✨Hello fellow readers✨ I'm very excited to see where this road takes me. I've recently started making content of my own and wanted to share it with others. My current inspiration will be:
Abbot Elementary 📚
Resident evil 🩸
The Devil wears Prada 👠
Law and order: svu 👮
The Eternals ✨🌌
Lady dimistrescu: A New Beginning, part ll- complete
Mother Miranda: Sanctuary in the dark💀, part ll, part lll, part IV, part V, part Vl, part Vll
Fluffy and cute headcanon
Little things that makes her melt 🖤🌹
Melissa schemmenti: Detention hearts ❤️, part ll: “Lines were crossed”, Part III: “That’s Cute, You Being Jealous” Part lV: “Family Business”., Part V: “Gossip girl” ( Ava Edition), Part Vl: “ You don’t get to push me away”, Part Vll: “Snowed in”, Part VIII: “You’re Stuck With Me, Rookie”, Part IX: “If You’re Gonna Keep Stayin’ Over…”, Part X: “You’re Rearrangin’ My Life, Rookie”, Part XI: “My Plus-One”, Part XII: “Nothin’ Better Than This”, Part XIII: “Let Me Take Care of You”, Part XIV: “It’s the Thought That Counts, Rookie”, Part XV: “Mine. Got It?”, Part XVI: “She’s Taken, Sweetheart”, Part XVII: “Are you two dating?”
You wanna ride or what?
Hard to Love , After Hours
Between the Lines
Mean, First Date, Back at Work, Dinner at Melissa’s, Weekend together , The talk, Lazy Weekend
Little By Little - requested
Genesis x Melissa Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part5
Maintenance Magic
Dance moms
Barbara Howard: Quiet Confessions, I’ll drive you home, Little Changes - part lll, Lines Crossed- IV, Later, Like I promised V, Dinner, like I promised-VI, Something just for us-VII, Reputation and Heart-VIIl, More Than Worth It-lX, Little by Little- X, No more hiding- XI
Miranda/Andy: And there you were again, “How they found out”
What you broke, What you kept, The Cost of Wanting You” (Andrea’s POV), “The Silence You Left Behind”, “The space between us”, Interlude: Nigel and Emily
Olivia benson/Reader:
Sick Reader
Thena- I’ve got you, “I’ve Got You”: Part ll, “ Your, I choose you”, “Written In the Stars”, “Fated All Along”, “Before the fall”, “Found you again”, “In every life, in every star”, “Ours, Across the Stars” , “In This Life, As Before” , “Yiours, In All Things” “Across Every Life”
It happened on a quiet evening — just like the one when you first found her.
The sky had begun to shift to indigo, lanterns glowing warm through the cottage windows.
Thena was humming something faint as she sorted herbs near the fire. You were on the floor with Lyra, brushing out her thick, tangled curls, her shoulders slack with trust.
She was older now. Not quite the little girl from the fountain.
Her limbs had grown long and graceful, her eyes older than they should’ve been.
But sometimes, when she looked at you, she still had that wide, afraid look.
And tonight, for the first time in months — it returned.
⸻
It began when your hand passed gently over the back of her neck.
She flinched.
Just barely — but you felt it.
You set the brush down, slow.
“Lyra?”
She pulled her knees to her chest, staring into the fire.
“I… I need to tell you something,” she whispered.
⸻
Thena stilled, immediately attentive.
You came to sit beside her, warmth pressing her sides.
“You can tell us anything,” you said softly. “You always could.”
Lyra’s hands trembled in her lap.
She didn’t speak for a long moment.
Then finally:
“I didn’t get lost in the market.”
⸻
You didn’t speak — just waited, letting her offer it in her own time.
Her voice cracked.
“I ran. They were scared of me.”
A pause. A breath.
“I didn’t mean to do it. I just… I kept dreaming about stars. About people I didn’t know. About you.” Her voice caught again. “Before I even met you.”
⸻
Thena slowly knelt in front of her, cupping her cheek.
Lyra pressed into the touch like it hurt.
“I saw myself die,” she said, voice thin. “In a war. With a sword I’ve never held.” Her eyes flicked to Thena’s blade. “I remember things I shouldn’t.”
A beat.
“And sometimes… when I get scared… things move.”
⸻
The room was silent but heavy — not with anger, but with weight.
She looked up between you both, eyes wet, bottom lip shaking.
“I thought you’d send me away too. I didn’t want you to look at me like they did.”
⸻
“Oh, little star,” you breathed, reaching for her. “We would never—”
“You’re not afraid?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Even when I’m wrong?”
Thena wrapped her arms around her from behind — protective, fierce.
“You are not wrong.”
You leaned in, cupping the side of her face.
“Lyra. You’re more.”
⸻
She broke then — collapsing into your arms, sobs wracking her small frame.
You and Thena held her tight between you, a shelter in the storm.
Her tears were hot and silent, like she was trying not to make a sound.
You rocked her gently, Thena whispering soft, fierce reassurances in the language of stars.
“I didn’t mean to be strange,” Lyra whispered. “I just didn’t want you to stop loving me.”
“Lyra,” you said, voice thick, “nothing — nothing — could make us stop loving you.”
⸻
It was a long time before her breathing eased.
When she finally looked up, eyes red, she asked in a whisper:
“…You still choose me?”
Thena kissed her brow, her voice firm and low:
“We chose you before we knew. And we would choose you again. A thousand times.”
You took her hand, squeezing gently.
“There’s nothing inside you that we can’t hold.”
⸻
She didn’t smile, not quite.
But she curled between you both again — smaller now, like the little girl you’d found once at the edge of a fountain.
And when she finally slept, it was with her hand tangled in yours, her breath warm against Thena’s arm.
You had just meant to sit with her for a moment—just a quiet break in the middle of everything she carried on her shoulders. Miranda was seated, posture as perfect as ever, one arm resting along the chair as you leaned against her.
