan for Ms. Ramirez.”

“Aight, let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do,” Sky replied with a warm hug before walking out of his office and out to her car. As if on cue, her phone rang and Oya’s picture came into view. It was a candid taken when Oya wasn't paying her any mind.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Ramirez.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Greene,” Oya’s voice called back in a soft and seductive tone. “I was wondering if I could drop by your office, I have some things I’d like to discuss with you.”

Skylar swallowed thickly before replying, “Yes, I have an open slot for 1:00. Does that work for you?”

“Oh yes, that’s perfect. I’ll see you then.”

**

“Welcome to Kinky Sky Sex Therapy and Toy Emporium,” O’Shea called to the stranger when the bell of the shop dinged.

Oya paused, thinking to herself how much of a mouthful that was before her mind thought of how much she’d like a mouthful of --

“Hello again. O’Shea, right?” Oya replied to the slender beauty behind the counter.

“Yes, and you’re Oya, right?” Oya nodded with a smile. “Nice to meet you again."

"I had a 1:00 appointment with Dr. Greene, is she here?”

“She is. If you walk back to that last shelf of toys, you’ll notice a staircase. Take those down to the basement and you’ll see her.”

“The basement?” Oya replied, more than a little apprehensive.

“I know it sounds creepy, but it’s not as bad as you think. I promise,” Shea said reassuringly.

Oya nodded before walking through the long shelves of toys and lubricants until she reached the top of the white slate staircase. What she thought would be a dark, terrifyingly creepy sight was the opposite.

The walls were painted white with black and pink accents and the floors were grey slatewood. The northern wall held the security setup while the wall behind the desk held a bookshelf and all of Skylar’s degrees. Skylar’s desk sat in the middle of the space. It was a glass top with gold legs and sat atop a white fur rug with matching fur chair with gold legs in front. Skylar was seated behind the desk typing at her iMac, her brows furrowed in concentration.

“Dr. Greene?”

Skylar jumped, causing a pen to roll off her desk as her eyes met Oya’s.

“Oh, hi Oya. I’m sorry I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s fine, I just made it down here. Que bueno!”

Oya looked around at the office briefly on her way to take a seat in front of Sky’s desk, shamelessly staring at the S necklace that rested in her cleavage.

“So what did you want to talk about?” Sky asked, closing the document she’d been working on.

“Well, I tried one of the methods you suggested when I went out with my sister the other night. The vabbing technique.”

“Oh?” Skylar asked, grabbing a pen from the cup on her desk. “And how did it go?”

“Pretty well actually. I met a girl and we hooked up and it was cool I guess, but...”

“But?”

“I may have accidentally moaned your name during sex.”

“Wait… You did what now?”

Oya merely smirked, unable to hide the way Skylar’s reaction was making her feel.

“I’m sorry, but I just can’t stop thinking about you. Everything that she was doing to me made me wish it were you, so much so that I called her by your name. Like we were making out and things were getting heated and next thing I know instead of saying Celeste, I said Skylar.”

Skylar blinked for a few seconds before finally finding words to articulate her feelings.

“Oya, I’m your therapist. That’s extremely inappropriate.”

“Is it really? They're both sky-related names... Well, what about Surrogate Partner Therapy? Didn’t you receive funding to start experimenting with it?”

“Yes but--”

“So why don’t you let me be your first case.”

Skylar sighed in exasperation. If Oya was Erik, she would’ve cussed him out seeing as how he knew how much of a pet peeve it was for her to be interrupted. She instead chose to remain silent, intrigued to hear Oya’s point of view.

“Oya, it doesn’t work that way. SPT requires the use of someone else as the surrogate partner, not the therapist assigned to the client.”

“But what about Dr. Stevens? I could go back to being his client and he could start the process. It could be a joint project between the two of you.”

“You’ve really thought this out, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll speak with Dr. Stevens and we’ll get back to you.”

Oya leaned over the desk, tucking a stray curl behind Skylar’s ear.

“Don’t keep me waiting too long, Dr. Greene.”

**

“Damn, lil mama was prepared, huh?”

Erik asked as he finished the last bite of his volcano sushi rolls with extra eel sauce that he was currently addicted to thanks to his favorite brat. His feet were propped up on his desk and he was reclined back in his office chair staring down into the iPad screen as Sky stared back.

“Bruh, I was shook. I’m sure she saw it on my face too. Like, I’m not used to anyone being this straightforward with me other than you. It’s different,” she said, speaking a mile per minute.

“So… the real question is what do you wanna do, doctor?”

“I’ve been asking myself that for a week and I’m still drawing a blank.”

It was true. Skylar had gone over every possible scenario of a relationship with Oya and each time she was met with a standstill. Half of her wanted to pursue a relationship to see how things would work, while the other half was still stuck on the board finding out and losing her license. Erik hated the pained look in her eyes. He could feel her heart as if it were in his own chest.

“You mean you’re too pussy to live life? Come on, Sky. Yes, losing your license is serious, but what are the odds of that really happening? We’re both extremely careful and go through the details of our reports with fine-toothed combs. On paper, everything looks legit and aside from our personal relationship, O’Shea is doing well, is she not?”

“She is.”

“Alright then, live a little. Let babygirl bring some spice into your boring ass, lonely ass life. Invite her to lunch and eat her pussy under the table.”

“Wow, fuck you,” Sky replied, watching as he started on a truffle salmon roll. “I haven’t done that since O’Shea. Besides, I’m a Louisiana native. I’m spicy enough.”

“I can’t tell with ya boring ass,” he teased, popping the rest of the roll into his mouth.

“Those look good, bring me some.”

“Nigga! It’s lunchtime in LA and your office is 15 minutes away. It’s gonna take me an hour to get to you.”

“O’Shea’s wearing those green leather pants you like,” Sky sang sweetly, smirking at the way he readjusted his slacks as he sat up.”

“I’m on my way,” was all he said before the FaceTime ended. Skylar chuckled softly before pulling up Oya’s contact information.

Though he was incredibly annoying, she knew Erik was right. She had been overthinking the entire situation and needed to let things flow. If for some reason things went sour and she lost her license, she still had a successful adult toy business and more than enough money saved up to live comfortably for the rest of her life if she chose to.

Taking a deep breath she pressed the call button and allowed the rest of her inhibitions to fly out of the window.

“Hello?” Oya’s sultry voice rang from the opposite end of the receiver.

“Oya, it’s Dr. Greene. I was wondering if we could meet for lunch, there are some things I wanted to discuss in regards to your request for Surrogate Partner Therapy.” Skylar smiled softly as Oya’s audible gasp tickled her ears.

“That would be great, but my schedule is pretty full today with dance classes. How about tomorrow for dinner?”

Dinner? Skylar hadn’t been on an actual dinner date in over a year, too far consumed with work to entertain anyone longer than a few quick hookups. The thought of getting all dolled up and having a night on the town with a beautiful woman on her arm made her smile incredibly wide.

“I could do dinner. Is there anywhere in particular you’d like to go?” She asked, rubbing her chin as Erik’s explicit suggestion crossed her mind. The smile in Oya’s tone was infectious.

“Have you ever had Barton G.?”

**

“Do a spin and let us see you,” Erik’s voice called from Skylar’s iPad that sat next to her vanity mirror.

For the last hour, she’d been modeling outfits for him and O’Shea, searching for the perfect show-stopping ensemble for dinner with Oya. When she finally completed the 360 turn, they both seemed to be enamored with the lavender two-piece skirt set she’d picked. She’d straightened her usually curly locs and chose to wear a matching duster and clear chunky heels to complete the look. Though she’d decided against a full face of makeup, she still filled in her brows, applied some mascara to her lashes and her favorite nude lipstick to her full lips.

“That’s the one,” O’Shea said with finality.

“I second that notion,” Erik nodded, causing Skylar to break into a wide grin. She was excited to see how the night would play out and even more excited to see where her relationship with Oya would stand after dinner.

“Alright, I’ll call you two with an update when I make it home tonight.”

“Don’t go home, get some pussy,” Erik called, pulling the perfectly pearled blunt from behind his ear.

“Bye Nigga!”

