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basically a daily archive full of content about older women, lisa ann walter and abbott elementary. (she/hers.) brazilian. send melissa schemmenti fic requests!!

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schemmentigfs’s complete masterlist.

melissa ann schemmenti. (abbott elementary, 2021-)

welcome to my blog, i am leti (she/her.) and i write only for melissa schemmenti x reader. my ask box is open for prompts and ideas. your feedback is really appreciated and welcomed. this is a safe space. 🤍

oneshots. (last update: 16/06.)

multi-chapter fics. (last update: 07/08.)

sweetening the deal masterlist. (last update: 23/06)

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So excited for part 2 oh m gee

🤤🤤🤤

y’all aren’t ready for the ending... (i’m not killing anyone! pinky promise.) also, we got a nice surprise on the smut part..

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Hope all is well, just wondering when the second part of meeting in secret will be posted. No rush tho thanks and have a great day.

*types mic* hello, does anyone remembers me?? (joking) my sweet anon, i hope that you are doing great as well! sorry for the long delay, writer’s block sucks! but i plan to post soon. 🤍 hope that y’all enjoy the second part as much as I do.

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Where'd you go Hon we miss you !! 😞😞😞

hi, dear anon. I’m still here 🤍 (pinky promise!) I actually wanted to apologize for not being so active here on the platform :( I had some problems involving my mental health and I am super focused on work so I couldn’t find a time to write or post!

but I’m working on the second chapter of honey we’re not subtle (which should be posted soon, along with other requests!) but don’t worry, I won’t abandon or give up on y’all, im forever grateful for all the love everyone gives me when it comes to my fics and I have a lot of ideas for future oneshots that I want to share. 🤍🤍

[schemmentigfs]

YESSS!!!

[schemmentigfs]

HOLY SHIT I NEED MORE OF THAT FIC IM SALIVATING

chapter two is coming your way anon! 🫡 i will try to finish as fast as possible! the next part will contain some smut beacuse why not?

[schemmentigfs]

hi there!!! so can we get mel x fem!r age gap where their relationship is kinda prohibited/they have to hide rlly well so they dont get caught but not like a teenage thing but more like theyre neighbors and r’s mom doesnt like her or shes her friend or even like the short the ladies??!?!&!: pls it doesnt matter the ending

Honey, We’re Not Subtle.

Summary: They say good fences make good neighbors. Too bad Melissa Schemmenti makes you want to climb them every chance you get.

WC: 6k.

Taglist: @lifeismomentsyoucannotunderstand @lisaannwaltersbra @italianaidiota @kukikatt @dopenightmaretyphoon @pitstopsapphic @jeridandridge @aliensuperst4rr @writerspirit

The thing about summer in the western end of Philadelphia was that it didn’t ask for permission.

It didn’t roll in gently, or slip past unnoticed in the town located in Pennsylvania. It barged in like it owned the place, thick and pushy, heat rising off the cracked sidewalks in shimmering waves. The kind of heat that seeped through windowpanes and clung to box fans with the desperation of a prayer. It pressed itself through every cracked window, every screen door that didn’t shut quite right, curling around ankles and shoulders like something alive. Sticky. Unforgiving.

On what happened to be your neighborhood, a short run of rowhomes just off Snyder, the sunny weather had a way of making itself known.

Kids stayed out way past the time their moms started yelling from front steps, dragging jump ropes, bikes and scooters down the pavement, their arms sticky with water ice that melted faster than they could eat it. The grown-ups sat out too, lined up like sentinels on stoops and plastic porch chairs, half gossip, half defense. Watching. Listening. Protecting their own in a way that looked more like eavesdropping than heroism.

This was your neighborhood, as far as you remember it was always like this since your childhood. Some things never change.

Your mother being a sweet but respected woman by the others always called it a community, except that on the way she used to say it. A little sarcastic on the edges, like it tasted sour in her mouth. It sounded more like a warning than a comfort. Community here meant a chain of watchful eyes, mouths that never stayed shut, and stories that moved faster than truth. It meant knowing everything about everyone, whether you wanted to or not.

Especially about the mysterious woman next door, who both your mom and father always referred to as the devil itself.

Melissa Schemmenti. She was fifty years old and the kind of woman who made everyone talk without even opening her mouth.

She’d been living on this neighborhood longer than almost anybody you knew aside from old Mrs. Hernandez, who hadn’t left her house in three years due to the pandemic but somehow knew who was pregnant before their boyfriend or restrictive parents did. Melissa wasn’t just a fixture on the street; she was a presence that made everything feel a little heavier when she stepped outside.

The redhead taught second grade at Abbott Elementary, know as the local and unfounded public school. It was the same school where some of your cousins and half the neighborhood kids had cycled through at one point.

She drove a beat-up red sedan that rattled but never failed, and when it stalled she’d fix it herself in the driveway with a wrench in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Just like her cousin Rocco taught her in early adulthood years. Frank Sinatra would be blaring from an old boombox. Never Billy Joel, she hated that man.

Melissa also cursed like it was a second language and laughed with her whole chest when she needed to, like the world had to hear her joy just as loudly as her rage.

Her clothing choices were also a talk around the whole neighborhood, leather was almost a second part of herself. Tight pants, worn smooth at the seams, paired with biker boots and zip-up jackets that clung to her arms like armor. Blazers too, sometimes on development days at work, or a random morning.

Even in the heat her beautiful hair, wild and copper-red, was always done up like she’d just rolled out of a dive bar and dared someone to say something about it. Her lipstick was blood-red, never smudged. Her eyeliner? Sharp enough to cut glass.

There was something about her. Too much, maybe. Too loud, too brash, too unapologetically her. And that made people nervous. Especially your mom, who treated her like a punching bag any chance she got.

“Red? She’s got a reputation,” she would hiss with others on the phone next to the living room, pulling the blinds just enough to peek through when the second grade teacher walked by. But she never explained what kind of reputation. She didn’t have to. The implication lingered in the silence, in the way her lips tightened, in the way her voice dropped to a whisper like the very air might tattle.

On the other hand, even the worst of the gossips had to admit something. The red shiny tomatoes came in perfect condition every year, despite the overgrown garden and mess of weeds that grew like they were invited, every fruit she touched seemed to thrive. Same with the neighborhood kids, come to think of it. Even the roughest and rebellious teenagers straightened up when Ms. Schemmenti talked.

Probably was the teacher in her. Or probably was the way she walked without bending her knees like she’d seen it all, lived through it, and dared the world to try again.

She wasn’t what your mom wanted near her daughter. Which, of course, only made her that much harder to ignore.

The biggest problem was that you felt attracted to her by nature, your hot older neighbor was the woman who didn’t need to try to be noticed, her presence alone demanded attention. She carried herself with the effortless magnetism of an old Hollywood actress.

Earthy sensuality wrapped in confidence. Her heart-shaped face, with its high cheekbones and stubborn chin, was framed by wild, untamed curls.

One of her most arresting features was her green eyes, intense and capable of delivering a scolding with one glance or an invitation to mischief with a single smirk. They always seemed to be laughing at some internal joke, like she knew secrets the world wasn’t ready for. Thick, natural lashes cast of someone who spent hours under the sun whether tending her unruly garden or grading papers on the porch.

And her lips, full and expressive, made for sly smiles and sassy comebacks. When she talked, you couldn’t look away from the way they moved, shaping every word with a theatrical flair honed from years in classrooms and late-night family fights. If she ever slicked on red lipstick (usually on rare nights out when she’d wink and say she was going to misbehave), the effect was downright lethal.

Her body wasn’t build for delicate and pretty fragility, the siclian was curvy and that made sundresses look like some statement. Jeans looked like a sin, her shoulders carried a posture that never slumped, and her hips swayed with a rhythm that betrayed her Italian roots, even when she was just grabbing the mail to see the bills.

There was a unapologetic sexiness to her, a presence that didn’t need heels or tight dresses (though when she wore them? Damn.)

But what made her truly irresistible was the way all of it came together with her personality.

A arched eyebrow could shut down nonsense, her hands, always with short, boldly painted nails gesturin when she told a story or how her laugh burst out loud and unfiltered, like she had no time for polite pretenses. She wasn’t pretty. She was hot.

On a Friday night, after a peaceful dinner with your father and mother, the sink gurgled as she with a wrist deep in soap water scrubbed at a dish that obviously didn’t needed any scrubbing. The tiny window over the sink looked straight out toward the fence line, toward Melissa’s yard. Of course, she didn't miss the opportunity to make a comment about the neighbor.

“That bitch thinks she’s cute,” your mom pointed out. “Smokes like a chimney on Christmas night and flirts with both genders like it’s a profession. There’s nothing wrong with liking men and women but look at her age! She needs to settle down.”

You’d leaned against the counter, nursing the last sip of iced tea in a sweating glass, lips twitching as the words settled.

“Mom, hush with the implications. I saw her at Anthony’s Italian Coffee & Chocolate House on Wednesday, she recognized me and offered to pay for my order. Melissa has been nothing but polite!” you retort suddenly. One soft, stupid response. Like you forgot, for a second, who you were talking to.

The dish towel in her hands went still, and twisted. Wrung out like a neck snapping.

“She’s got no business talking to girls your age!”she barked, enough to cut through the clink of dishes. She didn’t even have to look at you.

Your father was more calm when the subject was the redhead whose name could not be mentioned in your residence, but he agreed with his beloved wife’s attitudes and words. He sighed heavily without taking his eyes off the news article he was reading on the table.

“Y/N,” the older man begins in a reprehensive tone. “Listen to your mother. She isn’t wrong, that diabolical woman is not a good example for you.”

“Dad,” you started with a anxious tone but he cuted you off by zipping his mouth shut.

Not that the italian-american had ever said much to you. Not then, anyway. She wasn’t reckless. Not the way your parents and neighborhood assumed. But sometimes, in those long evenings when the sky went dark and the kids scattered like pigeons, she’d catch your eye from across the yard.

You didn’t know what to do with that back then. So you stopped looking. Kept your eyes down, your feet moving, your face neutral.

At twenty-seven years old, you’re still living at home (for now.) The converted sunroom is your makeshift office, your laptop perched on uneven towers of old textbooks, the spines cracked and pages yellowed with disuse. Your headphones are never fully on, one ear always tuned to the muffled sounds of the house, your mom’s footsteps in the kitchen, the distant snoring of your asleep dad and the occasional sigh of the floorboards settling. You tell relatives you’re just saving money, figuring things out, waiting for something better. You don’t tell them what that something is. You’re not even sure yourself.

When night falls, the residence follows its own monotonous routine. The telephone on the table after being used for gossiping and concerning, your refrigerator humming its steady drone, harmonizing with the oscillating quietness in your parents bedroom.

That’s when you move. To hookup with your prohibited neighbor.

Bare feet silent against the hardwood, you pad down the hallway, avoiding the floorboard you know will groan under your weight. The back door’s hinges sigh as you ease it open, just wide enough to slip through. The weather is always cold, carrying the scent of cut grass and the faint metallic tang of the neighbor’s sprinkler system.