At some point, your breathing slowed.
Then softened.
Then stilled into sleep.
And Miranda… noticed immediately.
She froze. Not in alarm—no, something far worse for her carefully controlled existence. Something gentle.
Her eyes dropped to you, lashes lowering as she studied your face like it was something fragile, something she didn’t quite deserve to touch. Your cheek was pressed lightly against her lap, your hand loosely curled against her dress like you trusted her without thinking about it.
That trust hit her harder than any threat ever could.
She didn’t move. Not an inch.
Not when her leg started to go numb.
Not when time dragged on far longer than she intended to sit there.
Not even when one of her creatures stirred in the distance, waiting for her attention.
Nothing mattered more than the quiet weight of you resting on her.
Slowly, almost cautiously, her hand lifted—hovering for a second before settling into your hair. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just… there.
Her fingers moved gently, smoothing strands back, memorizing the softness.
You shifted slightly in your sleep, and Miranda’s breath caught—actual, quiet panic flickering through her chest at the thought of waking you.
But you didn’t.
You only settled deeper. Closer.
And something in her chest… softened in a way she hadn’t felt in years.
So she stayed.
For hours.
Silent. Still. Guarding your sleep like it was something sacred.
⸻
🌹 Kissing Her Scars
It happens on a night where she’s quieter than usual.
Not cold. Not distant. Just… heavy.
The kind of silence that lingers around her when the past claws its way back into her thoughts. You can see it in the way her shoulders are tense, the way her gaze avoids yours—not because she doesn’t want you, but because she doesn’t think you should see her like this.
Like something broken.
You don’t ask.
You just step closer.
Miranda stiffens at first, instinct kicking in—control, distance, composure. All the things she’s built herself out of.
Then your hands find her face.
Gentle. Steady.
She stills.
Her eyes flicker down to you, something uncertain breaking through that usual, unwavering confidence.
And then—
You press a soft kiss against one of her scars.
Everything stops.
It’s like her entire body forgets what to do.
Because no one has ever done that. No one has ever looked at the marks she carries—physical or otherwise—and treated them like something worthy of tenderness.
Her breath catches, sharp and quiet.
You don’t rush. You don’t make a big moment of it. You just stay close, your thumb brushing lightly along her cheek as you murmur something soft—something grounding, something that doesn’t ask her to be anything other than herself.
And Miranda…
Miranda melts.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
But you feel it.
In the way her shoulders finally lower.
In the way her hand comes up to rest over yours, almost hesitant—like she’s afraid you might disappear if she holds too tightly.
In the way her forehead slowly leans against yours, eyes closing as if she’s allowing herself, just for a second, to exist without the weight of everything she’s become.
You make her feel human again.
And that terrifies her.
But it also becomes the one thing she never wants to lose.
⸻
@faithoffaent You really went straight for the emotional pressure points. Ruthless. I respect it. Hope you enjoy. ❤️
Genre: Slow Burn, Protective Barbara, First Public Moment, Emotional Intimacy, Mutual Pining
⸻
It’s a Friday afternoon — one of those rare, golden hours when the building is quieter, sunlight spilling through the halls, laughter echoing faintly from distant classrooms.
The staff is gathered in the lounge — a casual little celebration for the end of testing week. Someone (probably Jacob) brought cupcakes. Ava is making some dramatic speech about how the school couldn’t run without her “visionary leadership.”
You’re tucked near the edge of the room, half-listening, when you feel her.
Barbara.
You glance up — and there she is, walking in with that composed grace, coat draped over one arm, eyes sweeping the room until they land on you.
And then — something shifts.
Because today — for the first time — there’s no hesitation in her gaze. No flicker of caution.
Only warmth. Certainty.
She crosses the room steadily — the others chatting, distracted — and when she reaches you, her hand finds yours.
Not hidden. Not subtle.
Her fingers twine through yours openly — warm, sure — and she squeezes gently.
You blink, heart leaping.
“Barbara—” you start, voice barely a whisper.
But she just smiles — soft and knowing.
“No more hiding,” she murmurs. “Not from them. Not from anyone.”
You squeeze back, a rush of emotion rising in your chest.
A few heads turn — Melissa catches it first, smirking faintly over her coffee.
Jacob lets out a quiet, delighted gasp.
Janine is already bouncing in place.
But Barbara stands steady beside you — calm, proud — as though this is the most natural thing in the world.
And when you glance up at her — at the quiet pride in her eyes — you realize:
She wants them to see.
Because this — you — are hers.
And she is no longer afraid to show it.
⸻
Later — when the lounge has emptied a bit — Barbara draws you aside, voice low.
“I should have done this sooner,” she says softly. “You deserve to be seen. To be cherished. And I… I am proud to be the one who does that.”
Hey, hope you’re good! I do have a fluffy Mel x reader request:
Reader has a daughter (her and Mel can or not in a relationship) and Mel shows up in the daughter’s dance class, and in a parent night. Then the reader realizes Melissa is the one.
I loved writing this!!! @babytakeittothehead
Dance Moms
Melissa Schemmenti does not do “unexpected.”
She does laminated schedules.
She does emergency snacks in her purse.
She does organized chaos with a side of lip gloss and Catholic guilt.
What she does not do… is walk into a tiny, glitter-infested dance studio on a Thursday night.
And yet.
You’re crouched by the mirrors, tying your daughter’s ballet shoe for the fifth time because apparently eight-year-olds lose the ability to knot things under pressure.
“Mom,” she whispers dramatically, “what if I forget the routine?”
“You won’t,” you murmur, brushing glitter off her cheek. “You’ve practiced it in the kitchen like fifty times. The dog knows it.”
You don’t see Melissa at first.
You just hear her.
“Oh my God, they’re so small,” she breathes, somewhere behind you.
You turn.
And there she is.