Across town, Oya stood in her floor-length mirror admiring the denim colored two-piece skirt set she wore. Her hair was slicked into a low bun around her neck rested a silver statement necklace. The top stopped just below her breasts and the draped skirt stopped just above her left knee creating a high-low illusion. Her freshly shaved legs peeked from the split in the center and silver strappy heels rested on her feet. Her makeup was neutral, simple lashes and a nude lip completing the overall look. She knew she looked good and was determined to have Skylar eating out the palm of her hands… and maybe her vagina by the end of dinner.

After one final once over, Oya was out the door and on her way to meet the future love of her life. The drive to Barton G was short and soon the two women were face to face, both in awe of the other’s outfit choice.

“You look stunning,” Oya called as she admired the way the lavender skirt clung to Sky’s hips and thighs.

“As do you,” Sky replied with a sweet smile. “I went ahead and put our names on the waitlist so it shouldn’t be much longer before our table is ready.”

“Perfect,” Oya replied, taking the empty seat beside her. As she took in Sky’s appearance again, the bag in her lap attracted her attention. It was lilac with an iridescent crocodile pattern and gold hardware.

“Is that a Hermès Birkin bag?”

“Yes ma’am. It was my first big purchase after I opened my shop and I adore it.”

“Of course you’re a label whore,” Oya replied with a playful smirk.

Sky rolled her eyes, returning Oya’s smile.

“Whatever. Excuse me for enjoying the finer things in life. I worked my ass off to get my shop and when the time came, I chose to treat myself to something nice.”

“Pretty expensive treat,” Oya mumbled.

“It’s true. I am indeed,” Sky retorted with a wide grin.

“Greene, party of 2,” the hostess called pulling Skylar and Oya from their heated conversation about designer fashion.

“I’m sorry, there’s just no way I’d spent $20-$40K on a bag,” Oya fussed, following the hostess to their designated table.

“But they’re beautiful bags, plus they increase in value 15% every year. It’s an investment if anything,” Sky reasoned.

“Be that as it may, I’m not dropping that kind of cash on a bag and I’ll be damned if my partner does.”

“To each her own, I guess,” Skylar shrugged. “But if I buy it, you’re gonna accept it.”

“Says who?” Oya countered with a raised eyebrow.

Skylar took the bait smoothly as she pulled Oya’s chair out, motioning for her to sit down.

“Ya Mama,” she replied with a wink causing Oya to flash her a devilish grin.

“I see you’re not playing fair tonight, Dr. Greene.”

“How is answering a question proposed to me not playing fair?”

“You know how. Don’t throw around such titles if you aren’t prepared to fulfill them,” Oya challenged.

“You’re absolutely right which brings me to why I wanted to meet with you. After speaking with Dr. Stevens, we both think that you’d be a good candidate for our SPT research. On paper, he will be your assigned therapist and I will be your surrogate partner.”

Sky glanced up to catch Oya watching her intensely as she explained.

“I will also be implementing Dr. Stevens’ 7-Day schedule which will be used to aid in both your therapy as well as personal needs. Out of the seven days, two of them will be quiet days in which we have zero communication with one another and you do not have to engage in whatever treatment method we have assigned for that week.”

Another glance up, and Oya’s stare was still just as intense as before.

“If this method looks to be successful, then I’ll start implementing more extracurricular activities in our time together, Is this something that you think you would be interested in?”

Oya’s grin grew wide at the thought of the introduction of BDSM elements. She was also pleased with the fact that Skylar had put so much thought into her treatment.

“I’m in, but on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You spend the next two days with me, bonding, completely off the record. I want to see you in your natural state, and in these two days if you decide that a personal relationship isn’t what you want, then we’ll remain completely professional and well leave the extracurricular activities off the table.”

Skylar flinched, clearly taken aback by Oya’s change in tone.

“A-Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I want you to be completely comfortable with whatever this turns into and I don’t want you to feel forced simply because of how strong I came on to you. At the end of the day, you’re a doctor and you have a reputation to uphold and I don’t want you to lose what you built because of me.”

“T-That’s really sweet, Oya. No one has taken my feelings into consideration like that before other than Erik.”

“Listen, I know that Monica chick did a number on you emotionally, but all I’m asking for is just one chance to prove that I’m in a different class.”

“Fine, you can have your two days, but after that it’s back to business,” Sky said, attempting to regain her usual tough demeanor.

Oya caught on and smiled a sly smile.

“Yes Mama,” she said as the waitress came to take their orders.

The pair spent the remainder of dinner talking like old friends. Skylar learned that Oya was the youngest of four children and that all of her siblings were dancers and choreographers. Sky spoke of her fathers and how she and Erik came to become as successful as they were.

“So you don’t know your mom at all?” Oya asked, taking a sip of her Sabrina-tini.

“She died while giving birth to me. Papa Simon raised me by himself until I was two. That’s when Papa Ruben came along and the rest was history.”

“Did your parents influence your sexual preference?”

“Actually, no. I’ve had relationships with men in the past, but Erik was the one that made me realize that I wasn’t interested in a long-term relationship with a man. Then I met Monica and the rollercoaster began.”

“She was your first girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Why’d you guys break up if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Long story short, she was a seasonal gay and I got tired of being her escape.”

Oya nodded, having dealt with her share of toxic exes in the past.

“Well,” Oya said, raising her glass. “Here’s to new beginnings and lots of healing. May our days going forward be filled with joy and smiles and only tears of pure, unadulterated happiness.”

“Cheers,” Skylar said with a bright smile, unable to hide her excitement for what was to come.

**

“Pole dancing, huh? Kinky,” O’Shea said teasingly as she and Sky explored the extensive shoe closet on the second floor of Skylar’s condo. Oya had proposed the idea during their dinner the previous night, opting to do it on Sunday since her studio would be closed to her students.

“It’ll be fun, just you and I vibing to some dope music. I just may teach you a thing or two.”

Oya’s teasing tone was loud in Skylar’s ear as she combed through another wall of shoes. Oya had instructed her to bring a pair of heels because she would be getting on a pole, a statement that had Sky turning her nose up slightly.

“If my thick ass fall, I’m fighting her,” Sky fussed, holding up a pair of black, strappy Louboutins.

“And I’m gonna fight you if you think you wearing Louboutins to a pole dancing class. This is real life, not the movies. Besides, you need something with a platform to help maintain your balance,” O’Shea said, grabbing a pair of clear 6-inch heels with a pink sole and iridescent glitter platform bottoms. “These are perfect! Try them on!”

Sky grabbed the shoes from her and put them on, towering over Shea as she strutted back and forth in the closet.

“Great, now I just have to figure out what I’m wearing,” Sky replied staring at herself in the mirror. She was currently wearing a baby pink cross-back bralette and matching leggings.

“That looks good. Pole dancing is exercise, after all, so you want to be comfortable.”

Sky thought for a bit before nodding in agreeance.

“Alright, well let me get going. We agreed to meet at 4.”

“Alright, be safe and have fun!” O’Shea called, following Sky outside.

After sending a quick confirmation text, Skylar punched the address of the studio into her GPS and made her way downtown.

The studio was dimly lit with pink and purple lights. The front wall of the studio held five floor-length mirrors while the back wall was painted burnt orange. In all, ten poles stretched across the entire floor in two lines and two speakers occupied the upper corners above the mirrors.

“Right on time,” Oya’s voice called from somewhere above Sky’s head.

She craned her neck to see Oya swinging from an aerial hoop. She moved so gracefully and elegantly, each movement flowing in incredible precision. It looked so easy, but Sky knew better than to think such. She smiled as Oya carefully lowered herself to the floor and padded over to her, greeting her with a gentle hug.

“I’m so glad you agreed to this class. We’re gonna have so much fun,” Oya said with a bright smile. She led Sky to a spot in the back where she could put her bag down and change shoes before pulling her to the center of the room between the two rows of poles.

“First, we’re going to do some stretches. We need your body as loose and limber as possible that way you don’t hurt yourself while on the pole.” Sky made a face before joining Oya on the floor.

“I told O’Shea we were gonna fight if I fall off one of these poles,” Sky said with a chuckle before spreading her legs in a wide v shape, lowering her upper half to the floor.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Dr. Greene,” Oya replied with a smirk before copying Sky’s pose.

Sky bit her lip to contain her smile at the way Oya enunciated her name before speaking.