Your shoes dangle from your fingers, soles brushing your thigh, until you’re at the white picket fence, its paint peeling, wood softened by years of rain and sun. You vault over it with practiced ease, landing in the ground on the other side.

Melissa is usually waiting for you in her house.

Sometimes she’s with a arm behind her back and a glass of expensive white wine cradled in her other hand, condensation beading and slipping down to pool between her fingers. On Saturdays and Sundays, she’s leaning against the side of her garage, arms crossed, one bare foot propped against the siding.

As mentioned before, her wardrobe is as unpredictable as she is. Some evenings, it’s an ancient Neumann University shirt its collar stretched wide from too many washes, the fabric thin enough that you can trace the slope of her shoulder beneath it. Other times, it’s a deep burgundy robe cinched haphazardly at the waist.

And then there are the nights she wears that jeans jacket, one that smells like rain and something faintly spiced thrown over a green tank top and pajama pants, as if she couldn’t be bothered to dress properly, as if she just grabbed whatever was closest when she heard you coming.

Her house is a sanctuary in the way of a life fully lived. Dog-eared paperbacks, half-finished crossword puzzles at the coffee table, a blue pen abandoned. A candle gutters in the corner, wax pooled around the wick, the last whispers of bergamot and cedar.

When she touches you it’s like she is committing you to memory. A palm on your wrist, her thumb tracing your jaw. You lean into the touch like a flower bending toward the sun.

No one knows about this prohibited relationship.

Not the old man three doors down, who waters his geraniums at precisely 6:15 pm every evening, eyes behind his bifocals. Not the kids who shout the redhead’s name from their scooters, who dissolve into giggles when she ruffles their hair and calls them gabortz.

Not even your mother, who still speaks of her in hushed, cautious tones, like the mere mention of that woman next door might summon something dangerous.

You’re aware of the precipice beneath your feet, the way the ground could crumble at any moment. If this gets out, the fallout won’t just be a scandal, it’ll be annihilation.

But then Melissa Schemmenti tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, her fingertips brushing the shell of it, rough from years of twisting wrenches and scraping knuckles against metal. She looks at you like you’re something precious, like she’s spent a lifetime searching for a moment this soft, this real.

And suddenly, you don’t care about the consequences.

You only care about this. The gentle way she sways with you when a song drifts from the record player, there’s just enough space between the couch and the coffee table to sway. She pulls you close, one hand firm at the small of your back, the other tangling with yours. There’s no rhythm to it, just the drag of her hips against yours, the heat of her breath against your temple.

Melissa laughs when you step on her toes. “S’alright, bambi, I’ve had worse in my ex-marriage,” she jokes before spinning you under her arm.

“Sorry for being terrible at this,” you apologize with a flush of your cheeks.

She nips at your earlobe. “None of that, why don’t we chill for a sec?”

You care about the way, when later, when the record spins to silence, she tugs you onto the plastic covered couch, the old springs groaning under you. The Nintendo that once belonged to her ex-roommate Jacob Hill, shines to life, the pixelated rainbow of Mario Kart 8 bright against the room. She’s ruthless, elbows digging into your ribs as she leans forward, tongue caught between her teeth.

“Watch this,” your girlfriend grins, and then she’s slingshotting past you on the last lap, her kart spitting blue fire.

“Cheater!” you gasp, but she’s already laughing, triumphant, her head thrown back.

“Winner picks the prize,” Melissa declares, and you know what’s coming before she even reaches for the rolling tray. “You know the rules, babe.”

She’s meticulous about it, grinding the bud between her fingers. The paper crinkles as she licks the glue line, her tongue pink and quick. When she sparks the lighter, the flame reflects in her eyes, and for a second, she looks like something out of a myth.

Obviously, the first hit is always hers. She inhales deep, holds it, lets the smoke curl from her nose like a dragon’s flame.

“Your turn. C’mon, just like I taught you, sweetheart.”

When the smoke burns sweet down your throat, you cough, just a little, not being used to marijuana and the second grade teacher whistles, taking it back. She mocks you, calling you lightweight, but her thumb brushes your lip like an apology.

What you have with her isn’t meant for daylight. It’s a secret, sacred in its silence. If the world found out, if the block buzzed with gossip, if Melissa ever had to name this thing between you in the harsh light of day. It might not survive. Some truths are too fragile for the open air.

So you keep quiet, you stay late. And you tell yourself something:

“I will stop this whole secret situationship. Eventually, so mom doesn’t find out that I am ‘sleeping with the enemy.’”

“Just… not tonight. I don’t wanna hurt her or myself.”

“What people would do and say if they found out? Melissa’s been though a lot since her last marriage, I love her and the idea of making her suffer again, makes me want to scream.”

The next time you and her see each other again, it starts with an unharmful lie.

At the kitchen, you stand digging through the fridge like you’re looking for something important, vital or at least something to justify the way you’re hiding behind the door.

Your mother bustles around behind you, wiping down counters that don’t need wiping.

“You’re going out again?” she prompts, not looking up from the imaginary spot she’s scrubbing at with a dish towel.

“Yeah,” you say, muffled by the fridge door. “At Claire’s.”

After your confirmation, there’s a pause. The faucet drips once, twice, into the sink.

“On a Saturday?”

“Mm,” you grab a water bottle just to have something in your hands. “We’re gonna watch that new series she’s been obsessed with.”

She finally stops pretending to clean. She leans back against the counter, arms crossed, dish towel still clutched in one hand.

“Me and your father noticed that you’ve been spending a lot of time with her lately.”

It’s a accusation. You take a slow sip of water, buying time. Outside, a lawnmower starts up somewhere down the street. “Yeah, well,” you shrug, pretending that you aren’t sweating. “She’s been having a rough time with the divorce. You know how it is.”

A gamble. Your mother’s lips press into a thin line. She’d always liked Claire’s ex-husband. Said that he was a good example of a man.

“I just think it’s strange,” she explains her point of view. “That every time you go over there, you pack an overnight bag?”

You squeeze your fingers around the water bottle. “We drink alcohol, you won’t want me driving home after that.”

“If that’s the reason, you could take an Uber.”

“And leave my car at her place?” you force a laugh. “Come on, Mom. Since when do you care if I sleep over at a old friend’s?”

“I just...” she hesitates, then shakes her head. “Never mind, Y/N.”

You watch as your mother turns back to the counter, rearranging the fruit bowl that doesn’t need rearranging. The bananas are too green. She moves them to the left.

“What time will you be home tomorrow?”

“Not sure,” you set the water bottle down too carefully. “Probably late afternoon or early in the morning.”

Late afternoon,” she chews her lip. “Y’know, Mr. Henderson saw you at the grocery store last week.”

Your stomach drops. “Oh?”

“Said you were with some redheaded woman. Looked... close.”

“Blanche!” you answered, too quickly. “She’s Claire’s older cousin. Was in town for a few days. She is from…California!” Another lie. Melissa has lived next to you for decades.

Her fingers pause on an apple. She doesn’t look at you. “Funny. He didn’t mention that.“

“Maybe because it’s none of his business?” you grab your bag from the chair. “Jesus, Mom. Since when do we report our grocery store companions to the neighborhood watch?”

A car honks outside. The mail truck, probably. “I’m just making conversation,” she tries to defend herself.

“Well,” you sling your bag over your shoulder. “Maybe don’t.”

“Eleven,” your mother says finally.

“What?”

“Curfew’s still eleven,” her knuckles are white around the dish towel. “Even on Saturdays.”

You stare at her. “I’m twenty-seven!”

“This is my house,” the eldest meets your eyes for the first time. “My rules, if you don’t agree, simply buy your own house and move out.”

“Whatever. I’ll text you.”

She doesn’t say goodbye as you walk out. The screen door slams behind you with finality.

Outside, the sun is too bright and your hands shake as you dig your keys from your pocket. You don’t look back, you never do. On the second your feet hit the pavement, the anger boils over.

“Curfew’s still eleven,” you groan under your breath as you stomp down the sidewalk. “Even on fuckin’ Saturdays.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. You kick a pebble harder than necessary, sending it skittering across the cracked concrete, the clack of stone against asphalt echoing in the quiet neighborhood.

You shove your hands into the pockets of your jacket, shoulders hunched, and take the long way around the block. Not because you need the extra steps, but because you know they’re watching. Mrs. Parker with her lace curtains twitching. Old Man Reynolds pretending to fiddle with his mailbox as you pass. The whole damn street, a minefield of nosy neighbors and prying eyes.

So you walk.

You loop past the park with its rusted swing set, past the Thompsons’ house where their golden retriever barks half-heartedly at you from behind a white picket fence. You take your time, letting the simmering fury in your chest settle into something manageable before you dare double back.

“Oh, but of course! ‘Cause I’m still fucking twelve, right, Stephanie?” you throw your hands up, talking to no one or maybe to the universe in general. A cyclist gives you a weird look. You give them the middle finger until they pedal faster.

By the time you make your way toward your street again you don’t go straight there, of course. That would be too obvious. Instead, you pause at the corner, pretending to check your phone, scanning for witnesses before slipping into the narrow alley between the Millers’ garage and the overgrown hedges that separate their property from hers.

The weather is cooler here, damp with the scent of earth and moss. Your black boots crush brittle leaves underfoot as you move silently along the fence line, fingers brushing the wood until you find the loose board. The one your girlfriend pried loose two years ago, just enough to squeeze through if you turn sideways.

You do.

The backyard is quiet. her garden is wild and untamed, nothing like your mother’s manicured flower beds. The back porch light is off, just like always. Your signal.

You don’t knock. The door is unlocked, the handle cool under your palm as you push inside, stepping into the warmth of her space.

Melissa is at the stove, stirring something in a cast-iron skillet, her back to you. She doesn’t turn around, but you see the way her shoulders tense slightly, the way her fingers tighten around the wooden spoon.

“Goodnight, bimba,” she greets. “I thought I wouldn't see mia principessa tonight.”

You drop your bag on the floor with a thud, the sound louder than you intended in the cozy space. “She’s annoying!” you snap, pacing the length of the kitchen, your boots scuffing against the worn hardwood.

Melissa doesn’t ask who. She just watches you, her green eyes tracking your movements, her expression unreadable as you rant.

“Eleven o’clock curfew. Eleven. Like I’m some teenager sneaking out to meet a boy. And the audacity! ‘the neighbor saw you,’ as if I need to fucking justify who I’m seen with now?”

Melissa sighs a heavy sigh. “You done cursing like a sailor?”

“No!” you whirl on her. “I’m twenty-seven, Lis. Twenty. Fucking. Seven. And she still treats me like, like…”

“Like her kid,” the redhead finishes softly. “That she insists on protecting.”

The fight drains out of you all at once. “Yep, and this pisses me off!”

Your girlfriend turns the stove off. Walks over. Cups your face in her hands. “Wanna know what I think about this?”

“What!?” you ask with a frown.