Not in work clothes. Not in teacher mode.
In jeans. Soft sweater. Hair loose. Holding a bouquet that is objectively too big for a third-grade dance showcase.
Your brain short-circuits.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, because your mouth is allergic to subtlety.
Melissa shrugs like she didn’t absolutely plan this.
“You said tonight was important,” she says. “So I came.”
That’s it. That’s the line. Casual. Offhand. Like she didn’t just rearrange her entire evening.
Your daughter spins around, spots her, and gasps. “Miss Schemmenti!”
Melissa lights up like she’s been handed an award.
“Hi, sweetheart! Break a leg. Not literally. Please don’t. I can’t handle that.”
Your daughter beams. She takes the flowers like they’re made of gold.
You’re watching the interaction, something tightening in your chest in a way that’s deeply inconvenient.
Because Melissa doesn’t have to be here.
You two aren’t… official-official.
You’ve been dancing around that. Pun intended.
But she’s kneeling down to fix a stray hair, murmuring encouragement, telling your daughter she’s going to “own that stage.”
And it’s not performative.
It’s real.
⸻
Parent Night
A week later is parent night.
The studio smells like sweat, hairspray, and stress. Folding chairs. Clipboards. Moms comparing recital dresses like it’s the Met Gala.
You were prepared to go alone.
You are a competent, independent adult woman.
You can survive a parent meeting.
But when you walk in—
Melissa is already there.
She’s sitting in the front row.
Front row.
Of a dance parent meeting.
You blink. “You’re early?”
She looks up, slightly flushed. “I didn’t want to miss anything.”
You sit beside her.
The instructor starts talking about costumes, fundraising, extra rehearsals.
Without missing a beat, Melissa leans over and whispers, “I can help with bake sale stuff. I make a mean cannoli. I’ll fight anyone who underprices it.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself.
She’s taking notes.
Taking. Notes.
When the instructor mentions volunteer chaperones for the spring showcase, Melissa raises her hand.
Your hand doesn’t.
Her hand does.
You stare at her.
She glances at you, almost defensive. “What? I’m free that weekend.”
Something in your chest just… shifts.
Not butterflies.
Not fireworks.
Something steadier.
Something grounded.
⸻
The Realization
Later that night, your daughter is asleep in the backseat, clutching her dance bag.
Melissa is driving.
She insisted.
Streetlights flicker across her face, and she’s humming under her breath.
You watch her hands on the wheel.
You think about the flowers.
The notes.
The volunteering.
The way she looks at your kid like she matters.
“Why?” you ask quietly.
She glances over. “Why what?”
“Why are you doing all this?”
Melissa scoffs lightly, but there’s no sarcasm in it.
“Because she matters to you,” she says. “So she matters to me.”
Simple.
Uncomplicated.
No dramatic speech.
Just truth.
And it hits you.
It’s not about how she makes you laugh.
Not about the way she holds your waist when she kisses you.
Not even about how safe you feel with her.
It’s this.
She’s choosing you.
And your daughter.
Without hesitation. Without fear.
You swallow.
“I think…” you start, and your voice betrays you.
She glances at you again, softer this time. “You think what?”
You look back at the tiny human in the rearview mirror.
Then at Melissa.
“I think you’re it,” you say.
Melissa almost swerves.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re it,” you repeat. “The one.”
Silence.
Then she laughs, nervous, stunned. “You can’t just say that while I’m operating a vehicle.”
“I just did.”
She pulls into your driveway.
Puts the car in park.
Turns to you fully.
There’s no teasing now.
No deflection.
“You sure?” she asks, quieter than you’ve ever heard her.
You nod.
She leans over the console and kisses you.
Not rushed.
Not heated.
Certain.
And in the backseat, your daughter shifts but doesn’t wake.
Melissa rests her forehead against yours.
“I was hoping,” she whispers.
And for the first time in a long time, everything feels steady.
'Sottovoce (under her breath): Thank you for encouraging me to post this, girlie
(Still no working Title, Any suggestions?)
Tag List- @janeyseymour @babytakeittothehead
“The Beginning of Soft”
A real conversation
⸻
It was Melissa who asked.
Not with a grand gesture. Not with pressure. Just a quiet voice in the middle of a too-long Friday:
“You wanna grab a coffee or something after school?”
Genesis blinked, halfway through shutting her laptop.
“Coffee?”
Melissa shrugged. “You don’t owe me anything. Just figured if we’re gonna keep awkwardly sharing oxygen, might as well make it less awkward.”
Genesis raised an eyebrow.
“And caffeine makes things less awkward?”
Melissa smiled. “I mean, doesn’t hurt.”
A long pause.
Then Genesis said, slowly: “One cup.”
Melissa held the door open for her.
⸻
They didn’t go far. Just the small café two blocks from school — half booth, half bakery, all quiet. Genesis ordered tea. Melissa got a black coffee and pretended it didn’t taste like punishment.
They sat by the window.
Not across from each other, but at a corner table — diagonal. It felt less like a standoff that way.
For a while, they didn’t talk. Just sipped. Let the city noise fill the gaps.
Then Genesis, without looking up, said, “You’re different.”
Melissa’s brow ticked up. “In general, or… lately?”
“Both.”
She stirred her tea. “You don’t push anymore.”
“I used to?”
Genesis looked at her now. Calm. Not accusing.
“You used to test people. Me especially.”
Melissa nodded, quiet. “Yeah. I did.”
Genesis didn’t smile, but something in her eyes softened.
Melissa leaned back in her chair. “I didn’t know what to do with you.”
“Because I didn’t try to win you over?”
Melissa shook her head. “Because you didn’t need me to.”
That made Genesis blink.
Melissa held her gaze. “I’m used to people needing me to like them. You didn’t. And that messed with me more than I wanted to admit.”
Genesis didn’t respond right away.
Then, softly: “You could’ve just said you were intimidated.”