“This is off the record and we’re out of the office so you can just call me Sky or Skylar.”

“I prefer Sunshine if we’re being honest,” Oya said with a sweet smile that Sky couldn’t help but return.

“Okay, Sunshine it is.”

After they were all stretched out and warmed up, Oya began the lesson.

“The first thing we’re going to learn is a basic spin. The easiest one to do is the fireman spin, kinda like we used to do on the playground. I’ll demonstrate first and then explain it in detail.”

“I know how to do that,” Sky remarked with a sneer as she watched Oya spin around the bottom of the pole.

“Alright, then missy. Let’s see you do it,” Oya urged, clapping teasingly as Sky completed the spin.

“Okay, let’s do something a little more complicated. This next move is called the chair spin. It’s just like the fireman, but as you’re going around, I want you to lift your knees towards your chest and keep your feet elevated as you spin. Like this,” Oya explained before demonstrating. It took a few tries, but Sky finally got the hang of it and was ready to move onto the next spin.

“This third spin is called the back hook. You’re gonna grip the pole with your right hand, wrap your right leg around it and let the universe do its thing. As you’re going around, you’re gonna grip the pole near the bottom with your left hand,” Oya explains.

“Let the universe do its thing? You mean gravity because that shit sounds like I’m going to bust my ass and get a concussion. Now how exactly do you plan to explain that to my fathers? Me being concussed, I mean?” Sky asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Just try it, scaredy-cat. I promise I’m not gonna let you concuss yourself,” Oya giggled.

By the end of the 2-hour lesson, Sky could successfully do the back hook along with the climb, the seat, and carousel spin, which she deemed her personal favorite.

After a few sips of water, Skylar took a seat in one of the chairs along the wall and watched Oya dance. Mid-way through the class, she opted to sit her phone down on the floor in front of the mirrors to record a few videos to send to Erik and Shea once they were done. Since Oya was putting on a show, she decided to give her some music to vibe to. Soon, the mellow sounds of Tadow by Masego filled the studio. Oya’s limber body swayed effortlessly to the beat.

Oh oh I saw her and she hit me like (tadow) // Saw that thing so beautiful (tadow)

She just hit my heart, oh (tadow) // Full force and she got me like (tadow)

Sky closed her eyes, allowing the music to transport her to her happy place. Everything grew still and tranquil and she just existed freely with Oya, no distractions and no apprehension. Deep down she knew she wanted this woman, but couldn’t seem to shake that nagging, fearful voice in the back of her mind. She shook her head, not wanting to go down that road at the moment. She was content and happy right where she was and wanted to stay that way.

When she opened her eyes again, Oya was straddling her lap, rolling her hips sensually to Body Party by Ciara. Just as she was finding her groove, California Love by Tupac began blaring through the speakers, signaling an incoming call from Erik. Not wanting to disturb the beauty in her lab, she answered the call from her Apple Watch.

“Yes?” was all she said as she wrapped her arms around Oya’s waist.

“I knew it! Best friend getting booty! You owe me $50!” he yelled to O’Shea who was sitting next to him.

“Wait, you niggas bet on me?!” she exclaimed, moving Oya slightly to the right to stare down into the camera.

“It was a spur of the moment thing, but yes. I figured you’d take my advice, but I wasn’t expecting you to be getting booty in the studio.”

“Ain’t nobody getting booty,” Skylar fussed. “She’s only dancing.”

“I mean if you want some booty, that can be arranged,” Oya said with a smirk.

“Hush, ain’t nobody talking to you. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Yes Mama,” Oya teased, continuing her ministrations.

“Mama?!” Erik and O’Shea yelled in unison, sounding like Soulja Boy on his Breakfast Club interview. Oya giggled, looking back at Sky who was shaking her head at her best friend and employee’s antics.

“Move nigga! I wanna see too!” O’Shea fussed, snatching Erik’s phone from his hand. “Ooh, her ass fat,” Shea exclaimed, putting her whole face in the camera like a kid asking if you had games on your phone.

“You know what, bye!” Sky said, ending the call before returning her focus to Oya.

“How do you deal with them?”

“I ignore them most of the time if we’re being honest,” Sky said with a chuckle. “You know, you look really good in my lap,” Sky remarked as Oya slowed her motions.

“Really now? You tryna keep me here, Sunshine?”

“I just might, pretty girl,” Sky said, lifting her head slightly meeting Oya’s lips in a soft kiss. It was soft and slow, with a hint of tongue and a few lip bites. It felt right and when they were done, Sky was lightheaded. She bit her lip softly as Oya stared down at her, returning her heated gaze.

“Wanna go again?”

**

After another 3-4 hours dancing and making out, Skylar and Oya parted ways, making plans to visit Little Tokyo for their date the following day. Sky kept her promise to call Erik once she was finally home safely, making sure to tell him every tiny little detail that transpired after their FaceTime call abruptly ended.

“Finally! Bold Sky is making a comeback!”

“Oh my God, shut up!” Skylar exclaimed, hiding her face in her sherpa blanket to cover the fact that her face was as red as the soles of her Louboutins as if Erik could see her. “Her lips are super soft, though. I swear it felt like I was kissing a cloud.”

“I’m proud of you. So what did you guys decide on for her therapy?”

“Well, I’m gonna implement the 7-Day schedule that you have with O’Shea and if that works out then I’ll gradually introduce BDSM elements.”

Erik nodded, rubbing his chin occasionally.

“I like that and if you need some tips, let me know.”

“Will do, boss man. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to have a nice long soak. We stretched out muscles I forgot I had.”

“Keep on, let her stretch some more shit out,” Erik teased, his wide grin evident in his tone.

“Goodbye, Dr. Nigga!” Sky screeched, hanging up in his face. She couldn’t help the wide grin that stretched across her face as she recalled the way Oya’s lips felt against hers or the way her body felt as they rolled against one another on the floor of the studio.

While she showered, she imagined what Oya’s other set lips tasted like, or how she would sound moaning her name as her tongue lapped up her essence until she came undone over and over again.

Before she knew it her fingers were inside her flower, plunging deeper and deeper until her back rested against her shower wall, a pool of her juices flowing down the drain. She bit her lip as she thought about the introduction of BDSM to their relationship. If the mere thought of Oya had her behaving this way, there’s no telling what would happen when the two were finally intimate, but she was eager to find out.

**

The bell on the door of the flower shop dinged, signaling the departure of the final patron of Nola Greene Florists, the flower shop Skylar’s fathers owned. Hibiscus flowers, Louisiana Irises, and Gardenias were just a few of assorted flowers that lined the different shelves of the shop, all blooming bright and filling the space with a heavenly scent. Ruben was in a corner tending to a row of hibiscuses when he glanced over at Simon who was sitting behind the counter going over inventory.

“Have you heard from your daughter?” Ruben asked as he plucked another dead leaf from the plant.

“We spoke for a bit the other night. She apparently has an ice cream date today,” Simon replied looking up from the clipboard.

“A date?! And she didn’t tell her father?” Ruben gasped, almost trimming the head of a hibiscus as he ranted.

“Well damn, what am I? Chopped liver?”

“I didn’t mean it like that Simey Bear,” Ruben coaxed. “She just usually shares these kinda things with me first. I guess I feel a little jealous.”

“You’re such a diva,” Simon said with a chuckle. “The one time she tells me something before you, you’re up in arms.”

Ruben pouted slightly. Ever since Skylar was a child, they would always talk about the boys she liked and he would be the one to help with her hair and makeup.

“So what exactly does this boy look like?”

“It’s not a boy,” Simon said with a smirk.

“Oh? It’s another fish? It better not be that Monica heifer!” Ruben shouted as he slammed the shears on the counter.

“You know, she didn’t say,” Simon recalled, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Let’s call her.”

**

The streets were relatively clear as Skylar and Oya walked hand in hand through Little Tokyo. They grabbed a few t-shirts from Popkiller, Skylar’s favorite being the Kawaii Kanye shirt Oya picked out before leaving and heading to the Tokyo Japanese Outlet. There, Skylar bought herself a life-size Jigglypuff plush while Oya browsed the pin section. Sky rolled her eyes playfully as Oya stuck the ‘I Love Cat’ pin to the front of her shirt, rubbing her head against her chest purring.