“I think,” she continues, leaning in until her forehead rests against yours, her breath warm and familiar. “That your mom can go fuck herself.”

A laugh bursts out of you. “Rude.”

“I don’t hate your ma. She’s just a pain in our fuckin’ ass. Now,” the older woman mouths, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lip. “How about we make sure you’re very late for curfew?”

“Yeah?” you give her puppy eyes and she nods kissing you.

You don’t realize you’ve moved that much until the counter presses into her hips and her hourglass body arches into yours, her fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, clinging like she’s afraid you’ll pull away. The stove makes a noise beside you, the forgotten skillet whispering with the sound of garlic and onions caramelizing.

Her teeth catches your lower lip and you shiver drifting your palms down to her waist, tracing the delicate ridges of her ribs beneath her green top.

“You’re gonna burn dinner.”

She laughs, a sound honeyed, vibrating against your mouth. “I don’t care about dinner when I have a beautiful angel in front of me.”

The wooden spoon clatters to the floor, forgotten, as she turns fully into you, her body aligning with yours like two halves of a perfect fit. Her hands rise to your hair, fingers threading through the strands, tugging just enough to draw a quiet groan from your throat. You kiss her deeper, slower, savoring the way her breath hitches when your tongue traces the seam of her lips.

Behind you, the onions let out a faint hiss, the sharp tang of smoke curling into the air.

Melissa breaks away with a gasp, her cheeks flushed, lips swollen. She reaches blindly for the pan, nudging it off the burner with a breathless laugh. “Fuck, maybe slightly care.”

You don’t let her go. Instead, you press your lips to the delicate line of her throat, kissing the flutter of her pulse there, nipping gently just to feel the way her fingers tighten in your hair.

“We could just order from that Chinese place,” you suggest. “Mm?”

The redheaded hums, tilting her head to give you better access, her breath coming in soft, uneven waves. “Or,” she counters, her grip in your hair tightening just enough to make your stomach swoop. “You could shut up and keep doing that while I finish cooking, smartass.”

You smile against her skin, pressing one last kiss to the hollow beneath her ear before obliging. Your lips trace the slope of her shoulder, the curve of her jaw, as she stirs the pan one-handed, her other arm looped around your waist, holding you close.

At one point, Melissa turns her head, catching your mouth in a kiss again, her tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your heart drop.

“You’re distracting me,” she scolds. “ I’m just a poor woman trying to make Friggionge. And you are being a pain in my damn ass.”

You nip at her lower lip, grinning when she shivers. “Sorry.”

Green eyes roll at you, but the corners of her mouth moves like she’s fighting a smile. She pulls the pot off the stove with a satisfied hum, plates up generous portions of the dish, then nudges you to sit down at the large dining table.

The recipe belongs to her grandmother, of course, rich with garlic and butter and that earthy sweetness only Melissa knows how to coax out of humble greens. She sits close, knees brushing yours beneath it, her hand never leaving yours even as she twirls pasta with the other.

“Eat,” she orders when she catches you staring at her instead of the food. Her thumb rubs circles over your knuckles, claiming. Every time you take a bite, she watches your mouth like she’s memorizing the shape of your satisfaction.

Every so often Melissa lifts your joined hands to press a kiss to your fingers, soft and absentminded, like she can’t help herself. Between mouthfuls, she complains about you distracting her, but she doesn’t let go, not when the sauce drips on her top, not when you tease her about it, not even when you reach to steal a bite off her plate.

And under the table, her foot hooks around your ankle, keeping you there, close, tethered. Like she’s trying to make sure you never slip out of her grasp.

Melissa insists on putting on Real Housewives after dinner. It’s a ritual, really, something she calls her “one good guilty pleasure,” though you know it’s more than an obsession. It’s her way to unwind, to remind herself that other people’s chaos can be louder than hers, funnier too, in a way that makes her feel lighter.

The dramatic monologues of the characters make an interesting combination with a loud scratch of her pen as she grades mathematical tests. She’s tucked against your side, her legs draped over yours, the weight of her warm and familiar. Every so often, she lets out a soft snort of laughter at the show, or at whatever absurd answer one of her second graders scribbled down.

“Breanna wrote that she solved 8 + 5 by counting all the gummy bears in her lunchbox,” Melissa circles the answer and puts a smiling face next to it. “I mean, correct, but pretty sure she just wanted an excuse to tell me about food.”

You chuckle. “Innovative problem-solving. Future mathematician right there."

She swats your chest with the back of her hand, but she’s grinning. “Don’t encourage her. Next thing you know, they'll all be solving subtraction problems by counting the fake teeth in their grandmother’s dentures.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to her temple as the redhead flips to the next test.

“How was your day?” you ask, nuzzling into her hair.

Melissa sighs. “Exhausting. Isaiah tried to prove he could hold his breath for a hundred million hours during reading time. Passed out face-first into the cover of Peter Rabbit.”

“The boy’s got dedication.”

“Dedication? That’s literally no sense!” she corrects, but there’s fondness in her voice. “The nurse had to help me convince him humans do actually need oxygen.”

“So you didn’t actually consider letting evolution take its course?”

“Trust me I did,” the older woman admits, capping her pen and stretching her arms. “But then he looked up at me with those big puppy eyes and said he wanted to be like Spiderman. How do you stay mad at that?”

“You’re a good teacher, Schemmenti,” you compliment with a sweet expression.

She rolls her eyes at you, but her cheeks go pink. “I just hand out gold stars and bandaids.”

“Nah. You are magic,” your thumb brushes over the ink stain on her hand. “Even when you're explaining for the twentieth time why dog doesn’t start with wuh.

Melissa huffs, but she tucks her face against your shoulder. “That’s phonics! You know it.”

When the marathon ends almost an hour later and the credits of Real Housewives roll, the redhead shifts, about to make an ironic comment about the episode’s drama, when she feels the steady rise and fall of your chest against her side. She turns her head and there you are, completely out, lips slightly parted, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks.

“Y/N? Y/N! come on, you little shit!” she curses and pokes your shoulder. “You promised you wouldn’t fall asleep on me again.”

You don’t wake up and Melissa groans, running a hand through her auburn hair as she surveys the situation: your limbs sprawled in that boneless, deeply asleep way, one arm still loosely curled around her waist. The worksheets are abandoned on the coffee table, her red pen left uncapped. She should be annoyed. She is annoyed.

But she can’t feel annoyed when it comes to you.

So, your older neighbor shifts carefully, sliding out from under your arm. You make a quiet, protesting noise in your sleep, your mouth pouting, and she can’t help but smile. “Shhh, amore, I got you,” she coos, even though you can't hear her.

Melissa bends down, sliding one arm under your knees and the other around your back. She braces herself and hoists.

“Gesù Cristo!” your girlfriend stumbles a step, knees buckling slightly. “Why are you…oh my god…why are you so damn heavy when you’re asleep?!”

It’s the dead weight of it. The way you’re completely limp, like a sack of very affectionate potatoes. She huffs, adjusting her grip, your head lolling against her shoulder. “This is ridiculous. I told you to just go to bed at ten. But nooo, you had to…mmph, just one more episode, and now I’m the one..oof! playing goddamn bridal carry at midnight!”

Every floorboard that groans beneath her weight sounds like a gunshot. She can practically hear her mother-in-law’s–correction–her ex-mother-in-law’s- shouting hissing from the guest room down the hall: “I always knew you were a nasty bitch, Melissa Schemmenti.” As if the divorce hadn’t been mutual. As if she hadn't been the one to find the texts on his phone.

The green eyed woman kicks open the bedroom door (gently, because she’s pissed, not rude,) and barely manages to deposit you onto the mattress without dropping you. You immediately curl into the blankets with a sleepy sigh, completely oblivious to her suffering and the pain on her back.

She stands over you, hands on her chest, breathing hard. “The only girlfriend that I ever carried on my arms, even though my fucking back kills me.” She could leave you like this. Should leave you like this. The thing is that she will always provide comfort for her girl.

So Melissa leans down, carefully peeling your jeans off (because sleeping in jeans is criminal and uncomfortable), tossing them over the chair. She wrestles your shirt over your head with minimal grumbling, replacing it with one of her old sleep camisoles, the red one you always steal. You mumble something unintelligible, nuzzling into the cold side of the pillow, and she can't help but brush your hair back from your forehead.

“Sleep tight, mi amore.”

Then she disappears into the bathroom and squints at her reflection on the mirror, the smudged mascara, the worry lines between her brows. Her nighttime routine is simple, the rush of water as she washes her face, the click of her skincare bottles, while whatever song is playing in her head. When she finally emerges, her face is scrubbed clean, her hair piled into a messy bun, her pajamas hanging loose and soft on her frame.

You’ve shifted in her absence, one arm outstretched across her side of the bed like you were searching for her.

Melissa slips under the covers, careful not to jostle you. For a long moment, she just watches the rise and fall of your breathing and thinks.

She should go to sleep in the guest room next door, giving you comfort and privacy. The plastic-covered sofa isn’t a reliable option after all, she might wake up with a terrible neck pain. Dealing with her grade partner Janine Teagues while irritated from a bad night’s sleep is a nightmare.

Staying here in her own bed isn’t a bad idea, right? Hell, you’re the daughter of the neighbor who harbors a deep hatred for her. What else could possibly be a terrible idea?

Her fingers hover just above your skin, not quite touching. The pad of her index finger traces the invisible line of your brow first. Following the arch like she’s memorizing every curve. Then, feather-light, she brushes over the bridge of your nose, smiling when you scrunch it slightly in your sleep.

“A brat even when you’re out cold,” she teases.

Next, it’s over your cheekbone, following the curve down to the corner of your mouth. There’s a tiny scar there, barely noticeable unless you look closely, from when you fell off your bike at eight years old. She knows the story. Knows how your mom freaked out, how your grandma pressed a linen napkin to your face and groaned about “too much energy.”

The redheaded second grade teacher knows too much. That’s the problem.

When her fingers go lower, sliding along your jaw you smile faintly, your breath warm against her wrist, and she freezes but you don’t wake. You just turn your face slightly into her touch.

“Sap,” your girlfriend quips.

A sound creaks, a sharp pop from the hallway. Her head snaps up, her body going rigid. For one breath-stealing second, she imagines the door swinging open. Imagines your mother showing up through the darkness. I knew it. I knew you were fucking my daughter, you pervert! Get away from her right now! Or you’ll regret it!

But nothing moves. It’s just the house. Just Melissa’s paranoia.

When she looks down again, you’ve curled toward her, one hand weakly clutching the fabric of her nightshirt. The scene completely unravels her sarcastic redhead with a heart of stone persona.

She lets out a slow breath through her nose and finally, finally lets herself sink into the mattress beside you. She fits herself against your side, her head resting in the hollow between your shoulder and chest. Your heartbeat is strong beneath her ear. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, a rhythm she could set her watch to.