“I could’ve,” Melissa said. “But then I’d have had to admit you got under my skin.”
“And now?”
Melissa tilted her head. “Now I’m hoping to earn my way under yours. In a good way.”
That made Genesis smile — just barely, but it was real.
Melissa exhaled like she’d been holding her breath all week.
This time, when their knees brushed under the table, neither of them moved.
——
“A Little Closer Than Before”
Genesis lets her in. The tension lingers.
⸻
It started with an offhand comment in the copy room.
Melissa had been grumbling about her printer jamming again, muttering “piece of trash” in Italian under her breath — and Genesis, walking past with a stack of folders, had said, without looking:
“If you want to see real vintage machinery, come with me Saturday. I have to pick up my Nonna’s sewing machine from the repair shop.”
Melissa blinked. “That an invitation?”
Genesis shrugged. “That’s an if-you-happen-to-be-free offer.”
Melissa had been free.
⸻
Saturday was clear and crisp, the kind of fall day that makes you want to roll the windows down just for the air. Genesis was already waiting outside the tiny repair shop when Melissa pulled up, wrapped in a long gray coat, hair tucked into a silk scarf that caught the sunlight when she turned.
“You didn’t have to come,” she said.
Melissa smiled. “You didn’t have to invite me.”
Genesis nodded once and opened the door.
The shop was tiny, cluttered, charming. Old radios, typewriters, and record players lined the walls. The sewing machine in question — heavy and weathered and full of stories — sat waiting on the counter.
As the old man behind the register rang them up, Genesis leaned in, whispering:
“This thing’s been in my family since my grandmother came to the States. My mom used it for all our curtains growing up.”
Melissa smiled at the pride in her voice. “So this is a family heirloom disguised as a Singer?”
Genesis shot her a look. “It’s sacred. Careful how you joke.”
Melissa raised her hands in surrender, laughing. “Understood.”
They left with the machine in the trunk and an unexpected ease between them. So much so that when Genesis said, “Want to help me carry it up?” Melissa didn’t hesitate.
⸻
Her apartment was as composed as she was. Minimalist, warm. Book stacks and hardwood. Plants thriving in window light. The kind of home that felt intentional — nothing placed by accident.
“Shoes off,” Genesis said, already unlacing hers.
Melissa obeyed.
They set the machine down in the corner of her small second bedroom — part office, part memory room. The shelves were filled with art, language books, vintage maps. The air smelled faintly of orange and cedar.
Melissa wandered, careful not to touch anything.
“You read all these?” she asked.
“Most.”
“And you speak Italian, obviously. What else?”
Genesis leaned against the doorway, arms folded. “French. A little Portuguese. Some Latin. Depends on the day.”
Melissa let out a low whistle. “You’re showing off.”
“I’m answering your question.”
Melissa turned, smiling. “You always this exacting?”
Genesis smirked. “Only when someone’s trying to impress me.”
The moment stalled.
It wasn’t sharp.
It wasn’t loud.
It was quiet.
A shift. A pulse.
Their eyes caught.
Melissa took a half step forward. Not enough to close the distance — just enough to make Genesis feel it.
She looked down. “Want some tea?”
Melissa’s voice was low. “Only if you pick the blend.”
Genesis turned to walk toward the kitchen.
She didn’t say it out loud, but she was smiling to herself now — that same private, quiet kind of grin Melissa was starting to live for.
——
“This Isn’t Nothing”
Tea. Almost a date. Definitely not nothing.
⸻
Genesis brewed loose leaf jasmine in a pale blue teapot she pulled from a high cabinet.
Melissa watched her move — graceful, deliberate, quiet. She couldn’t help but notice the way Genesis tucked her hair behind her ear, the curve of her fingers as she poured.
They sat on the couch, each with a mug, the lights dim and low.
Genesis tucked her legs under her. “I don’t usually invite people here.”
Melissa blew on her tea. “Yeah?”
“Feels like giving too much away.”
Melissa nodded slowly. “You always that careful?”
Genesis’s eyes flicked to her. “You always that nosy?”
Melissa smirked. “Only with people who make me wonder.”
That earned her a smile — and not the professional kind. Not the hallway nod.
This was personal. Unfiltered. The kind that softened Genesis’s whole face and made something under Melissa’s ribs stir.
They drank for a while in silence. The kind of silence that only exists between people circling something too big to say out loud.
Then Genesis asked, so softly Melissa almost missed it:
“Do you still not know what to do with me?”
Melissa looked up. Heart caught.
“No,” she said, honest. “I know exactly what I want to do with you.”
Genesis stilled. Her eyes flicked down. “You shouldn’t say that.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Melissa said, voice rough with restraint. “Not really.”
Their eyes locked again.
Too much.
Too long.
Genesis stood, clearing her mug. “It’s late.”
Melissa rose too. “Right. I should go.”
Genesis walked her to the door. Her hand lingered on the knob.
Melissa’s voice dropped. “Thanks for the tea.”
Genesis looked up at her — something unreadable in her eyes, all firebank and tension.
Then she said, almost a whisper:
“You’re welcome. But next time, bring wine.”
⸻
Chapter Twenty-Two: “Now It’s Real”
The moment after — when the quiet is loud
⸻
Melissa didn’t drive home right away.
She sat in the car, staring out at the streetlights washing Genesis’s stoop in gold. Her hands were still warm from the mug. Her heart was pacing like it knew something she wasn’t ready to admit.
Next time, bring wine.
That wasn’t nothing.
That wasn’t casual.
That was inviting more.
She leaned her head back, exhaled hard.
She’d come a long way — from snide remarks and passive-aggressive hallway jabs — to sipping jasmine tea across from someone she’d once treated like competition.
Now?
She wasn’t competing.
She was hoping.
That maybe she hadn’t ruined her chance.
That maybe she could have something real.