“You’re aggy,” Sky said before playfully pushing her head away.

“Yet you’re still here with me,” Oya countered, walking out of the shop in search of food.

The pair decided on Shen Sin Gumi. Skylar remembered O’Shea talking about how great the food was and how they had the best ramen in LA. They both settled on spicy tonkotsu ramen with kikiruge mushrooms, green onions, and extra chashu. Skylar also ordered a side of takoyaki and chicken gyoza while Oya got a side of veggie tempura.

“Damn,” Skylar exclaimed slurping a noodle. “This is the best ramen in LA.”

Oya nodded in agreeance, taking a bite of the veggie tempura.

“It is. We should start letting O’Shea pick out food spots more often.”

“We should. All the little fat fuck does is eat,” Sky chuckled.

After lunch and more exploring of Little Tokyo, the pair ended their date at Bae, Skylar’s favorite ice cream shop because of their quirky flavor options and the overall ambiance of the parlor.

Oya couldn’t help the smile that stretched across her face when her eyes fell on the neon sign that read ‘With love, from bae’ as soon as they walked in.

“Real cute, Greene.”

“I know,” Skylar smirked back. The pair sampled several different flavors of ice cream, their mutual favorites being Pegasus, Mixed Feelings, Ube, and Heartbreak. Skylar’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much and she was in the middle of telling one of Papa Simon’s favorite jokes when her phone rang.

“Speak of the devil,” she said, answering the FaceTime call. “Hello father,” she said with a playful eye roll.

“Now is that any way to greet your father?” Simon asked, holding the phone close to his face in an attempt to see who Skylar was with.

Sky caught on and moved to the other side of the table.

“You’re right, where are my manners? Hello Papa Simon. How are things with you and Papa Ruben?”

“They’re good, my dearest. How are things with you and your friend?” Skylar decided to play dumb a little longer.

“Erik is fine. We’re both experimenting with SPT with our current clients and so far, things have been going well.”

Ruben, knowing the game his daughter was playing snatched the phone from Simon and commanded the screen.

“Cut the bullshit, Moreau. Let us see her.”

Skylar smiled as she bit her lip and moved back to sit beside Oya once more.

“Oya, these are my fathers, Simon and Ruben Greene. Dads, this is Oya.”

“Oh Skylar, she’s stunning,” Ruben exclaims, causing Oya to blush.

“Thank you, sir. It’s nice to meet you, Skylar talks about you all the time.”

“She better,” Ruben teased. “Okay, finish your date. I just had to make sure it wasn’t that part-time gay heifer.”

Skylar laughed at that.

“No Daddy, Monica is a distant memory. As a matter of fact, I think Oya just may be a permanent addition of she acts right,” Sky smirked, glancing over at Oya.

“Excuse you, madam?” Oya said with mock offense.

“I’m just playing, pretty girl,” Sky coaxed, stroking her cheek with her thumb.

“Mmhm... Tell me anything,” Oya teased, sucking her thumb off camera.

“Oop, she’s spicy. I like her,” Ruben said. “Well, you two enjoy your date. Papa Simon and I will check in on you later.”

“Yes, sir. Bye Dads,” Sky said as she ended the call. She shoved her phone back in her jacket pocket as Oya went to grab another double scoop of Heartbreak.

As she caught herself staring at the light-skinned, curly red-haired cutie before her, one thing was certain: She was fucked. Absolutely, positively, 100% fucked. She now knew how Erik felt the first time he realized how enamored he was with O’Shea and she wanted to curse herself for teasing him the way she did. Not since Monica had anyone made her feel so free and uninhibited and initially, she was very apprehensive about it. But once she saw Oya’s smile spread across her face and create that subtle twinkle in her eye, Skylar made it her business to have it on display more often.

“What?” Oya’s voice pulled Skylar from her thoughts and it was then that she realized she had been staring the entire time.

“H-Huh? What?”

“You were staring again, Moreau,” Oya responds with a sly smirk, extending a hand to brush a few stray curls from her face.

“You getting real comfortable with my middle name, Ms. Ramirez,” Sky remarks, leaning over to steal a lick of her ice cream cone.

“Just like you getting comfortable with my damn ice cream, ya thief!” Oya says with a laugh.

“It looked good, I couldn’t help myself!” Skylar screeched, throwing her arms up in mock surrender.

“Uh-huh, I bet you couldn’t. You gone make me fight you,” Oya fussed.

“Aww, don’t be like that, pretty girl,” Sky teased, causing Oya’s grin to stretch wider.

“You lucky you’re a hot doctor,” Oya smirked, stealing a lick from Skylar’s Pegasus cone.

Sky only smirked and shook her head as she watched Oya eat.

“You’re trouble, Ms. Ramirez.”

“Glad you know, Dr. Greene.”

**

The next morning found Skylar smiling from ear to ear as she entered the shop. O’Shea watched with a smirk as she bounced on her toes all the way down to her office.

“I take it you had a good time?”

“I had a great time. She’s sweet, she’s funny, and she doesn’t take any of my shit which is something I’ll have to get used to, but I enjoy it.”

“You and Erik really are two sides of the same coin. I bet he tells you the same shit about me.”

“That he does.”

“Awww, Sky Bear is in love,” O’Shea teased, poking at Skylar’s sides.

“I’m not in love, yet, but there is a possibility that something more than business will come from this and I’m not opposed.”

O’Shea squealed, kicking her feet like an excited schoolgirl.

“I’m so happy for you. You’ve been through so much and it’ll be nice for you to be loved the way you deserve to be.”

“Aww, thanks, Shea. That’s really sweet of you to say.”

“And I mean it, too. Oh, I almost forgot,” O’Shea squeaked as she bound up the stairs and back down again. “These were delivered for you.”

Sky raised an eyebrow before taking the bouquet of sunflowers from O’Shea. They smelled heavenly and hand a little black card attached.

“Ooh, what does it say?” Shea asked, bouncing excitedly. Sky grabbed the card and smiled from ear to ear as she read the message aloud.

“To my Sunshine,

May your day be as beautiful and as sweet as this bouquet.”

-With love,

From Bae

Links to pole moves used above:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rZxMFtZxPko&t=116s

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tap-qXHJIpQ&t=132s

TAG LIST:

@vikkidc @thadelightfulone @sydneebleu @blktinkerbell @madamslayyy @chaneajoyyy @jozigrrl @thehomierobbstark @ @iamrheaspeaks @mareethequeen @forbeautyandlife @whatmoredoyouwantamericaa @blowmymbackout @wakanda-inspired @yaachtynoboat711 @nickidub718 @heyauntieeee @princessstevens @bakarilennox @xaviera108 @alexundefined @raysunshine78 @dameshaemonique @laketaj24 @youreadthatright @theogbadbitch @bugngiz @amirra88 @post-woke @im5ftbutmythroat66 @blackpinup22 @maya-leche @blessyd-bthyname @unholyxcumbucket @eclecticblkgirl @kissmyafropuff @rick-sosa @jennajai @allhailqueennel @killmongersbaby @eye-raq @thickemadame @soulfulbeauty19

[fullstop-official]

A Hellish Freak Disaster with Burning Rubble and No Survivors

AKA: Chapter One - July 18

In three days, everything will change.

But right now, Travis Longfield is swatting his free hand at my shoulder as punishment for having my feet up on the space above the glovebox in the Gator – his Wrangler nicknamed aptly for its military-appropriate paint job. I have to laugh a little at his feeble attempt to keep straight on the road and hit me at the same time, more to mock him than anything else. But I finally give in and give up my recline before he takes his chance at the next stop sign to go for the ankles.

“You care about this thing too much, dude,” I tease, “I’m not allowed to sit comfortably – Jesus, I can’t even eat in here!”

“Do you want her to end up like Cole’s car?” The Gator, of course, has always been a her. “He wrecked that Cherokee. It can’t be saved. They should write it off for internal damage.”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry I upset your girlfriend here. I won’t dirty her up.”

“I’m not really worried about that,” he says with a smirk. “You’re not even the one dirtying up your own girlfriend.”