One of your arms drapes around her waist, pulling her closer even in sleep. Melissa closes her olive eyes and allows herself to believe, just for tonight, that this isn’t borrowed time. That she doesn’t have to tiptoe around her own home. That your mother won’t invade her property, look at her with that thinly veiled disgust while questioning the love the second-grade teacher feels for you.

She laces her fingers with yours. “Shit, we’re so screwed if anyone finds out,” she sighs against your collarbone. “But I’m not going to give up on you, mi amore.”

Next Chapter. (soon.)

[schemmentigfs]

did you happen to know @shesgaymichaelscott? i saw she deactivated and deleted her ao3 fics too she was one of my favorite writers 💔💔

Hello anon! She is a sweetheart, I loved her fics too. Unfortunately I saw today that she deactivated :( I hope that she comes back to the platform someday.

[schemmentigfs]

more photos of the Pasadena magazine with Lisa Ann Walter were revealed and I am trying SO FUCKING HARD to act respectful on this platform. could I eat that girl for lunch? 🙂‍↔️

[schemmentigfs]

WHAT THE FUCK LISA ANN WALTER.

[milfjuulpod]

Accidentally on Purpose

After accidentally getting you worked up in the break room, Melissa spends a lot of time thinking about that moment, and how badly she wants to see it happen again.

warnings: poorly written smut, smut with no plot, ooc melissa (sorry), this was a request, pov switching, mentions of "good girl" and "my girl", 5k words (sorry again)

A/N: yeah i don't have much to say i'm just gonna put this here and run away i think. thank you @schemmentisimpasours for convincing me to share this. good luck yall!

Melissa Schemmenti was a lot of things. Driven, stubborn, passionate—all things that drew you to her. She was like a fire that never went out, one that kept you very warm.

Luckily, Melissa had also taken a liking to you. It was rare that the redhead wanted anything to do with newer teachers, but something about the way your eyes sparkled when she spoke to you made her want to stick around, especially after a year of you staying at Abbott.

It didn't take long for a friendship to bloom between the two of you, despite the questionable looks from others early on. After a while of you trailing Melissa around like a puppy and her guarding you like something fragile, your mutual friends stopped questioning it.

Before long, your natural flirty nature came to the surface, as did Melissa’s.

“Good morning, beautiful,” You smiled at the redhead who was already sitting on the couch in the break room.

“Hi hon, coffee is on the table,” Her eyes trailed to the mug sitting at her usual table, steam rising from it like she made a fresh pot just for you.

You suppressed the blush and butterflies, noticing that Melissa made your coffee in her mug today. Muttering a quiet “thank you,” you grabbed the coffee and moved to sit with the woman who always knew just how you liked your morning drink.

As soon as you relaxed on the couch next to Melissa, she not-so-subtly leaned in closer to you. This became normal for the two of you, always around each other, always using little pet names. Neither of you had to think about it, it just happened.

Most of the time, you were able to keep up the charade that this was casual, pretend like it didn't make your heart flutter every time Melissa called you honey and looked at you with adoration in her eyes.

Most of the time.

It was one thing when the redhead made little comments or used pet names, it was another when she started being affectionate. A lingering touch, a squeeze of your thigh under the table. It was always small, barely noticeable to others, but every time it made your skin heat up a bit. Once Melissa crossed that boundary with you, she didn't seem to want to stop. Almost as if she liked pushing these little buttons of yours.

“I can't figure out the new reading program,” You sighed out, frustrated, as you sat down at Melissa and Barbara’s table. It was still early, just a bit before the lunch break, so it was just you and the redhead in the staff room. For now.

“Yeah? That hard for you?” Melissa teased from behind you with a chuckle. It wasn't clear what she was doing, but you could hear movement.

Melissa’s hands rested on the table from behind you, her arms on either side of you practically trapping you in your seat. Her hair brushed against your shoulder and her perfume surrounded you, which was enough to momentarily fluster you. But she kept going.

Her lips were so close to your ear you could feel her breath warming up the skin. “I can teach you, but you'll have to be good and listen.”

Melissa pulled back just enough to turn her head slightly and look at you, waiting for a reaction. When she was met with your frozen and slightly shocked state, she kept talking.

“Can you do that, sweetheart?”

Your eyes shifted to meet hers, your wide-eye expression a stark contrast from her knowing one. The heat in your face was noticeable, if your inability to form a sentence wasn't enough.

“Yeah…Yes,” You tried to keep your composure, but Melissa could hear the whine and plea coming out in your cracked voice.

“Good…” She said lowly, pulling herself out of your space just in time before the door to the break room swung open.

Barbara was quick to join the table, conversing with Melissa effortlessly—who acted like she didn't just ignite something in you and walk away.

Like her words weren't echoing in your head.

Like you couldn't still smell her perfume.

Or feel her hot breath on your skin.

“Hey, you with us?” Melissa’s voice cut through your repetitive thoughts. She smirked at you just after snapping her fingers in your face, while Barbara looked more concerned.

“Hm? Yeah,” You nodded, mentally rejoining the group.

“Barb brought up a movie night, you in?” She repeated the question you didn't hear the first time.

Nodding slowly, you agreed to plans with the two of them this weekend, “Yeah, I'm down.”

The rest of your conversations were just as automatic and robotic as your response, your mind all too consumed by the woman who sat barely a foot away. Wrapped up in your own mind, you failed to notice the redhead keeping her eyes on you, her own mind running a thousand miles an hour.

Melissa didn't mean to get you so riled up, if she was being honest with herself, she didn't even think about it. She's gotten so used to the constant back and forth, the teasing seemed like nothing.

Until she saw how it caught your breath, how your eyes fluttered for a second and you looked at her so…submissively. It was then she realized the severity of her relentless pushing and pulling, and just how much she liked seeing you like that.

All day, the two of you thought of each other. It took all of your energy to focus on the tasks at hand while teaching, constantly fighting your foggy mind.

Every second Melissa wasn't speaking, her mind wandered back to that pitiful, needy look on your face. She wouldn't stop until she saw it again.

And again.

And again.

At home, it was even harder for Melissa to stop thinking about you, having nothing to distract herself with. Before the sun could set, she was laying in her bed with wandering hands while replaying that moment over and over.

The redhead surprised herself with how wet she grew thinking about that interaction, and the many other things it could lead to. She barely touched herself and it was a mess.

Melissa wasted no time in pleasuring herself, thinking only of your doe eyes and shaky voice. That raw, needy reaction—because of her.

A low, stuttered moan escaped her soft lips the moment she pushed her fingers into herself. The sensation from her slow pumps were making her face heat up. It wasn't long until her free hand was underneath her shirt, frantically teasing and pulling at her hard nipple.

All Melissa could think about was you, how badly she wanted—no, needed, to hear and see you falter like that. She wanted to tease you and push you until you couldn't take it anymore, begging her for something, anything.

Loud grunts and moans of your name filled her bedroom, her breath getting faster and faster just like the movement of her fingers. She was struggling to keep her eyes open, her mascara covered lashes fluttering inconsistently.

A familiar warmth grew within Melissa, so she kept pushing and pushing and thinking of your sweet voice calling her names and-

Her warm body tensed and twitched with a sudden release, a near silent moan escaping her. She was nearly shaking at this point. Out of breath, exhausted, and with a slight smile on her face, Melissa laid there. Thinking only of you.

Unbeknownst to her, you had a very similar night.

All night you were thinking about how close she was to you earlier, the smell of her perfume engulfing you, the heat of her breath on your ear. You spent what felt like hours wondering what other things she would say to you like that, how else she would love to tease and taunt you.

It wasn't until after you had finished pleasuring yourself to the idea of Melissa that you realized you had to look her in the face tomorrow.

The next morning at work, you avoided the break room before class started. Although, you didn't necessarily need to, because Melissa was doing the same.

Of course the rest of the staff noticed both of your absences, and while Barbara went to Melissa just before the bell, Janine came to you.

“Hey! Missed you this morning, everything okay?” Janine announced her presence in your room, cheerful as always. Your head popped up at the sound of her voice and returned her bright smile.

“Yeah, I'm okay. Just trying to get some extra work done. I'll see you at lunch?” You offered. It was easy to act like everything was normal, because it was. As long as Melissa wasn't there.

Happy with your answer, Janine nodded and bid a quick goodbye just before the students started arriving. Per usual, you opened the classroom door and stood outside to greet each and every one of your students.

Feeling eyes on you from across the hall, you looked up to see Melissa watching you. As soon as your eyes met, she smirked, before returning her attention to her own students entering.

You just blinked a few times in response, before eventually coming back down to earth and engaging with the kids. Today was going to be rough.

The morning was…weird. You knew you were going to see Melissa at lunch, and the knowledge made you nervous. Anxious, almost. The time somehow went by too quickly and too slow for your liking, but eventually, it was break time.

With a deep breath, you confidently walked into the break room and beelined to the fridge to grab your lunch. Most days, you'd sit with Melissa and Barbara at their shared table, but with how nervous you were already feeling, it didn't seem like the best idea.

Walking towards the other table in the room, the redhead’s voice stopped you. “What are you doing?”

Back stiffening, you turn and finally face Melissa. Heat immediately pools in your stomach upon making eye contact, your not-so-friendly thoughts from last night coming back again. You forgot she asked you a question, until she raised her eyebrows at you and you stuttered through some sort of excuse as to why you weren't sitting with her like usual.

Before you could finish your (pathetic) sentence, she pointed to the seat next to her and commanded, “Sit.”

It was like your body made the decision on its own, ignoring the alarms in your head as you walked over to her, taking a seat where she asked.

“Good girl,” She mumbled, just loud enough for you to hear.

You crossed your legs.

Lunch was a blur, you missed every single conversation around you, too focused on Melissa besides you. Every once in a while her eyes flickered over to you, checking on you. Watching, more like. Whenever she laughed her hand would fall to your arm or thigh, lingering just a second longer than needed.

What sick game is she playing?

Hearing your name caught your attention, and Barbara gently reminded you of your plans later tonight for the movies.

“Oh! Right, I can host, do we wanna do, like, seven?” You asked her and Melissa. They agreed, but the two of them had very different expressions. Melissa was…well you weren't entirely sure. She was looking at you with such intensity and the slightest smirk on her face. While Barbara looked almost excited? Like she was excited about something else you didn't know about.

Nonetheless, you all confirmed plans just before the bell, and went to your respective rooms to finish out the work day.

As soon as your last student went home from the day, you rushed home to get the place ready for your friends. Yes, there was still some work to be done, but making sure everything would be perfect for Barbara and Melissa was more important at the moment.

Luckily your apartment was already pretty clean, it just needed some small adjustments and extra blankets and pillows. In the middle of setting things up, you heard your phone buzz.

Barbara Howard

I don't think I can make it to our movie night. Started not feeling well and need some rest. Sorry, dear.

You stared at the screen for a moment before responding with care, feeling momentarily worried for her and her sudden illness.

Until you remembered who else was supposed to come tonight. It was now just going to be you and Melissa, alone in your apartment on a Friday night with a bottle of wine.