That maybe Genesis… wanted her too.
And inside the apartment, Genesis stood by the window, watching Melissa’s taillights.
She hadn’t meant to say it — bring wine — not out loud.
But it had slipped out honest. And now she couldn’t take it back.
And part of her didn’t want to.
Because Melissa had changed. And Genesis… was starting to believe it.
'Sottovoce (under her breath): Thank you for encouraging me to post this, girlie
(Still no working Title, Any suggestions?)
Tag List- @janeyseymour @babytakeittothehead
“She’s not the same anymore”
Genesis watches from afar
⸻
Genesis had expected Melissa to go back to normal.
Maybe not overnight, but eventually. She thought she’d go back to the wisecracks, the muttered Italian, the posturing. Because people like Melissa — people with rough edges and something to prove — rarely stayed quiet after being confronted.
But Melissa Schemmenti didn’t bounce back.
She shifted.
Slowly. Subtly.
And Genesis noticed.
She noticed the way Melissa stopped lingering in the break room when she walked in, like she didn’t want to take up unnecessary space. The way she didn’t correct her under her breath during meetings anymore. The way she’d nod when their eyes met in the hallway, not with smugness — but respectful distance.
It wasn’t the silence that stood out. It was what the silence wasn’t.
No more bait. No more prodding. No more one-liners tossed out like tests.
Melissa didn’t try to force conversations. She didn’t ask for forgiveness. She just… left room. Not the kind that waited for permission, but the kind that said:
“I get it now. I’ll wait.”
And Genesis didn’t know what to do with that.
Because she saw the effort. Every measured word. Every time Melissa sat in meetings and nodded along instead of stealing the air. The shift in posture when Genesis spoke — less guarded now, like Melissa was listening and not just waiting to speak next.
It threw her off.
Because forgiveness had always been a choice, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to make it. Not yet. Not when the hurt hadn’t fully faded.
But… some days?
Some days she caught Melissa looking.
Not with resentment. Not with ego.
With something quieter. Sadder. Maybe even… reverent.
And that was harder to ignore.
Genesis watched her once during lunch — across the room, half-hidden behind a spiral notebook — and saw Melissa give her chair to a student who couldn’t find a seat. Saw her take a breath before responding to someone who interrupted her. Saw her smile, softly, when Ava said something ridiculous and loud.
And Genesis realized, with a twinge she didn’t like:
She missed her.
Not the version she confronted — the real one, still underneath.
The one who could’ve been a friend.
Maybe more.
One day.
If she kept showing up.
For now, though, Genesis watched.
Said nothing.
But began to hope.
——
“A Seat at the table”
Melissa — an invitation, not an apology
⸻
The first time Melissa noticed Genesis eating lunch alone again, something in her tightened.
Not out of pity.
Not out of guilt.
But out of recognition.
It was the same spot she always picked — the back corner of the teachers’ lounge, near the window that caught the early afternoon light. She sat with her back to the room, Tupperware opened, notebook flipped halfway between grading and journaling. Quiet. Unbothered. But not closed off.
Just… watchful. Waiting.
Melissa didn’t approach. She never did. Not since the last time.
But she started something different.
She began showing up to the lounge earlier. Not to claim territory — just to set a tone.
She’d grab her usual sandwich and seat at the long table in the middle. And each day, she did something subtle: left the chair across from her open.
Not once did she pile books on it. Never threw her coat there. She left it empty. Purposefully.
Some days, Ava would sit next to her. Other days, Jacob would ramble through the room and take up three chairs on the other side.
But that one spot?
Always clear.
Always waiting.
She didn’t look over at Genesis. Not once.
She just ate. Smiled when she had reason to. Laughed when it made sense. Listened more than she spoke.
Until one day — a quiet Tuesday, sunlit and slow — she felt a shift in the air.
It was soft. Barely there. Just a rustle of movement near the edge of her vision.
She looked up.
Genesis was standing at the head of the table, tray in hand, green eyes cool and unreadable.
“Anyone sitting here?”
Melissa didn’t let herself freeze.
She just nodded. “Nah. It’s yours.”
Genesis sat. Graceful, composed. Like it was no big deal. Like she hadn’t just walked through a door that had been cracked open for weeks.
Melissa didn’t say anything else.
She didn’t need to.
And neither did Genesis.
Not yet.
——
“She Sat Down”
Melissa — after lunch
⸻
Melissa didn’t rush out of the lounge after lunch.
She waited. Let the others filter out first. Ava buzzing out with a loud “see you later, heartbreakers,” Jacob trailing after her mid-sentence. Eventually, it was just her again. Quiet. Unmoving.
She looked at the chair across from her.
Still warm.
Genesis had been sitting there ten minutes ago, eating pasta out of a glass container, nodding politely when Melissa mentioned how weird the copier had been acting. She hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t leaned in.
But she’d stayed.
And for the first time in weeks — maybe ever — Melissa felt something shift under her ribs.
Because Genesis had chosen to sit with her.
After everything.
After the months of snide remarks and tension.
After the hallway incident.
After the apology that wasn’t really one.
She came.
She saw the seat.
And she sat.
Melissa hadn’t realized how much that empty chair had meant to her until it wasn’t empty anymore.
It hadn’t been a test. It hadn’t even been a plan.
It was just a silent invitation — If you want to, you can.
And Genesis had.
Melissa ran a hand through her hair and leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling like it held answers.
She’d been bracing herself for a full year of being iced out. She’d been ready for Genesis to never speak to her again. She wouldn’t have blamed her.
But today… she got a “no one’s sitting here?”
Not a forgiveness. Not a truce. But a moment.
And it wrecked her in a way she wasn’t prepared for.
Because it wasn’t about the chair.
It was about what it took for Genesis to choose that moment, to sit that close, to share space with someone who had tried to shrink her and was now learning how to make room.
Melissa didn’t know what would come next.