His comment makes my mood immediately plummet, and, as we pull into the Mechis’ driveway behind a sleek, black Lexus, my mood suddenly becomes a satellite that drops from the stratosphere, falling down, down, down toward the earth at thousands of miles per hour and on fire. Travis parks the Gator and we both climb out. He takes a moment to pull his guitar case from the back seat before we go about picking our way around the aforementioned Lexus and Cole’s hopelessly-stained, wrapper-littered Grand Cherokee to reach the side door to the garage.

We enter, and we’re the last two to arrive. Cole is sprawled out on the duct-taped loveseat by the wall that’s way too tiny to fit all of him. He looks over and his shaggy and badly-highlighted hair flips naturally as his head turns. Still, our appearance isn’t enough to steal his attention away from loudly strumming a progression of power chords on his guitar in order to mess with Matt. Matt is attempting to tune his bass on the other side of the room in spite of the noise, but probably isn’t having an easy time without anything that resembles quiet. Bryson is on the beat-up couch opposite of Cole, scribbling in a binder that’s full of schedules, sets, general to-do lists, and other notes that he says are necessary and need to be kept – though the entire thing is so crammed with papers that it will explode one day.

My satellite mood fails to brace for impact and crashes against the ground, colliding in a hellish, freak disaster with burning rubble and no survivors when I see the Lexus’ owner practicing the screeches that she calls “vocal warmups” by her mic stand, front and center. Saying she’s my mortal enemy undoubtedly makes me sound like some sort of comic book supervillain, but I’ve never come up with anything more accurate and less theatrical and childish to describe what we have. Our rivalry would probably take an entire war map with battalions and flags to comprehend.

I met Selena Walton when we were in seventh grade – briefly – but truly got to know and dislike her the following year when our feud officially ignited. It was just shortly after that, during the same year, that the rest of us really jumped on the idea of forming the band and, by the end of eighth grade, we’d seen it through.

There was just one problem. I play the drums. Travis is lead guitar, and Cole is on second. Matt plays bass. Bryson covers keyboard when we need it for certain songs, but otherwise acts as our manager. We were good on our own, just the five of us, but when things started getting more and more serious, we had a debate about lyrics.

Cole is an incredible singer – when he’s singing unclean vocals (the screamo parts). When it comes to singing regularly, he may as well just strangle a bird on stage; the sound it would make is more or less the same. Our preferred genre of punk and its “close-enough” offshoots (we’ve found that a healthy mixture brings in a bigger audience) are starting to blur the lines a little, but we all agreed that we wouldn’t be a full-fledged screamo band. We resolved to use his talent conservatively. The rest of the guys couldn’t carry a tune to save their lives.

I can sing, but drummers stay at the back of the stage, and squishing the two roles together makes the show lose a certain kind of energy. The audience generally likes to see the singer while they’re singing. I can sing backup, but there needs to be someone up front. A hype man.

Enter Selena Walton. Unwelcomely welcomed to the band after our first five months of minimal lyrics with a three-to-two vote.

And whom I hate more than anyone else in the universe.

And maybe it would be slightly better if she didn’t front our band. I have nothing against female punk singers, or really just female singers in general. Many of them are good, even pretty great. Selena, however, is an exception. She hates the vast majority of the music that we perform. And, though what she does is technically considered singing, she is an alto who thinks she’s a soprano, which is the worst kind of alto and does not make for a spectacular – or even subpar – show. Her signature style is going up a few too many notes at the end of nearly every line, regardless of whether or not she can hit them, and it is such a pain to listen to that I’m surprised my head hasn’t shattered like glass, or exploded like Bryson’s band binder is going to do. This is all in addition to her entitled, annoying, spoiled brat attitude which is all wrapped up into one short, oblivious, bitchy, brunette package.

I wish that was the end of it, but, devastatingly, having Selena as our lead singer isn’t even the terrible part. I can deal with that. But about a year ago, band practice went from being the few hours a week that I had to tolerate the fact she exists to my own, personal hell.

Bryson’s managerial skills are sharp, but PR-wise he tends to run things like a scripted reality TV show in order to make us stand out from other local acts so people can invest in our “personal” lives. I don’t know what celebrity dating scandal gave him the idea, but a fake inter-band relationship was proposed and, by some weird misfortune, not immediately vetoed. After a ton of arguing, I literally drew the short straw.

Selena Walton is my fake girlfriend.

And I hate her.

At the very least, after a year of playing pretend (and having her hang off of me during shows after spitting in my face behind the scenes), I haven’t actually been forced to kiss her or anything yet. I think I’d have to tear off my lips and cauterize the wounds if that happened.

Bryson still sticks to his delusional claim that having us fake date is a good thing for the band, even though it causes more drama when we’re alone together than it ever does when we’re out in the public eye. I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be able to keep it up because Selena only acts like she’s staying faithful to me when, in reality, she’s probably slept with every guy who’s ever looked at her for more than five seconds. Pretending that I tolerate her is a tough challenge, but I deserve an Oscar for acting like I love her.

And so, when Travis and I walk in, she pretends to ignore me, but I watch her in my peripheral when she thinks I’m not paying attention. She gives me a look; it’s a spiteful, almost disgusted scowl. For what it’s worth, I’m glad she can just barely endure my mere presence. It’s the one thing about this entire situation that makes me feel all happy and light inside.

Travis sets his case down to take out his guitar, and I go sit on the arm of the couch next to Bryson. Since we cleared out his garage to act as our rehearsal space, my setup has lived here permanently and I’m the only one who ever touches my drums. They only move for gigs, and I don’t have much to prepare before practice.

Cole gives me a subtle nod, but doesn’t stop strumming one of our originals. “S’up, Scott,” he greets me. He uses my last name instead of my first. Bryson, Matt, and Cole have all done that as long as I’ve known them – apparently, the single syllable of my surname is easier than having to waste energy saying the two in Morgan.

I glance over Bryson’s shoulder after nodding back. The paper he’s mentally wrestling with has July twentieth – Friday’s date – and the time of our show at the top. The rest is the final setlist he’s been compiling that has only just been finished. It takes us a long time to decide which songs we’ll be playing, and in what order. (I blame Selena.) The one thing that Bryson has left blank is the space after encore:.

We always do an encore. And it’s always a Paramore song because they’re the only non-objectionable option Selena likes. Paramore is an amazing group, and I do like their music, but if she doesn’t learn to like literally anyone else, I’ll start to lose my goddamn mind.

Bryson taps his pen against the paper for another minute, and then grabs the list and, leaving the space empty, shuts the binder. Our logo is on the front of it, slipped into the plastic cover. It’s just a black circle with our band name, Full Stop., inside of it in an all-caps, blocky, white font. We let Cole design it – we’d said we wanted something simple, and, though it looks like something that was created in Microsoft Paint (and it probably was), he’d delivered. Selena thinks it’s too plain, which is why I think it’s the most wonderful graphic in the world. I wear one of our T-shirts as much as possible and I’m met with her judgy glare each time.

I watch Bryson set the binder aside and look over the setlist another time before rising. “I guess we can start,” he announces. Cole’s instrument abruptly stops. The garage, however, is not entirely silent. Matt and Travis use the absence of guitar riffs to actually tune their instruments. At the very least, Selena shuts up.

I proceed over to my kit, and purposefully bump Selena’s shoulder with my arm as I pass. She’s about five-foot-four – about a head shorter than me – and it irritates her when I “accidentally” run into her. It makes my whole day. I sit on the stool and the others slowly start to claim their positions. Cole drags his amp over from the loveseat, and Travis pulls the elastic from his hair so it falls just to his shoulders. He claims having it loose helps him rock harder. I fail to see the correlation, but he’s a damn good guitarist, so I try not to question his methods.

As Matt takes his place, and Selena taps her microphone to make sure no one (me) has muted it behind her back again, I put my earplugs in and grab my sticks. They feel like an extension of my body when I hold them – like having just a little bit more to my arms. My nerves begin to hum with anticipation. I saw the first song and I’m pumped to play it.

Bryson gets started and reads the set from the paper like always: song title, and then the artist for Selena’s music-illiterate benefit. He only skips the artist if it’s one of our originals – at least she knows the titles of those. And she seems to tolerate singing them. Sometimes.