You debated on whether or not to text Melissa and let her know, but decided against it. Assuming Barbara has already let her friend know, you continued making sure everything was ready before settling on the couch for a little bit of alone time.

Just a couple minutes past seven o’clock, there was a knock at your door. The sound immediately made you nervous, this was it. You gave yourself an internal pep talk the entire way to the door, before opening it to greet Melissa.

“Hi,” You said quietly, looking at her up and down briefly before smiling shyly.

“Hey you,” Melissa replied affectionately and walked past you to get inside. “Barb’s not here yet?” She asked a bit surprised, turning to face you.

“She didn't tell you? She had to cancel tonight, said she's not feeling good,” You answered, making your way to the couch. Sitting on the smaller loveseat, you expected Melissa to take the actual couch, but instead, she joined you.

“No, she didn't,” Melissa scoffed. She leaned back in her spot, pushing her thigh against your exposed one. “Guess it's just you and me tonight, baby,” She teased, looking at you with that same smirk that made you so frustrated.

You huffed playfully in response, unable to think of anything to say. You avoided her gaze like you have been the past couple of days, trying (and failing) to hide the pink hue on your face and the warmth in your chest.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Melissa asked curiously.

“Doing what?” Answering her question with your own, eyes flashing to hers for just a second before returning to the tv that has yet to be turned on.

“Look at me when I'm speaking to you,” She told you, voice lower than it was before. Her thigh pushed against yours, trying to get your attention.

As soon as you faced her, she spoke again. “That's my girl. Don't shy away from me.”

Your cheeks were undeniably red at this point, and you couldn't help but blink at her repeatedly as you tried to say something, anything.

“You think I don't wanna see you? See how cute it is when I make you all nervous?” She continued to tease since you weren't speaking.

“You don't make me nervous,” You lied.

Melissa either didn't like what you said, or really liked what you said. It was hard to tell at first, the way her eyebrow cocked and her expression hardened.

“Really? Not at all?” She asked flatly, leaning in closer to you.

“Not even the other day?” Melissa brought up what started this whole thing. Mimicking her position in the past and locking you in place, she firmly placed her hand on the arm rest behind you, leaving no room for movement.

“I-I don't know what you’re talking about,” You tried scooting back, but there was nowhere to go. Leaving you squirming in place practically underneath Melissa.

“You're a bad liar, hon.” She replied with a wicked smile on her face. Leaning in even closer, chests almost touching, she asked again. “Do I make you nervous?”

“Melissa-” You sighed out before you could stop yourself, face heating up even more. Green eyes fell down to your chest, watching the quick rise and fall for a moment before making eye contact again.

“God, you sound pretty saying my name like that,” Melissa praised. She noticed your eyes fall to her very close lips as she spoke, and it was all the push she needed to close the distance.

A surprised whine got caught in your throat as soon as you felt her lips against your own, melting into her touch. Melissa was about to pull back, unsure if you wanted this to keep going, but your hand on the back of her neck stopped her quickly.

You could feel her start to smile before she focused more on making you feel good. She kissed you like it was what she was meant to do, her tongue licking and her lips sucking exactly how you needed her to.

Her hands wasted no time finding places to touch, finding out where you liked her fingers the most. When her fingernails dug into your hip possessively you moaned into her mouth. Melissa groaned in response and it was then that she decided that was her favorite sound to hear.

She quickly kissed your lips a few times before making her way down the side of your jaw and eventually to your neck. You felt her hand push on your stomach slightly, urging you to lean back. Of course, you obeyed.

“Are you always such a good girl, or just for me? Hm?” Melissa asked lowly, her breath hot on your ear once again before she nipped your earlobe. You whimpered slightly, hips jolting against her.

“I asked you a question, sweetheart,” She reminded you, but there was a warning in her tone.

“I…Only for you,” You admitted, and there was a weight to your words that both of you understood. Melissa smiled, genuinely smiled, at your answer. Only for a second though, and then her lips and tongue were back to your neck.

The sensation surprised you, earning Melissa a quiet moan from you. She wanted to hear more, she wanted to hear absolutely filthy things fall from your mouth. And she wanted it now.

“Where's your bedroom?” She asked, pulling up from you slightly. Your eyes widened slightly at her sudden question, but eagerly you started to get up to lead her where she wanted.

Melissa stayed close behind, one hand holding onto yours and the other trailing her nails up and down your spine. As soon as you were inside your room, her hand on your back gently pushed you towards the bed, leaving no room for hesitation.

The two of you fell into bed, immediately kissing each other again. Melissa laid you down as she distracted you with her tongue, her hand resting on your hip while yours were dragging and pulling all over her.

“Easy, baby. I'm not going anywhere,” She chuckled at your eagerness. “And I wanna hear you beg for me.”

You couldn't respond before she was kissing and biting your neck again, leaving marks that would certainly still be there on Monday. Every time she bit a little harder you were gasping underneath her, getting more and more flustered by the second. Her hands made their way under your shirt, gently scratching at your stomach.

“Mel, please,” Your voice was quiet and breathless. Close to what Melissa wanted, but not quite.

“Please what, baby? Tell me what you want,” She coaxed. Lifting her head up slightly to meet your gaze, her eyes were dark and hungry. Your stomach dropped when you locked eyes, and in that moment you realized how badly Melissa wanted this. Wanted you.

Before you could answer, the redhead snuck her thigh in between yours and gave it a gentle push. A surprised gasp left your lips and Melissa was obsessed with the feeling of your thighs squeezing around her.

As quickly as Melissa made you feel good, she took it away, pulling her thigh away from you and making you chase her.

“You know I don't like asking questions twice,” She said, her voice sharper than before. Her grip on your waist was so tight, part of you worried she might draw blood if she doesn't ease up. But you didn't care, you'd let her if she wanted.

Your hands made their way into her hair, tugging softly as you pulled her closer and more flush against your own body. “I want you, I want to feel you, make me feel good, please,” You begged between kisses.

She smirked upon hearing your words, happy to hear what she had been waiting for, waiting for a lot longer than she’d like to admit. Melissa leans in close, giving you a gentle, almost loving kiss before pulling back barely an inch.

“I got you, baby,” She mutters, her breath hot against your own lips. The warmth of her body makes you feel hot, the feeling only increasing as she continues her work kissing down your jaw and throat.

Melissa uses the position she’s in to her advantage. Her thigh that was previously between yours resumes its position, although this time she gently pushes your legs apart. You felt so vulnerable, but there’s nobody else you trusted more.

While one hand kept her propped up on top of you, her other started drawing circles on your inner exposed thigh painfully slow. You could feel her kisses start to get messier, she was just as ready as you were for this. The little whimpers and squirms you were making were out of your control at this point, but neither of you minded.

“God, you sound so pretty,” Melissa praised lowly. “All worked up just for me? Huh, baby?”

You bit your lip, subconsciously arching up to be closer to the woman. Not wanting to keep her waiting, you stuttered through a response. “Y-yes, yes its all for you,” You answer.

Melissa was happy with the responses she was getting. From your whiny voice and ragged breaths, she was more than pleased with how you were reacting to her touch. She also didn’t want to keep you waiting, so she finally moved her thumb from your thigh to where you needed her most.

A pitiful whine left your lips as soon as she circled softly over your clothed center, and her own face started heating up at what she was pulling out of you. As she continued her gentle touches, she moved closer to give you another kiss, even if you couldn’t match her intensity right now.

“This is exactly how I wanted you,” She muttered, so quiet it took you a second to register what she had just said.

”W-what?” you asked, just before another quiet moan escaped. It was hard to focus on what she was saying while she was touching you so…affectionately.

She kissed you again, hungrier this time. “You…You’re so cute like this…so needy and…desperate for me…” She breathed out between kisses, her words falling on your lips. “I've thought about something like this so many times…”

She increased the pressure with her thumb just enough to have you whining again, especially after admitting what she just did. You felt on top of the world and out of body all at the same time. Because of Melissa. For Melissa.

“Fuck…Mel please, I need you I need you so bad, please,” You begged, the words rambling out as you desperately ached for more of her touch. It was pathetic, but you didn’t care.

“Okay sweet girl, since you asked so nicely,” She replied, voice dripping with a dangerous sweetness. She sat up just a bit, enough to look at you. She took in the beautiful sight of you panting and begging underneath her, a moment she would never forget. A smirk danced across her face as she moved to take your shorts off, tossing them to the side absentmindedly before pulling your underwear off painfully slow. Those, she knew exactly where to put—in the pocket of her sweatpants, just a reminder of tonight.

“So pretty,” she murmured, and dragged a finger slowly between your folds. Both of you moaned at the contact. She felt so good, and so did you.

“Fuck…Melissa,” You whined again at the contact, hips pushing up towards her. She drew figure eights around your entrance, gathering as much of your wetness as she possibly could. It felt insane, she was going to be the death of you. Maybe nobody you have been with was that skilled, or maybe its because it was Melissa, but nobody had ever made you feel this good from almost nothing.

“You’re being so good baby, so good for me,” She cooed before taking her finger away and sliding it into her mouth. You watched as she meticulously cleaned herself, a moment of pleasure flashing across her face as she tasted you.

“You taste even better,” Melissa continued her compliments, voice low and possessive. She gave you one more kiss before moving down your body, leaving a trail of hot kisses and nips as she went. She took her thighs in your hands, wrapping her arms around them to put them over her shoulders and keep you in place and open for her. She placed a gentle kiss on your clit, earning her another high pitched whine from you.

“Baby…” You moaned, hands falling to the sheets to keep you grounded.

“I know, I know,” She cooed, and dragged her tongue from your entrance up to your clit. She moaned against you, into you, the vibrations sending chills down your spine. She resumed her figure eight motions from earlier, the sensation much more intense coming from her warm tongue. Every time you moaned, you could feel her doing the same right after, both of you so lost in each other.

You watched as her red hair fell down her face as she started working faster, her tongue and lips attaching themselves to your clit once more. One of your hands left the sheets, instead finding a place in Melissa’s hair, keeping it out of her way and tugging on it gently.

“Oh my god…Fuck, Melissa,” You whined and moaned out to her as she continued pushing you closer to the edge. You felt her sneak a finger inside of you as well, and a much higher, almost squeal left your body at the feeling.

“So good baby,” She said before bringing her lips to you again, her finger slowly pushing in and out as she worked you up. It wasn’t long until she added another, curling them to hit that perfect spot that made you try to squeeze your legs around her head.

You could feel a hot pressure building up in your lower abdomen the more she touched and kissed, it was almost too much—almost.

“Mel- Baby, I-I’m…” You tried to get the words out through stuttering breaths, but you didn’t need to tell her. She could feel you clenching around her fingers, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t love it. If her mouth wasn’t busy giving you affection, she’d be talking you through it. The look in her eyes told you that much. She groaned against you once more, holding eye contact as your jaw fell open.

The pressure burst in an instance as you came undone for Melissa, legs shaking around her as she pushed you through your orgasm. A string of moans and curses fell from your lips, your hand in her hair pulling tightly as you fell over the edge.