But for now?
She stayed in the silence.
And let herself be grateful for what she hadn’t earned, but might finally be learning how to deserve.
——
“Something Else, Something Closer”
Genesis & Melissa — the shift begins
⸻
Genesis
It started in the in-between.
Not during lunch. Not in meetings. But in the smaller moments — the ones that didn’t seem like they should matter.
Melissa reaching past her for a stapler, voice quiet when she said “excuse me,” breath brushing too close to Genesis’s shoulder.
Melissa glancing her way when someone made a joke at the staff table, like she wanted to share the moment with her specifically.
The softness in her voice now. That was new.
The restraint.
Genesis wasn’t sure when exactly it happened, but she stopped bracing when she saw Melissa in the hallway. And started noticing things instead.
The way she rolled her sleeves up past her elbows when she was focused.
The way she bit her lip when she was trying not to interrupt.
The way her voice dropped just slightly when she said Genesis’s name.
Genesis hated how her stomach reacted.
She didn’t want to feel that.
But she did.
And it scared her more than Melissa’s sharpness ever had.
⸻
Melissa
For Melissa, it was all in the eyes.
Genesis didn’t look at her the same way anymore.
She used to watch her like someone assessing damage — cool, calculating, ready to cut off if needed. But now? There was something softer there. Curious. Careful. Open in a way Melissa hadn’t earned but still received.
And Melissa… was fucked.
Because now she knew what Genesis’s laugh sounded like when she was trying not to laugh.
She knew what her voice did when she was tired and trying to pretend she wasn’t.
She knew that when Genesis pushed her glasses up with the back of her hand, it meant she was overthinking something — and when she took them off, she was ready to stop pretending.
Melissa had it bad.
But how could she say that out loud?
She’d already hurt her once.
And this — this feeling — it wasn’t innocent. It wasn’t casual.
It was low and warm and always sitting right beneath her ribs when Genesis walked into a room. It made her feel reckless and reverent at the same time.
And maybe that’s what terrified her the most.
Because Melissa didn’t just want Genesis.
She wanted to deserve her.
⸻
“Not just tension anymore”
A moment they both feel it — and say nothing
It was dismissal duty.
Outside. Late fall. That golden-sky kind of afternoon.
Genesis stood on the front steps, clipboard in hand, scarf wrapped high around her throat. Melissa walked up beside her, not saying much, just nodding like always.
They stood there in silence. Shoulder to shoulder. Watching buses load up.
And then, for no reason at all, Genesis turned her head and looked at her.
Not a glance. A look.
Lingering. Long. Like she was trying to find the shape of something just under Melissa’s skin.
Melissa swallowed.
And when she looked back, steady and quiet — Genesis didn’t look away.
That moment?
It stretched.
Unspoken. Unnamed. But felt.
Right between them.
And then someone called Melissa’s name — a parent needing a signature — and the spell broke.
(Power, protection, jealousy, love — a bond written in stars)
⸻
I. The Day You Saved Them All
It began with a trap.
The team had tracked a Deviant hive to a ruined stronghold — only to find it was no hive at all.
An ambush — dark forces gathering. Corrupted Deviants. Warped creatures twisted by forgotten magic.
The battle turned fast — too fast.
Even Thena, blade blazing bright, was being driven back — surrounded.
Ajak was downed. Kingo pinned. Druig staggering. Makkari trapped by a collapsed wall.
And Thena — your Thena — blood on her brow, fighting alone.
⸻
Something in you snapped.
Your power — newly trained — surged beyond anything it had before.
You ran into the fray — hands blazing gold — heart reaching for your bond with her.
“I will not lose you. I will not lose any of you.”
With a roar, you cast your hands outward — a shield of light exploding in all directions.
The creatures reeled — trapped within your radiant barrier — frozen for precious seconds.
Enough for Thena to surge forward, blade flashing, cutting them down.
Enough for the team to regroup — to fight back.
⸻
When the battle ended, you stood swaying — light fading slowly from your hands.
The team gathered — stunned.
Ajak placed a hand over her heart, eyes shining.
“You saved us all.”
Makkari signed: Incredible.
Druig smirked faintly. “I’m keeping you around.”
But Thena — Thena said nothing.
She simply crossed to you — caught you in her arms — and kissed you fiercely before them all.
“My heart,” she whispered. “You are my heart.”
⸻
II. Jealous / Protective Thena
A week later, you returned to a friendly outpost — allies the team had not seen in decades.
The halls were warm, bright with celebration.
You stood at the long table, pouring wine — when a visiting warrior approached.
Charming, bold — and far too interested.
“You fought well,” the warrior said, leaning close. “A protector… with power in your hands. You should visit my chambers — perhaps show me more of this gift.”
You blinked — startled — and opened your mouth to refuse—
When a blade gleamed between you.
Thena.
She stepped in — eyes sharp, voice cool:
“She is mine.”
The warrior paled — stepped back fast, hands raised.
“My apologies, Lady Thena. No insult meant.”
⸻
When the hall quieted, Thena pulled you close — possessive.
Her lips brushed your ear:
“No one touches what is mine.”
Your heart raced — breath catching.
“And I am yours,” you whispered. “Always.”
She kissed you then — slow, claiming — in full view of the hall.
No one dared look your way again.
⸻
III. Marking
That night — beneath soft sheets — the jealousy still burned in her.
Her hands moved over you — reverent, hungry — mouth trailing down your throat.
“Mine,” she whispered again and again.
You gasped — arching under her touch.
“Yours,” you breathed. “In every life.”
⸻
When her mouth closed over the curve of your neck — teeth sinking just enough to mark — your breath caught.
“Thena—”
“I will not lose you,” she murmured fiercely. “The stars may fall — but you are mine.”
Her bite left a dark mark — visible proof.
And later, as you curled together — marked, claimed, safe in her arms — you knew:
You belonged to her. Always.