“Okay, open with This Could Be Anywhere in the World – Alexisonfire. Selena will take a sec to introduce everything, then Silver Bullet – Hawthorne Heights, right into Bring Me To The Light. Selena can improvise something after that. Green Day’s Holiday smoothly into Boulevard of Broken Dreams, then You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid – The Offspring, and this is the working title for the story of two crazy kids.”

“We never really found a title for that, did we?” Travis says teasingly. He throws a small smirk my way.

“No,” I agree in a similar manner, “We really didn’t.”

If he’s going to make fun of me, I’m taking it in stride. I wrote that particular number, and a fair chunk of our other originals. I think that sometimes my titles are pretty good, even when they’re just chorus lyrics. But sometimes – well, they’re that.

“Selena improvises something, and then we go to the Red Block,” Bryson continues without missing another heartbeat. I’m pretty sure I hear his voice raise a little to grab our focus again. “Red Flag – Billy Talent, Red Sam – Flyleaf, and Something Different – Red As Dusk. Selena says stuff. Changing – Saosin. Pressure – Paramore. Selena talks. Be Like The Zeros. Kiss Me, Kill Me – Mest, and Selena introduces the final song. Strong finish with Postcards – Amber Pacific. Got it?”

Four of us nod, or make our brief sounds of agreement. Selena ruins the unanimous confirmation.

“And my encore?”

“If I keep thinking about that, I’ll have a fucking aneurysm,” Bryson says with a straight face. He passes her the setlist. He knows if we start having that discussion now, this won’t be a rehearsal, it’ll be a homicide. “Just run through what we’ve got. We can look at that when I know this set is okay.”

She mutters, “Well, for once I’d like to know what we’re doing before the night of the gig.”

“Yeah, then maybe we could do something other than Misery Business, or Still Into You, or Rose-Colored Boy, or – no, wait. That’s about it, huh?”

She doesn’t turn, but she does stick her middle finger up at me. I hear Travis try to softly suppress amused laughter; a small, entertained huff escapes him. She hates me. It’s so great.

“Please just practice the damn set.” Bryson’s voice has shifted to something like exhausted pleading. He’s not in the mood to break up a fight today. I mean, he’s going to have to anyway – there’s not a single doubt in my mind there – but he doesn’t want to. He always gets this way so close to a show. The stick doesn’t come out of his ass until the stage lights go off.

To ease his stress a little, we do as he says.

This Could Be Anywhere in the World is one of Cole’s favourites to perform because nearly half of it is unclean vocals. This means that it’s one of my favourites to perform because Selena’s unstable wailing only has to pierce my auricular space half as much.

And it’s a ton of fun to play on drums.

Once she’s butchered her way through Silver Bullet and one of our originals, I’m introduced as the representative from California by one of Travis’ very few spoken contributions during Holiday. Even though its absolutely necessary, Selena hates the fact that I’m the best she’s got for clean backup vocals that won’t make our audience’s ears bleed. She especially despises this brief part Matt and I share – my voice and drumming and his iconic bass line – simply because it takes the attention off of her for nearly a full bridge. I sing the rebellious lyrics with a smirk shot her way. She flips me off.

Selena hates singing You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid, and sings this is the working title for the story of two crazy kids terribly in an attempt to annoy me. She makes it painfully obvious that she’s suffering through the Red Block, and gets a smidge better during Changing because a Paramore song follows. She always complains that I use too much cymbal during Pressure. I wonder if she’s actually listened to the song, or if she’s just deaf.

I watch her reach for the list again as it comes to a close and beat her to it.

“I Love How You Say We Can Be Anything But Treat Us Like Shit.”

“That’s not what it’s called!” she snaps.

“Sorry. Be Like The Zeros, parentheses: I Love How You Say We Can Be Anything But Treat Us Like Shit.”

She turns a bit just so I have the luxury of seeing her roll her eyes.

“What? Do I need to say it backwards too?”

I can visibly see the rage manifest inside of her head and, with another smirk that I can’t help at this point, and that I can’t say is innocent, I launch into a hidden talent that frustrates her to no end. I don’t know exactly how I came across it, I just know that I’m able to do it and she’s not. Travis can do it as well, and he watches me with amusement as I drive Selena up the wall. I picture the smoke coming out of her ears as she glares at me.

“Tihs ekil su taert tub gnihtyna eb nac ew yas uoy woh evol I,” I recite. “Bryson knows the title – he wrote it!”

“Just start the damn song, Scott,” Bryson sighs rather than taking a side, even though I’m right.

I don’t give Selena the chance to have the final word. The crash cymbal screams beneath my stick in the intro. Thankfully, Bryson purposefully wrote this song in the right key for her alto voice, so I don’t have to hear her try and fail to sing outside of her vocal range.

 “My mind is clouded like a smokehouse / I think I need a light to find what I was gonna say / My body’s numb and feeling funny / Lost here in a strange place / Just another average day.”

 I’m sure Bryson is relieved when we finally make it to the end of Postcards without another interruption. The first hour of practice ends with our finalized setlist played in full and no unstoppable brawls.

“Can we talk about my encore now, Bryson?” Selena demands at the final note, ever the princess.

Bryson starts to look as if he would rather eat his own hand than discuss the encore and incite her wrath, but also that he knows if we don’t talk about it beforehand, we’ll have to pick ten minutes before the show and we’ll end up doing Let The Flames Begin again.

“Okay, fine,” he relents. “Band meeting.”

I set down my sticks and pull out my earplugs as the guys put their guitars on the assorted stands. Selena leaves her mic and goes to take a seat. She hates sitting on the furniture because everything in here is a relic too shitty for a thrift store; it’s all either tearing, patched with duct tape, or just too stained or dusty to be used by anyone other than a semi-successful garage band in LA. Selena’s in one, but she doesn’t act like it.

We make it a habit to sit as far away from each other as possible. Matt and Bryson take the loveseat where Selena’s perched herself on the one not-duct-taped arm that’s probably going to need a layer of the stuff in about a month. Travis, Cole, and I take the couch.

“Thoughts?” Bryson asks. I can tell he’s bracing himself.

I am too, but I keep my mouth shut and wait for Selena to get her terrible idea out of the way first.

“We should do Ain’t It Fun,” she pitches. “It’s always a crowd-pleaser.”

“It would be if our regular crowd hadn’t already heard you sing it a hundred thousand times.”

“What’s fucking wrong with that?” Her angled eyebrows raise, and I can already see her pupils filling up with fire. If anyone else had said it, she wouldn’t be as pissed off, and that simple fact alone is why I argue in the first place.

“Should I say it forwards or backwards?” I demand. She scowls. “They’re getting bored! If we lose the audience at Underground, we won’t get gigs, and Full Stop. is just fucked! Back me up here, Bryce.”

Selena whips her head around to glare at Bryson so fast that I expect her to break her neck, and I’m almost disappointed when she doesn’t. Bryson’s biting into his cheek, not wanting to say that I’m right in order to avoid her fury, but not denying it either. The others show their agreement plainly – Matt’s mouth takes on an uncertain slant, eyes bright, and Cole can’t stop himself from nodding subtly. Travis wears a smirk. He always takes my side in this war.

“Oh, fuck you guys!” she spits. Her defeat is a delicate sound. It’s like music to my ears.

“What do you want to do, Scott?” Bryson asks. His voice is calm, a mediator.

“We already have a Paramore song in the set. We can’t do another. We need to try something new this time. An original, or–” I rifle through my mental music library. I know which songs we’ve done, and all of the options we haven’t ever tried because Selena is a brat with bad taste. “Maybe actually try some My Chemical Romance for once? They’re a fucking staple to the punk-pop genre.”

“Ew, no,” Selena interrupts. “Veto.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Where do I start? They’re terrible.”

“First of all, how dare you.”

“Here we go,” Bryson sighs. He goes unheard.

“Second, do you have a better idea?”

“Yeah, like fifty! We should do something by The Chainsmokers.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“What? They’re good!”

“No, they’re overplayed! The crowd will be asleep before we even start. They’re not even punk!”

“You’re such a fucking snob!”

“Wow! Look, everyone! The pot is calling the kettle black!”

“Guys! Holy fuck – calm down!” Bryson’s voice cuts through us both. He’s rubbing his temples to curb the migraine Selena’s clearly bringing upon him. “Can we all remember that music is subjective?”