Once she felt your body finish and start trying to relax, Melissa slowly pulled her fingers from you, gently cleaning you up with her tongue. It was so soft you almost didn’t feel it. Might not have if you weren’t so sensitive from just a second ago.

“That’s my girl,” She said softly as she made her way back up to you. You laid back, eyes shut as you tried to catch your breath. Her words made your cheeks heat up though, despite barely hearing them. You felt her lips on yours again, but she was much slower and more gentle this time. It was a kiss of affection, not hunger.

“You did so good for me sweetheart,” She mumbled praises as she continued giving you sweet kisses. Your arms wrapped around her and she pulled you against her, letting you roll onto your side and lean against her. Burying your head in her neck, she matched the gesture with a couple kisses to your head, holding you close against her. You hummed in satisfaction, exhaustion taking over.

“Mm, so did you,” You told her sleepily. She could tell she wore you out and she couldn’t blame you after all the relentless teasing she’s been putting you through. With another kiss to the crown of your head, she laid you down before getting up out of the bed.

You shot up instantly, worried she was about to leave you after all this. Melissa could see the concerned expression on your face and eased your ideas. “I’ll be right back honey, I’m just going to get you water,” She said, and left the room with a soft smile. Sighing peacefully, you laid back down and waited for her.

You must’ve started falling asleep despite it being so early, because suddenly you felt Melissa back in bed, pulling your small shirt off your frame to replace it with a more comfortable pajama shirt, the water forgotten about on the nightstand. She pulled you back into her arms, letting you lay against her warm body. You relaxed almost instantly and so did she, the two of you wrapped around each other perfectly. It didn’t take long for sleep to take over, Melissa’s soft voice giving you praises like a lullaby as you drifted off in her arms.

So much for watching the movie.

[schemmentigfs]

The icon posted! You nailed it. 🩷

[schemmentigfs]

Hello, my wonderful human beings, I finally got a mini vacation from work so I will posting a lot of mel x reader. So what next?? 🩷🩷

The “Father” That Stepped Up. (pregnant r! x protective melissa)

Honey, We’re Not Subtle. (melissa and reader having a secret relationship.)

Voting ended onJun 30, 2025

[schemmentigfs]

Sweetening The Deal. (part 13.)

Summary: while you and Melissa Schemmenti prepare yourselves to meet up with her mother and siblings, the redhead shares her most vulnerable side along with her deepest secrets.

tags: @lifeismomentsyoucannotunderstand @lisaannwaltersbra @italianaidiota @kukikatt @dopenightmaretyphoon @pitstopsapphic @jeridandridge @aliensuperst4rr @writerspirit

WC: 6k. (not revised, i apologize for any mistakes.)

Warning(s): references about pregnancy loss, mentions of s*icide, domestic violence, depressive melissa.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8. Part 9. Part 10. Part 11. Part 12.

A deep feeling of longing and nostalgia spended on those almost two months, settles deep into the bones of the house, turning everything soft and honeyed. Through the open balcony doors, the untired wind carries the scent of salt and cypress, that smells like summer's long past, like childhood memories buried beneath the weight of time, a whisper from the hills beyond. It drifts over the bed, over the half-packed suitcase that sits gaping like an open wound from a cut that always bleeds, but Melissa Schemmenti barely notices.

She stands at the foot of the king bed, arms crossed tightly over her chest, staring down at the half-packed green suitcase like it’s something foreign, something unwelcome.

Her rough fingers curl against her biceps, itching for the familiar bite of nicotine, but she doesn’t reach for the crumpled pack on the nightstand. Instead, she chews the inside of her cheek, gaze flickering over the disjointed mess inside the suitcase—the neatly folded blouses, the tangled phone charger, the well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird she always takes on long trips. And then, nestled between it all, a bottle of the perfume you gave her last Christmas. The first one you spend together. Here in Lake Como.

It’s half-empty. She doesn’t even wear it that often, but she keeps it. Maybe because it smells like you, or maybe because it reminds her of the way you grinned when you handed it to her, teasing her for not owning a single “fancy” scent that didn’t feel like your eyes were burning when you smelled it. She told you then that she didn’t need a damn ass perfume—she smelled just fine without it. But later that night, when you were asleep after some hours of gentle sex, she’d dabbed some on her wrist, just to see if you’d notice. You did. The next morning, hugging her from behind and kissing her bare freckled shoulder.

Her digits hover over the bottle now, but she doesn’t touch it.

It shouldn’t be this hard.

It’s just packing. Just a suitcase.

But every time the green eyed woman reaches for something, her breath shortens, her chest tightens, and she finds herself frozen, staring at the open bag like it might swallow her whole.

Meanwhile, you move through the bedroom with an ease she envies—folding, gathering, humming under your breath like this is just any other trip. But even as you tuck one of her shirts neatly into the suitcase, she feels your gaze flicker toward her, soft and knowing.

She forces herself to move, reaching for a sweater she probably won’t wear but might need. She folds it carefully, smoothing out every wrinkle with slow strokes, like precision might settle the unease curling in her stomach.

“You feelin’ alright?” your voice comes from the other side of the bed, quiet but steady..

Melissa clenches her jaw, nodding once. “Sure, hun. Why wouldn’t I? We are going back to Philly, it’s a nice thing.”

You don’t call her out on the lie. But she knows you don’t believe it, the way she mentioned Philadelphia sounded a bit forced, like your girlfriend was about to throw up immediately just at the thought of returning. She shoves the sweater into the suitcase a little too roughly, hands lingering on the fabric. Her full fingers flex.

“It’s just weird,” she points out after a long moment, like that explains everything.

You pause, watching her. “Cause it makes it real?”

Melissa swallows. “Yeah....”

The word is barely more than breath.

She can feel her pulse at the base of her throat, can hear the slight unevenness in her breathing. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? To feel this way over a suitcase, over a trip she’s been putting off for too long.

Just a visit. Just an eldest daughter going to see her mother.

But it doesn’t feel simple.

Because the last time she packed like this, she had been leaving from Center City Philadelphia. Running. Throwing clothes into a duffel at two in the morning, her breath short, her hands shaking, Joe asleep in the next bedroom after drinking too much alcohol, oblivious to the fact that when he woke up, she’d be gone. Forever.

And even years before that—on the night she married him, on the night she should have been surrounded by love, by family—her mother hadn’t even been there.

Teresa didn’t mind coming to the wedding of her eldest daughter.

At twenty, she remembers clearly standing in the Catholic church basement, half-drunk off cheap champagne, her new expensive gold band still too tight on her finger, waiting for a woman who never arrived. Countless, countless people had whispered excuses. She probably got caught up at the store. She must’ve forgotten the time. But Melissa Schemmenti had known. Had known even then, even before the years piled on, before her real mother’s memory began slipping like sand through a sieve.

Pearl had been there, though. With her long chocolate brown curls and genuine smile. Sitting in the third pew, hands folded in her lap and dressed in her best, the same way she had been for every milestone of your girlfriend’s life. The woman who raised her, who fed her, who had kissed her scraped knees, who had taught her how to roll out pasta dough from scratch. Who taught her how to braid her hair, the basics and how to curse properly in Sicilian when the world was fucking unfair.

But your girlfriend hadn’t looked at her. No.

Hadn’t paid attention to the woman who had shown up during her entire existence and still does, too busy searching for the one who hadn’t. She had been too paranoid, scanning the room, too busy pretending she didn’t care, too busy laughing too loudly, drinking too much, leaning too hard into the role of a woman who wasn’t hurt, who wasn’t waiting for someone who would never come.

It hadn’t been forgetfulness.

It had been a choice.

And now? Now, the matriarch of the Schemmentis barely even remembers she has a daughter. The thought makes her want to throw up all the edibles she ate compulsively to fight her anxiety and body images. Or hang herself on the closest ceiling with the closest rope. Melissa clears her throat, shaking it off, and reaches for another shirt, folding it with the same forced precision as the last.

You’re still watching her, your eyes patient, waiting.

She doesn’t look up, but after a minute, she speaks, her voice quiet. “I don’t know what I’m gonna find when I get there. In that stupid place.”

You don’t answer right away. Then, gently, “Babe. You won’t be alone, I will be there holding your hand the whole time.”

She stays in silence. Actually, Melissa barely registers the moment her hands start to tremble. One second, she’s gripping the edge of the suitcase, trying to focus on the way the zipper feels beneath her fingertips, and the next, her vision blurs, her chest tightening until she can’t breathe properly.

The older woman clenches her jaw, shutting her eyes roughly. She won’t cry like a stupid child. Not over this. But the weight of it is too much. Too many years of neglect between her and her biological mother, too many words left unsaid, too much anger buried under guilt.

Her breath stutters and quickens, and before she can stop herself, she’s turning on her heel, pushing open the glass doors, stepping out onto the terrace. The air outside is warm, the sky an impossible shade of blue, the scent of lemon trees thick in the breeze. It’s beautiful, really. Straight out of a museum panting.

It should calm her.

But the lump in her throat only swells.

The heiress of the Schemmentis grips the railing, eyes fluttering shut again, her shoulders rising and falling with each uneven breath. The villa stretches before her, the rolling hills of the countryside unfurling like a painting. The wind tugs at her auburn hair, sweeping across her pale skin, but it doesn’t soothe the ache pressing into her ribs.

She bites down hard on the inside of her cheek, willing the tears away, but one escapes, trailing down her cheek before she can stop it.

Then, before she can scream in pain, she feels something. Only warmth.

Your arms wrap around her from behind, slow and careful, your chest pressing gently against her back. You don’t speak right away, don’t try to fix it or tell her it’s okay. You just hold her, your hands smoothing over her forearms, anchoring her.

Melissa whimpers, a shaky, painful thing, tilting her head slightly toward yours like a puppy looking for affection.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” your girlfriend admits. “I can’t look into her eyes without crying. Last time, I visited her and Teresa didn’t even react when I was holding her damn hand!”

You press a kiss to the side of her head, your grip tightening just enough. “Melly, you don’t have to do it alone,” you remind her. “I’m right here.”

She swallows, another tear slipping free. She’s still terrified. Still unsure.

Her chest tightens further as she buries her face in your shoulder, her breath shaky but slowing as the steady rhythm of your heartbeat anchors her. She wraps her strong arms around you, pulling you close as if she could merge with you, as if you could absorb all the things she can’t say, all the fears she can’t voice.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. It’s just the gentle press of your body against hers, the softness of the breeze, and the distant hum of the villa that fills the space between you.

Melissa whispers against your neck. “I don’t deserve you. Never did.”

You pull back just enough to meet her green eyes, your hand cupping her cheek, thumb brushing over her skin gently, wiping away the remnants of her salty tears.

“Babe, you don’t have to deserve me,” you say softly. “You already have me. And I’m not going anywhere. Pinky promise.”

A breath escapes her plump lips, a quiet sob trapped somewhere in the depths, but the sincerity in your words, the softness in your gaze it's enough to quiet the fucking storm inside her, even if only for a second. The tension in her body eases a little and she lets out a shaky laugh. “Shit. I don’t know what I’d do without you, you know that?”