⸻
IV. Past Life Flashback
The dream came unbidden.
You stood beneath twin moons — clad in dark green and gold, blade at your hip, hands crackling with mage-light.
Thena — your Thena — stood beside you, in white and gold armor, her own blade gleaming.
You were both captains — bonded warriors of the old realm.
Lovers. Protectors.
⸻
“Do you trust me?” you had asked her then, voice low.
Her gaze had burned bright. “In every star, in every life.”
⸻
Together you had faced ancient darkness — powers that threatened your world.
Your magic shielded her. Her blade cut the path forward.
Bound not by vows alone — but by soul.
In that life, you had fallen together.
Fighting side by side — until the stars themselves wept for you.
⸻
You woke gasping — tears in your eyes.
Thena stirred — pulling you close.
“You remembered,” she whispered.
You clung to her, voice shaking:
“We loved before. We died together. And we found each other again.”
She kissed you softly — reverently.
“In every life,” she vowed. “In every star.”
⸻
And in her arms, you knew the truth:
You were hers. She was yours.
Across time. Across stars. Across every life still to come.
'Sottovoce (under her breath): Thank you for encouraging me to post this, girlie
(Still no working Title, Any suggestions?)
Tag List: @janeyseymour
“The Space Between”
Genesis POV — after ignoring Melissa
⸻
The door clicked shut behind Melissa.
Softly. No slam. No stomp. Just the hush of someone walking away without getting what they wanted.
Genesis didn’t move.
She stared at her screen, the blinking cursor waiting for input. Her fingers hovered over the keys, but her mind was elsewhere — somewhere between the heat that lingered in her chest and the cold that had settled behind her ribs.
She had told herself she wouldn’t let Melissa get to her. Not anymore.
But the thing about silence — her favorite shield — was that it worked too well. It protected her. But it also left her alone.
And she was alone now.
Not in the dramatic, tragic sense. She wasn’t fragile. She wasn’t broken. But there was a specific kind of ache in knowing you had to be your own safety, even when someone finally tried to apologize.
Because it was too late.
Too shallow.
Too Melissa.
Genesis had heard it all before — the half-remorseful “I didn’t mean it,” the awkward “you’re mad, I get it.” She’d grown up watching people fold their guilt into sarcasm and expect her to iron it flat again.
She wouldn’t do it this time.
So when Melissa came into her classroom, stumbling through an apology dressed like an excuse, Genesis had felt nothing but the chill of delayed effort.
Because now that it cost something, now that it was inconvenient — now she wanted to talk?
No.
Not when Genesis had spent months absorbing barbs in two languages.
Not when she’d watched Melissa look through her, never at her.
Not when it took a confrontation to get her to care.
Genesis ran a hand over her curls, grounding herself.
She didn’t regret ignoring her.
But God, it still hurt.
Not because she wanted revenge. Not because she was petty. But because there had been a tiny, foolish part of her — deep in her chest, buried under logic — that had hoped Melissa would come in soft. Honest. Vulnerable.
That she’d finally ask, not assume.
That she’d say something real.
But Melissa hadn’t come to listen. She’d come to fix the discomfort. To soothe her own conscience. And Genesis had no intention of making that easy.
So she didn’t say what she was really feeling:
That she wanted to forgive her.
That she’d been waiting for someone to actually see her.
That Melissa’s silence over the months had felt louder than any insult.
She just breathed.
In.
Out.
And let the silence stretch again — not to punish, but to protect.
Because forgiveness, for Genesis, wasn’t performance.
It was earned.
And right now?
Melissa hadn’t even come close.
———
“That Wasn’t the Assignment”
Melissa + Barbara
⸻
Melissa found Barbara in the staff lounge, sitting with a cup of tea and a worn-out copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God open on the table. She looked peaceful. Composed.
Melissa felt like a disaster in comparison.
“Hey,” she said, hovering awkwardly at the doorway.
Barbara looked up, calm. “Melissa.”
“I talked to her.”
Barbara raised an eyebrow. “Genesis?”
“Yeah.”
She waited for a nod of approval. A good job. A proud of you, baby girl.
But Barbara just blinked. “And?”
Melissa shifted. “And… it didn’t go well.”
Now Barbara closed the book, slow and intentional. “Tell me what you said.”
Melissa dropped into the chair across from her, arms crossed. “I apologized.”
“Mmhmm.”
“I said I knew I was out of line. That I’d pushed too far. That I was being an ass.”
Barbara sipped her tea. “Anything else?”
“She didn’t respond.”
“She didn’t have to.”
Melissa frowned. “I said sorry.”
Barbara set her mug down. “Melissa. I told you to apologize for her, not for you.”
The words landed harder than Melissa expected.
“What’s the difference?”
Barbara leaned forward, quiet but firm. “The difference is that you walked into her room to relieve your guilt. You wanted to say enough to feel better about what you did — not enough for her to feel seen.”
Melissa swallowed. “I wasn’t trying to make it about me.”
“But you did.”
Barbara gave her a long, slow look. Not angry. Just… disappointed.
“You didn’t ask her how she felt,” she continued. “You didn’t ask what she needed. You didn’t even pause long enough to listen.”
Melissa sank back in the chair, heat prickling behind her eyes. “She wouldn’t have said anything.”
“Because she’s protecting herself. From you.”
That was the part that stung most.
Barbara softened. “Do you know what she told me the other night?”
Melissa shook her head.
“She said you turned grace into something to be tested. That she gave you room, and you filled it with assumptions. She said she’s spent her whole life being asked to explain herself just to be accepted — and she won’t do it anymore, especially not for you.”
Melissa went still.
“She wasn’t angry when she said it,” Barbara added. “She was tired. You wore her down, Melissa. Not with what you said in the hallway — but with every moment before it that made her feel small.”
Melissa looked down. Her throat was tight.