For a moment, the silence rests. Travis is clearly entertained and firmly stuck on my side. Bryson’s trying to fight off that brain aneurysm he promised himself. Cole and Matt are somewhere between rolling their eyes and coming up with an excuse to leave.

Selena is on the brink of completely detonating. Her jaw is set, posture disturbed and rigid. She doesn’t remove her beady, flaming eyes from me, and looks like she’s trying to murder me with her sheer force of will. In her imagination, she’s probably stabbing me with one of my drumsticks. Her tiny fists are clenched.

“Marianas Trench,” she says through her teeth.

“Are you joking? You’d need a church choir just to sing half their crap,” I say. “Dead Kennedys.”

“Veto. Ed Sheeran.”

“Worse than The Chainsmokers. Jimmy Eat World.”

“What? With their one fucking song? Vance Joy.”

“Who?”

That one really makes her mad, so I grin as I say it. She knows I know who Vance Joy is – if only because she’s mentioned him four million times and butchered one of his stupid indie songs over and over again with her shrieking.

“Good Charlotte,” I suggest.

She rolls her eyes. “Twenty One Pilots.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Really?” For a brief moment, I watch her little, round face light up.

“Yeah, as soon as you can rap, feel free to buy us all synths and ukuleles. I’m sure your Daddy can afford it.”

She’s so angry that I can nearly see her brain boiling. There are a few Twenty One Pilots songs I would willingly relent to adding to a Full Stop. setlist, but at the moment I know she’s too pissed off to even name one. I almost want to laugh.

“Taylor. Swift,” she hisses, enunciating every single syllable with a seething staccato. She knows I would never agree to it and that’s the only reason why she suggests it. Everything she ever does or says is designed to make me mad. In this way, we’re one and the same.

So, I mimic her tone. “Fuck. No.” And I’m just about to throw out The Gits – not that Selena could ever dream to live up to Mia Zapata’s legacy – when–

“Wait!”

The single word from Cole breaks our staring contest. I still feel my blood thundering from the rush of adrenaline that comes with pushing Selena to her breaking point, but I turn my attention on him. Cole’s straightened up from his lax slouch and, even though he’s sitting, he’s still a human tower – it’s no wonder the football coach spent nearly two years trying to recruit him. His eyes are stretched wide with an idea.

“What?” Travis asks.

He takes the question, but turns to me. His massive hand is slapped against his forehead, an indication of an epiphany. “Punk Goes Pop.”

“Excuse me?” Selena demands. Her teeth are clenched, and her brows are high.

Cole doesn’t need to explain it to me – I’ve caught onto his idea the second my mental music library dredges up the collection. He elaborates for everyone else.

“Yeah, okay, so Fearless Records has this series where they have punk bands cover pop songs, and, like, they’ve done some Taylor Swift stuff. Uh, You Belong With Me, Trouble – oh!” – he claps abruptly as the next idea enters his head and, again, his eyes turn on me, full of excitement and what appears to be an ego boost due to his own perceived genius. He’s gesticulating with the approximate energy of a German Shepherd – “Blank Space from the volume six rerelease! Dude, I Prevail goes so fucking hard on it! I had it on repeat for a month, and I can do Eric Vanlerberghe’s parts no problem!” He’s practically already playing air guitar.

“There. See? It’s a compromise,” Matt agrees.

And maybe it seems too good to be true…

Because it is.

“Yeah, too bad we can’t do it,” I object. Bryson sighs audibly and mutters under his breath. “If we let her sing the clean vocals, it won’t sound anything like a punk song! She’ll just try to sing it exactly like the original and fuck it up!”

“Fuck you!” Selena fires at me.

“Then you sing it, Morgan.”

I give myself whiplash turning to look at Travis, and the energy of the garage turns palpable – a thick, stunned tension that I could slice through with a razor blade and a ton of effort. Arms crossed over his chest, Travis shrugs, completely relaxed and completely, unbelievably serious.

In an instant, the initial surprise melts away, and I’m more confused by his proposal than I am shocked – or maybe it’s just an intense mixture of both. But the point is that I can’t sing it! I’m a drummer! That’s the only reason she’s even here in the first place!

“What?! No!”

“Yeah! ‘What?! No!’” Selena parrots me. For once, we’re actually in agreement on something.

“Why not? You’ve got a good voice, and I know you know the song.”

“Who’s going to play the drums?!” I reason. “That’s why she’s here!”

“I suggested Taylor Swift! I don’t want him singing it!” Selena protests.

“Exactly! Then she can’t hog the stage and be an attention whore and has to settle for being a regular–”

“Morgan,” Travis interjects (scolds), still calm despite presenting me with an insane idea just a moment ago. Selena flips me off with a look of pure hatred. I generally don’t like to push it that far, but I stand by what I was about to say. Her name is synonymous with it.

“I’ll find someone to drum for you,” Bryson says.

I scoff. “What? Am I that easily replaceable?! You’re all fucking ridiculous!”

“Scott,” Bryson starts in his middleman voice. I look at our manager and lift a brow. He seems to wait until everyone has copied me and all eyes are on him.

And then he supports Travis’ idea.

Using some of the most glorious words I have ever heard in my life.

“If we can just get this over with – pick the cover of Blank Space with you on clean vocals so this discussion will fucking stop – you can dump Selena.”

I have no idea what to say.

So it comes out unfiltered.

“Oh, screw you, Bryson.”

Not meant to be hurtful. Just… I can’t even explain it – just some sort of instinctual, astonished reaction.

I would be free of Selena Walton. And I would get to steal her encore.

But I would have to sing front-and-center. Even though it’s a cover, it’s still a Taylor Swift song. I wouldn’t have to sing all of it – about half the vocals in I Prevail’s version are unclean, so Cole would take them. But it’s still a tough debate.

I can’t really feel my body. I guess the shock is still settling in. Or it has settled in pretty deep and fried my nerves or something. But, while I’m internally wrestling against my own opinions, I dare to steal a look at Selena that ends up lasting longer than just a glance. Her eyes are narrowed, her jaw is tight, and her back is rod straight. She’s still inconsolably pissed at the idea that she could end up without an encore even though she’s had plenty already, but I see something else underneath that.

She wants me to take it. She doesn’t want to have to pretend to be shackled to me any longer. The feeling is mutual.

They’re all staring at me as I weigh the pros and cons a few more times.

In the end, I look Bryson dead in the eyes using what I can only describe as a defeated, cold glare.

“I want it in writing.”

Chapter: 2

[cold-iron-burns]

We've come to a consensus.

Everyone present at the time of this writing will do their best to inform the ones who need the support of a gentle delivery of current events.

The ayes have it.

YOU WOULD HAVE A PARLIAMENT AS YOUR COMMUNICATION SPACE

what's wrong with that? if we all actually do our jobs, so many more of us will be represented

THATS A LOGICAL ARGUEMENT, BUT WHO IS REALLY GETTING REPRESENTED

-wait WhAt?! HoW mAnY oF yOu ArE tHeRe

Oh honey, more than you will ever know. It's gonna be okay. We found each other and that's what's important. We're gonna start introducing ourselves,

*or at least, becoming more clear*

I love all of you so much, thank you so much for letting me in, for being patient with me. I think I'm the host? what iss. @ -o{oo#t?

started dissociating, it felt physically painful. the documenter.

And the enchanting lady is? *turns to tip his hat and wink at the camera* A -name-? Do you honestly think I could have settled on any name? Any singular--yes, Zed is going to sleep. I'm very fond of him. Attracted to him? He is my Adonis. Every inch of his body is particularly unique to his position in spacetime. There will never again be a Zed in which he appears, feels, smells and tastes exactly the same as he does at this exact moment, continued, forever and so on, as far as you know, infinitely. The Philosopher.