You smile, brushing her messy curls from her face before leaning in to kiss her forehead. “You don’t have to find out, my love.”

One of her perfectly manicured hands presses into your chest, fingers curling gently around your black top. “I know… but sometimes, I still feel like I’m on the edge, like if I fall, I might not come back from it alive.”

Your gaze softens even more, a look of deep understanding settling in your features. “You won’t fall again. Not with me by your side.”

Melissa sighs, letting herself sink into the feeling of being held in a way that feels different, grounding. She leans into you more, feeling the warmth of your embrace seeping through her already destroyed soul, a comfort she didn’t know she needed but now can’t imagine being without.

“You’re always taking care of me,” she murmurs, a little unsure. “I don’t know how to take care of myself, let alone anyone else.”

You smile, brushing your lips against her temple before pulling away gently. “That’s not true. You take care of me, too, in your own way. And right now…” you look her over, your eyes filled with a quiet tenderness. “Right now, it’s my turn to take care of you.”

Her heart made of gold but always hidden by rocks skips a beat, the words sending a warm wave of joy through her. “You know, you’re pretty damn good at it.”

Your lips curve—not in triumph, not in amusement, but in something quieter. A smile made of moonlight and mercy. You step back only slightly, just enough to take her in fully. Your gentle hands remain, anchored around the gentle swell of her hourglass waist. Her body is warm beneath your touch, shaped like something holy. Like she was carved to be held.

“Come on,” you whisper, voice low, coaxing. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She doesn’t answer at first. Her olive eyes, dark and rimmed with the fatigue of too many days spent fighting the world and herself, flicker with something ancient and childlike—resistance, pride, fear. But only for a moment. Then her chest rises with a breath so soft it nearly dissolves in the air between you. She nods.

You take her shaking hand, and she follows.

The hallway is dim, cast in the golden hush of quiet evening. The faint scent of lavender greets you before the huge door opens—candle wax melting slowly into itself on the windowsill, steam ghosting against the mirror, fogging the reflection. The deluxe bathroom hums with warmth, like a cocoon spun from safety and silence.

She doesn’t speak as you reach for the faucet, your movements gentle, unhurried. Water spills into the tub like a lullaby, curling in soft spirals, its warmth blooming into the room like spring thawing through snow. You test the heat with your fingers, adjusting the flow like one tunes an instrument—precise, intuitive.

Then, without a word, you turn back to her.

Her eyes are on you. There’s something wounded there, and something brave. You touch the hem of her shirt, asking without asking. She nods again.

So you undress her—not quickly, not perfunctorily. You unfold her. Peeling her layers back like pages of a diary, slow and reverent. Her blouse, soft and worn at the seams. The curve of her tense shoulders, revealed like a secret. Every inch of her is a story, and you read her like scripture, gently, with awe.

Even now, after all the endless nights tangled in each other’s arms, after all the times your mouths have met, after every inch of Melissa Schemmenti becomes familiar—you still find yourself stunned by her. Not just the shape of her, but the way she simply exists in her skin. Bold, even in her fragility. Sacred, even when uncertain.

You are still in love with the sight of her. That hasn’t dulled. It never dulls.

The swell of her hips, the lines of age and fire carved into her thighs, the freckles you find new ones of every time you look. The small, human imperfections she tries to hide, not knowing that you cherish each one like a found shell on a quiet beach.

Her body is not new to you, but it is never ordinary.

Using the purest of your smiles, you undress her with the quiet reverence of a worshipper. Not because she demands it—but because you can’t help it. Because her nude and natural form undoes something in you each time. Because even now, when she’s stripped of artifice, stripped of strength, she’s still the most disarming thing you’ve ever seen.

And your girlfriend lets you see her. That, too, is a gift.

She steps into the bath, the warmth rising to kiss her skin, her breath catching as the water wraps around her like a lover. You kneel beside her, and place your palm against her back, your thumb tracing the notches of her spine. Her breath begins to slow. Her muscles loosen beneath your hand, one knot at a time.

Her body leans into the comfort. Into you.

The steam curls like silk between you both, and when her olive orbs meet yours, there’s a tremor behind them—one of softness, not fear. Something ancient flickering in the dim light.

“Amore, you ever regret it?” she prompts, her tone super hushed, brittle as lace. “That night? The bar? Meeting me?”

The world falls away again. All you can hear is the water shifting, the flicker of candlelight, the tremble of her breath.

“No,” you answer without pause, because the truth is already there, glowing at the edges of your chest. “Not for a single second.”

She watches you. Not as a lover—tonight, not even as someone who is sure she’s loved. She looks at you as someone afraid to be believed. Someone who’s bracing for the absence of tenderness.

And still, you don’t look away.

“I wonder…” Melissa whispers. “If things would’ve been easier. If I hadn’t gone. If I hadn’t let myself fall into this—into you.”

You reach for her, fingertips brushing along her damp face, tracing the warmth beneath the surface. “Maybe,” you admit, your voice like velvet. “But then I wouldn’t have known what it feels like to love someone like this. I wouldn’t have you. And I’d choose this every time. The beauty and the ache.”

The older woman closes her eyes, your words curling around her like warmth. When she opens them again, they’re glassy with something soft—something unguarded.

“I’m not easy to love,” she sighs. “I’m tired. I’m old. I’m flawed. I’ve made mistakes I don’t know how to unmake.”

You lean forward, press a kiss to the space just above her brow. A sacred place.

“You don’t need to be easy. Or fixed. Or anyone else but who you are right now. I’ve seen all of you. I’ve loved all of you. And I’d walk into that bar a thousand times just to meet you again.”

Melissa exhales slowly, a breath that trembles just slightly before slipping free. Her focus stays fixed on the clean water—on the way it ripples around her thighs, glinting faintly in the candlelight like liquid gold. Your hand is still in hers, resting between the soft slopes of her knees. She hasn’t let go.

The question you already answered lies quiet now, like a stone at the bottom of a river. But something else rises to the surface—it feels darker, older. The part she’s always tried to bury beneath silk blouses and thick skin and walls built out of wit and control.

“But I was such a bitch to you,” your girlfriend says suddenly, her voice thick and scraped raw by something she’s held in her mouth for too long.

She doesn’t look at you. Not yet. Her gaze stays on the shifting water, as if ashamed to face the reflection she’s casting in it.

“Back then… when it was just money between us. I acted like I didn’t care. Like you were just another thing I could throw cash at and feel in control again,” her voice breaks—barely, but enough. “And you fuckin’ let me.”

The last words land heavy. Not as blame, but as disbelief—that you could have stayed, knowing the coldness she wore like perfume in those early days. Before she started to fall for you.

The green eyed woman finally turns her head, just slightly, her gaze finding yours. And for a moment, she looks like she’s waiting for you to say it. To tell her she’s right. That she was cruel, and foolish, and undeserving.

Maybe, deep down, she wants you to say it. To confirm what she’s always feared in the quietest corners of herself—that she doesn’t deserve this soft version of love.

Because Melissa Schemmenti is not used to being forgiven. She’s not used to being held with reverence or spoken to like she’s tender, like she’s worth gentleness. She was raised in noise, raised to survive, not to trust. Love, in her world, was always conditional. Earned through grit, or toughness, or silence. And when it came, it came with teeth.

So this? You, sitting in the bath behind her, arms wrapped around her body like she’s precious… your voice warm, patient, steady… it doesn’t fit with what she’s spent a lifetime believing. It almost feels wrong, like wearing silk over bruises. Like dancing in a church with muddy shoes.

And when she speaks—But I was such a bitch to you—there’s something frayed in it. Something more than guilt. Something like… a confession.

Not just of past mistakes, but of the deeper, darker truth she’s afraid to say aloud.

That maybe she isn’t the good one. Maybe she’s not just complicated or guarded or a little rough around the edges.

Maybe she crossed a line. Maybe she burned too much. Maybe she was selfish and cruel and used you like something disposable. Maybe all the cold, transactional ways she treated you in the beginning—when it was easier to call it money than admit she was already starting to care—meant something about who she really is.

Maybe the way she held you at arm’s length, the way she made you earn scraps of affection, the way she tried to stay in control by keeping you emotionally small—that wasn’t just armor.

Maybe it was a mirror.

And maybe what it reflected…was a monster.

So she doesn’t look at you when she says it. She stares at the water instead, at the bubbles breaking apart on the surface like they know something she doesn’t. Her voice is thick, but there’s steel in it—a brittle, defensive kind of strength that says I know who I am and I’m not asking for mercy.

Because that’s what she expects: that you’ll finally agree. That you’ll say yes, you were cruel, and selfish, and I should’ve walked away.

And maybe she wants you to say it. Wants to be punished. Wants to finally have it named so she can stop pretending she’s not afraid of what she’s done. Of who she is. Of what she might have broken in you.

You sigh, quiet but unflinching, tilting your head just slightly as you study her.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “You were kind of a bitch.”

Her mouth twitches, the corners barely lifting, as if she wasn’t expecting you to be that honest. But you don’t stop.

“Closed-off. Controlling. Emotionally constipated.”

That almost gets a smile out of her. Almost.

“But,” you continue, gently, firmly, “I never let you treat me like I was just some accessory. You remember that, right?”

You squeeze her hand. She doesn’t pull away. “I called you out when you needed it. And I stayed. Not because I was naive. But because I knew. I knew there was something underneath all that cold, sugar mommy bullshit. And I wanted to know her.”

Melissa lets out a soft scoff, shaking her head. “Jesus H. Christ. You make me sound like some asshole in a movie.”

You raise your eyebrows, smirking. “Well…”

The redhead groans, but this time, it’s warm. Familiar. The groan of someone remembering how far they’ve come. The groan of someone almost, almost, ready to forgive herself.

“I thought…” she starts again, quieter now. “I thought if I kept my distance, if I just kept things transactional… I wouldn’t feel anything.” She lets out a bitter laugh, eyes flicking back to the water. “But you made it impossible not to.”

You watch her for a long moment, your heart both aching and full. “Yeah, I tend to do that.”

Finally, her eyes meet yours again. And this time, she smiles—but it’s small. Fleeting. Like it’s still learning how to stay.

“I don’t know why you put up with me,” she murmurs. Her fingers tighten around yours. “Why you didn’t just walk away when I acted like a—”

“Because I saw you,” you interrupt, your voice quiet but sure. “Not the version you were trying so hard to be. Not the armor. The real you. And I liked her. Even when she was being an emotionally constipated, controlling bitch.”

That startles a laugh out of her—a real one, unguarded and unpretending. Her head tips back, just slightly, resting against the cool porcelain edge, and for a moment, she looks so young like that. Like an innocent girl learning to be loved.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters through her grin.

You shift beside the tub, rising from your knees and letting your hand trail down the warm water’s edge. And you watch her for a moment, her body half-submerged, damp tendrils of red hair clinging to her shoulders.