Barbara reached across the table, hand warm and grounding. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt her. But she’s not here to soothe your conscience. She doesn’t owe you forgiveness. What she deserves is effort. Not a performance.”
Melissa nodded, slow. Quiet.
Barbara pulled her hand back. “So if you’re serious — if you really want to make it right — you need to earn her trust. Not with words. With actions. With time.”
Melissa looked up, eyes clearer now. “You think she’ll let me try?”
Barbara gave a small smile. “I think if you show her that you’re listening — really listening — she’ll notice. And that’s where you start.”
———
“What You Look At Too Long”
Melissa in reflection
⸻
Melissa didn’t sleep that night.
She sat on her couch in an old Eagles sweatshirt, legs pulled up, half a whiskey glass forgotten on the end table. The TV played in the background, some late-night rerun she wasn’t watching.
Her thoughts were loud. Relentless.
She’d gone to Barbara looking for clarity. Maybe even absolution. But Barbara had handed her something else — a mirror. And now Melissa couldn’t look away.
Because the truth she’d been avoiding, ducking under sarcasm and sharp commentary, was this:
She didn’t dislike Genesis.
Not really. Not ever.
What she didn’t like was how Genesis made her feel.
Disarmed. Uncertain. Exposed.
Genesis didn’t need her validation. Didn’t try to win her over. She walked in every morning like she belonged, like her silence was a crown, not a gap. And somehow, that had threatened Melissa more than any actual confrontation.
Because Genesis didn’t shrink herself.
And Melissa… did.
Every time she bit back something too tender. Every time she hid behind jokes, or her accent, or the armor she’d built from years of being underestimated.
And Genesis had seen right through it.
That’s what stung most.
Not the confrontation.
Not the silence after.
It was the fact that she’d been seen — fully — and still hadn’t been ready to meet that gaze head-on.
So instead of rising to the occasion, she tried to clip Genesis down to size.
Make her more manageable.
Make her smaller.
She didn’t say it out loud, but she knew what it was now. She had envied her. That calm. That control. That quiet strength that didn’t need to be explained or translated.
And because Melissa didn’t know how to handle that?
She ruined it.
She’d had a shot at something — not friendship, not yet. But understanding. Mutual respect. Something that could’ve been solid, slow, maybe even… good.
And she torched it. With her own damn pride.
She rubbed her hands over her face, raw and heavy with regret.
She didn’t know how to fix it. Not yet.
But for once, she stopped trying to spin the story in her favor.
Stopped pretending it wasn’t that deep.
Stopped blaming Genesis for reacting to wounds Melissa had inflicted.
And in the stillness, with nothing left to defend, she let herself feel the thing she’d been ducking from since the first day Genesis looked at her like someone worth knowing:
Melissa laughs. “Please. I could see it clear as day. And for what it’s worth—” her gaze softens, voice dropping — “I’m happy for you. For both of you.”
A rare, genuine smile spreads across Barbara’s face — relief washing through her.
“Thank you, Melissa.”
“Just… take care of her, yeah?”
“I intend to.”
⸻
Next is Jacob.
Barbara catches him after lunch — walking the halls, papers in hand.
“Mr. Hill,” she calls gently.
He pauses. “Oh — Mrs. Howard. What’s up?”
She walks with him a few steps, voice low.
“There is… something personal I would like to share with you.”
Jacob blinks — clearly intrigued.
“Oh! Of course. You can tell me anything.”
Barbara takes a breath.
“Y/N and I… are seeing one another.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence — Jacob’s eyes going wide.
“Wait — really? Like… really really?”
Barbara’s smile is faint but warm. “Yes.”
“Oh my gosh — that’s amazing!” Jacob beams. “You two are, like… perfect for each other. Wow. Love is so beautiful—”
Barbara holds up a hand gently, amused.
“Thank you, Mr. Hill. I appreciate your… enthusiasm.”
Jacob practically bounces on his feet. “I won’t say a word! But — seriously — this just made my week.”
Barbara shakes her head fondly. “You are… wonderfully kind.”
⸻
Then — Janine.
That one gives Barbara pause.
Not because she doubts Janine’s heart — but because she knows how… excitable Janine can be.
And this — this is still fragile. Something precious.
She finds her in the library, shelving books.
“Miss Teagues.”
Janine turns, bright as ever. “Mrs. Howard! What’s up?”
Barbara hesitates — then steps closer, voice soft.
“I need to ask you something… in confidence.”
Janine’s eyes widen. “Of course!”
Barbara folds her hands, composed.
“I am… involved with Y/N.”
Janine gasps — eyes going wide.
“Shut UP! Are you serious?!”
Barbara lifts a brow — calm as ever.
“I assure you, I am quite serious.”
Janine practically bounces. “Oh my gosh — that’s so… romantic! I knew something was going on — you two have that, like… tension thing! It’s so cute—”
Barbara holds up a hand, voice firm but kind.
“We would appreciate… discretion. For now.”
Janine nods rapidly. “Of course! I won’t say a word. Promise.”
A small smile tugs at Barbara’s lips. “Thank you, Miss Teagues.”
And as she turns to go, Janine calls after her — softly:
“I’m really happy for you two.”
Barbara pauses — heart full.
“So am I,” she says quietly.
⸻
And so it goes.
Little by little.
Barbara chooses who to tell, when to tell — her way.
Not rushed. Not forced. But deliberate.
Because for her — this is not just about being seen.
It’s about honoring what this is. Honoring you.
And each time she tells someone, you can see it in her — the way her shoulders ease. The way her hand finds yours more readily, fingers lacing with yours in quiet moments.
And the way her eyes soften — with pride, with certainty — when she looks at you now, even in public.
Because this love — your love — is no longer something to be hidden.
Not out of shame.
Not out of fear.
But because it matters.
And now — little by little — so does the world around you.