Wait, no, the Philanthropist

Wait wait NO, I stand by The Philosopher (for now)

[hold up, are y'all tellin me -- you c'n cawl me your White Trash Sweetheart, get rid of that bracket there, that's for the Host now

she doesnt know if she's the host or not, wibblywoooooo~ teen punk brat? aww man, fuck you you stupid piece of shit

hiiii yeah hi, I'm post-apocalypse punk Mayor (yes, you can call me that, but its aspirational) wow very humble -- golf commentater (now based on ugh this is important remember the actress' name, you look stupid, don't just stand there staring off into space, GET BACK TO WORK

OH YEAH, hi BiTcH --oh he's gone, that's -too- bad. well, as I'm here anyway, we should get to know one another. I'm "sassy black woman" because you're ashamed people will think you're using me just for drama and that's pretty fuckin racist--

I'm Final Form Chie. I started as so many of our seeds do, a poor slave girl, who loses her virginity yeah it's okay to make shortcuts

FOCUS

she gains skills, proves useful to the master, destroys the master (sometimes with kindness sometimes literally depending on what we need at the time)

[I didn't know it was that specific]

I'm mixed, actually, but I'm inspired SO MUCH by Claws. FUCKING REPRESENTATION FINAL--

>nope nope nope, shut it down<

John Cleese?

not exactly. A bit like the entire cast of monty python rolled into one. I'm from the countryside, but I can't say for sure where

woooooo we almost lost her there. she was panicking about losing this productive high, but she pulled through and FOUND THAT RUBI. Small Town Beauty Queen. I don't find it insulting if it helps you remember me. I started as Fern of Charlotte's Web. I keep that mournful lullaby for you. It really changed your path, dear heart. I don't become Miss America or anything, I'm too old by that time. But I love my family so much. You have so much anger

Yes, that's right, Dearie. Maiden, Mother, Crone. We don't think it was intentional but we like the power we have when we cooperate. Yes, we guide ... oh honey, don't cry, it's gonna be okay. no, n-n-no, no, you don't h-h-have to oh no, I really don't want to be here, I wasn't sure what to wear before, oh, I've gotten comfortable and I'm stuttering less. No, I don't think people who stutter in real life have this drastic of

oh, oh my. oh no, I'm still Achates.

Does it really surprise you? Chie and Amaury loved me so much that they couldn't bear to part entirely. They feel loyal to answer when you call on them when recalled in memories; they consider it their duty to fight in sharing our stories! With Pictures!

I don't need pictures

Don't you? you need to sleep, you're exhausted and you have an appointment tomorrow. Please go the fuck to bed. Slightly Extra (okay kinda actually just really ~(EXTRA)~

okay how do I... Ah, I got it. I'm the lucky early gen x mom you both wish you had -- no, we are not combined, sugar tits.

I'm the hardass 70s-80s mom you would have had if you're life was a movie. Well, technically I can mask as any kind of 70s-80s media mom (one of y'all--us! oh, yes, i hear you. I want you to know I would protect you, Kevin. MOM UGH

keep going - the sprites (soot or rainbow, we shift to suit your needs. we might steal your shoes. we are only some of the fae court. crossover unknown cannot compute - PLEASE HURRY. GOOD. I AM THE ROBOT OF THE 80s and --scratch that record

I'm that part of you who knew she couldn't look like Zach Morris and wanted so badly just to be a little boy. You were SO CONNECTED with the host when I was there?

wait, I'm the host

no, you--you are now because writing takes concentrating which you are losing quickly. Hello! I'm Sassy Progressive Upper Class CONCENTRATE, DAMMIT. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER. I don't care if I sound like -your-mom. Someone has to be the mom around here!

Someone has to be the mom around here.

Who wrote it?

you are high af.

keep letting your eyes go out of focus, yes you're getting sleepy, think how nice the bed will feel on that aching body. She deserves some rest, the old girl.

My body is a cow? wait, there's more. she shifts to being omniscient for scenes, if a cowsona (oh, yes, Buana and Gaushala and Pirwa ... Gaushala still has an arrow in the heart.

Yes, WoW Chie (Chiela will do.). I was here while you built your confidence to try... yes, dear, you really should sleep. TO TRY GETTING CATRIN AND RIAIN A HOME AFTER being abandoned when some of you lost the "spark" or whatever with Michael. I orchestrated some of the setup. you don't need to know my name. I'm both Italian immigrant/WHOA DO NOT EVEN CONNECT THE JEWISH COMMUNITY TO--NO, We Dont...*clears throat, drinks water*. No, you're not wealthy like Ms. Maisel, -we-, sorry, sometimes I have to pretend. Speaking of pretending, no, kid, I'm not as funny or talented as all the wonderful Jewish actresses (yeah yeah, Italian-American you, whatever his+her names are, we'll get to you later)

oh nooooo they're not sure if they'll fit the stereotype if they get loud but they wanna

yeah, sure kid, we sound a lot alike. we exist in a liminal space in which America (and new york city) (and every big american metropolis)... we can all celebrate our differences

It's alright, you just need to focus. I'm 90s Successful Well Paying Professional (I can be in the late 80s WA>T)

you're just stating tropes you stupid bitch

whale!

MISS PIGGY

LOOK AT HER FAT FINGERS

remember when you -hold on- hold on for me, my love lovely?

~do you wanna be my lover, gotta get wit my friends, make it last forever cause that's the way it is"

some of us havent learned to swype yet, fuuuuuck. you're popular--but not top tier popular 4th grade 4H champion with all the ribbons. you'll grow up (yes it's hard, i want to be a teacher one day. I'm based on Angie. I'm the imaginary life you might have led if your family wasn't so difficult. We should give them credit, everyone's trying their best. Oh, I can take on mom duties when I need, we also have kids in our future. We live in Lagrange (my husband and I, at this point in the line) but we don't make as much as our parents yet, though. Yet. Yes, I know what it feels like to feel content but maybe have some (or a lot of) wanderlust in life. I'm ten or so years older than you, so while our dedication to staying in Lorain County is important to the values we wish to impart on our children (yes we are Christian. We love Sharon with all our heart and we're so glad (there's a small congregation of us, maybe enough to fill a quiet one room cottage on Sunday, God willing. I'm inspired by the Amish women I see selling their wares and replicate "Amish" methods when making food for my family (I'm good friends with The Baker. We watch Steven Universe with you! We're so excited for the movie and hope we get to talk to you about it! I showed it to Chip and Carol, well I keep talking with them about it and they agreed to get around to watching it with me. I want to be a good ally. I'm, you know, only a little bi. I know that's probably inappropriate--oh- okay, oh, my, oh WOW are my hormones nuts. I'm pretty enough but nerdy enough that I'm kinda in a weird middle tier of popularity. Haha, oh, that's funny. I'm part Sunday (we miss her! some of us are so jealous of her we want to claw her comfortable boomer life from her hands.

That's awful. Shame on you. Suffering is relative.

SHE HASN'T EVEN SUFFERED A FRACTION OF WHAT I SUFFERED

Oh yes. You are the raw emotion of what the Host(?) feels when listening to Jekyll & Hyde, but only the certain version claws at our hearts

We salute the departed Host.

I miss her. Many of us do. But she crumbled under the pressure of knowing too much. She remembered too much before she was ready.

Parliament: We [redacted for time] ...salute her memory. She fought well, carried her armor, was ready to take on anything and change the world, even if in a small way.

She's Not Dead.

sprites: {hushed whispers to avoid being heard by parliament} {WAIT, NO, WE ARE NOT THE HOUSE OF COMMONS}

there's a lot of you when you get mad.

@@@@@@ Angie no, please don't put me to bed. I'm gonna be a computer genius - I mean, maybe not genius and did you know colleges could pay you to get a Bachelor's degree, it's called "scholarships", I mean, this changes -everything-!

I love you, Cameron. I came first, but you gave me a perfect form. I help the others feel calm. Community is punk, but is corporate entanglement the final destination-- hey, wait a minute, I'm not done talking!

whoa bitch. I mean, we have to mention joe. want to be him, want to fuck him, His story, too, is tangible to me. maybe we're a package deal now, ha! I'll try to remember the good times more than the bad, for the health of all of us.

SO SAY WE ALL

wait, what the fuck are you trying to say

hey, it's cool, it's cool.

nah it aint cool

STOP IT STOP FIGHTING

let's think about date sugar

Ah. That was a good distraction. but we really must be off to bed.

is this productive?

Love, it's okay to be sad about losing the real Ben. \It's okay to have any kind of feeling at all.

Ladies and gents and nonbinaries and everyone else, please at least get up into the bed to think about flickin the bean. More like taking a bush-hog to a lil baby bean sprout, but whatever. let the rest of us lie down.

night y'all!

:)