And then, slowly, without breaking her gaze, you slip your shirt over your head.

She watches you, not hungrily, not possessively. But reverently.

You step into the bath behind her, easing yourself into the water, letting it close over your skin with a quiet sigh. Melissa shifts to make room, her back brushing against your chest as you settle in.

You pull her gently against you, wrapping your arms around her waist from behind, your thighs bracketing hers. Her beautiful body melts into yours like it remembers this shape, this belonging. She lets her head fall back to your shoulder. Her eyes close.

“I don’t deserve this,” she whispers.

You press your lips to the crown of her head, your voice just breath against her scalp. “You do,” you murmur. “You always did.”

Melissa doesn’t answer, but you feel the way her hands clutch yours, one of them guiding your palm to rest over her chest. Over her heart.

“I stayed,” you whisper, “Because every time you pushed me away, I saw the way you hated doing it. I saw the way it broke you. And every time you pretended not to care, I could feel how much you did.”

Your girlfriend is quiet. Not because she has nothing to say, but because she doesn’t know how to say it. Her silence is not distance, it’s surrender. So, you kiss the place just behind her ear, then her jaw, then the curve of her shoulder, slowly, without asking for anything in return.

“You can be a bitch sometimes,” you say, your voice teasing but adoring, like it’s the fondest truth you’ve ever spoken. “But you’re my bitch.”

She groans, dropping her head back again, laughing softly. “Oh my God. I hate you.”

You smile into her skin. “You love me.”

“…Fine,” Melissa whispers, after a long pause. “I really do.” And this time, when she squeezes your hand, rough fingers woven between yours, pressed to the quiet beat of her chest—it’s not out of guilt or fear or penance.

It’s just love.

Quiet. Undramatic. Fierce in its steadiness. And it’s hers. And it’s yours.

The silence that follows is comfortable and you hum low in your throat, a soft, instinctive sound as your fingers work through the thick waves of her auburn hair, lathering slowly. The warmth of the water curls around both of you like a gentle fog, lavender-scented and still. She’s totally settled between your legs, her back resting fully against your chest, her skin slick and warm against yours, the heat of her body blooming through the quiet rise and fall of each breath.

It’s rare, this kind of softness from her. Melissa’s a woman made of corners and caution, someone who’s learned to carry herself like a fortress, tense, always braced, as if relaxing might be the thing that undoes her completely.

But here… in this small, silent bath lit by the hush of candlelight… she melts. Slowly. Unfolding beneath your hands like something tightly coiled finally remembering how to exhale.

Your fingers massage gentle circles into her scalp, slow and reverent, like worship. She sighs under your touch, low and quiet, like her body is remembering what safety feels like. You tilt your head slightly, careful lips brushing her temple as the water laps gently around you both.

Then your fingers slip lower, sliding down the nape of her neck, parting the wet strands of her hair.

And that’s when you see them.

Tiny, pale ribbons of skin, just barely raised. Faint silver scars, scattered like forgotten constellations across her scalp. Hidden things. Old things. So subtle they could be missed in the shadows of candlelight—if your hands didn’t know her so well.

You stop.

It’s only for a second—your breath catching, your fingertips hovering mid-motion—but she feels it. Of course she does.

Melissa always notices.

“What?” she asks softly, her voice tight, closed-off. A reflex. The shape of someone who’s already pulled the door shut behind her.

You swallow, slow, and trace one of the marks with the back of your digit—so delicately it barely counts as touch.

“These,” you speak. “I never noticed them before.”

She stiffens instantly. Not visibly—but you feel it. The air sharpens. Her muscles lock, subtle but undeniable, and her breath falters in her throat. The easy intimacy of a moment ago retreats like a tide pulling from shore.

“It’s nothing, ok?” the redhead answers quickly—too quickly. Her voice is brittle, cracking around the edges of a lie she doesn’t want to tell but doesn’t know how not to.

You don’t press. You simply bend forward, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. Your lips linger there, warm and still, letting her feel the steadiness of your presence.

“It’s not nothing, Lis,” you whisper into her damp hair.

Melissa lets out a soft breath, but there’s no relief in it. Just restraint. She leans forward slightly, like she’s trying to make space between you—trying to slip back into control. But you don’t let her go. You wrap your arms around her middle, pulling her gently back to you, her spine aligning to your chest again. A silent reminder: You are safe. You are not alone. I am not afraid of your past.

After a long moment, her head tilts, resting once more against your shoulder. And when she speaks again, it’s quiet. Small. Like a secret said into the night.

“It was Joe. My ex-husband,” your sugar mommy explains. “A long time ago.”

Your arms tighten instinctively. You don’t say anything, not yet. You just listen, your heart suddenly full of ache.

“He never hit my face,” she continues, more to the shadows than to you. “Didn’t want to leave anything people could see. He was smart like that. But my head? My ribs?” her body is shaking in fear now. “Son of a bitch knew where to land it. How to make it hurt without making it obvious.”

Melissa’s raspy voice is even, but inside the smoothness is a jagged edge—sharp with memory. Worn with shame. The years folded into her words like seams in old fabric.

Your hands stay on her. One pressed gently to her stomach, the other cupping her shoulder, grounding her.

She exhales again, but this time it cracks into something bitter. “One time… he broke my wrist after a fight,” she holds back a sob. “Threw me into the stairs and spit on my face.”

Your stomach turns, slow and sick.

“I hit the landing so hard I couldn’t get up. Not for a while. My legs just—stopped. I stayed there for hours,” she laughs, but it’s not a real sound. Just a breath twisted into something cruel. “Just laying on the stairs. Like trash he hadn’t picked up yet. Only God knows how I got the urge to stand up and throw myself into the bed acting like nothing happened.”

“I hate that you went through that,” you whisper, lips brushing her forehead, wishing you could unwrite those nights. Wishing you could hold the version of her that laid there in silence and make her feel anything but discarded.

“Yeah, well,” the Sicilian quips. “I let it happen.”

You shake your head before she even finishes the sentence. “No. He did it. He made that choice. That’s not on you, Melissa. Not ever.”

She doesn’t argue, but she doesn’t agree either. She just sinks back into you, the weight of her memory still wrapped around her like a second skin.

The bathwater sways gently with your breath, soft ripples moving between your legs and hers, rising against her hips like a silent promise that none of that will ever happen again. You reach for her hair, rinse the suds away—your fingers moving gently, reverently, as if you could wash him out of her strand by strand.

“I see you,” you whisper against her ear. “Not what he did to you. Not the pain. Not the scars. You.”

“I was twenty-two when it started,” she murmurs, her voice nearly drowned by the hush of the water and the candlelight whispering against the tiles.

Just above her shoulder, you breathe in. Her words don’t shock you, not really. You’d always known there were things she carried like stones in her chest—buried beneath sarcasm and strength. But hearing it aloud is different. Hearing her speak it, like a ghost climbing out of the well she locked it in… it splits something open in you.

Twenty-two. Barely older than you were when you first met her. A girl still figuring out how to carry her own name without apology. And she had already survived him.

She shifts slightly between your legs, her back still warm against your chest, the bathwater curling gently around both your bodies. One of your arms moves to gently comb through her damp red hair, as if you could untangle the memories with your fingers.

“At first, it was just words,” she says, almost casually, like she’s trying not to sound dramatic. But you can hear the old bruise in her tone. “Little things, y’know? ‘Why’d you wear that?’ ‘Why are you talking to him?’ ‘You gonna eat all that?’”

Melissa mimics his voice, laced with condescension—almost mocking—but you feel the tremor in her. “Shit that made me second-guess myself. Made me smaller.”

You press a soft peck to her shoulder, your lips lingering there, your arm still wrapped firm around her soft belly, grounding her.

“And I stayed.”

You close your eyes and press your forehead to the back of her neck, your breath failing. “Mel…”

“I thought it was normal,” she cries. “I thought maybe I deserved it. He had this way of twisting things—always made it seem like it was my fault.” she lets out a humorless chuckle. “And then you start believing it. That if you just act right, if you just love them hard enough, they’ll stop. They’ll change.”

Your grip tightens around her. Your palm presses flat to her chest, protective. Her hand slides down, finding yours, and she starts to trace soft circles over your skin. A rhythm. A tether.

“When did it end?” you ask, careful, like you’re afraid of scaring the memory back into silence.

“The night I lost the baby.”

Your breath stutters in your lungs.

She’s never told you this.

The words hang in the space between your bodies, heavy and electric, like a storm that’s taken too long to arrive. You feel her stiffen, like she wants to pull them back, as if saying them out loud made them more real than they’ve ever been.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she exhales. And the next words fall out of her like a confession.

“I never told him I was pregnant. That night… he was angry about something. I don’t even remember what anymore. It didn’t matter. It never did,” her fingers tighten around yours. “He threw me into the wall.”

She pauses, and you can feel her body remembering. The pain of it. The helplessness.

“And then there was blood.”

You close your eyes, a sting rising behind them. You press your lips against her damp skin, trying not to let your rage spill out. She doesn’t need your fury right now. She needs your calm. Your arms. Your stillness.

“I didn’t even realize it was a miscarriage until later. I didn’t… know, at first. My body just felt—off. Like it was unraveling.”

“I was in the shower.” The image is unbearable, her alone, under too-bright light, scalding water masking the sound of grief. “There were these cramps. Like something twisting inside me. And then blood. A lot of it. Just rushing down my legs, mixing with the water. I remember holding onto the wall, thinking, This can’t be happening.”

Your fingers stroke her chest again, the motion trembling now.

“I knew what it was,” she continues. “Deep down, I think I knew. But I stayed in the shower. I screamed, shaking, until the water ran cold.”

You hold her tighter, your cheek pressed against her spine like a prayer.

“I wish I could go back,” you hold back tears. “I wish I could find you in that bathroom, take you away from him, wrap you in something warm and safe, and tell you that you didn’t have to stay. That none of it was your fault. That you were already enough.”

Melissa turns then, slowly, the water sloshing softly around you both. She shifts in your lap until she’s facing you, straddling your thighs, her hands moving to your face. Her eyes, green and tired, still shining from the past find yours. She reaches up, tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear with the gentlest touch.

“You did. Maybe not back then. But you did.”

And before you can speak, before you can tell her again how much she means to you, her lips are on yours.

The kiss is slow. Deep. No urgency. Just years of ache pressed into skin, just gratitude and surrender and the smallest, trembling seed of healing. Her hands slide into your hair. Yours settle on her waist.

And in that warm, candlelit tub, with ghosts drifting just outside the door, Melissa Schemmenti kisses you like you’re the first kind thing that’s ever happened to her.

Because maybe… you are.

Hours seem to pass and she traces looping shapes along your forearm—absent and idle, like her body doesn’t quite know what to do with stillness. You don’t move. You just hold her, your arms gently encircling her, your chin resting in the crook between her shoulder and neck. You wait, not to fix, not to force but to be there. However long she needs.

“I wanted that baby, Y/N.”

The words fall out of her mouth like something broken free after years of being buried. And they land with a quiet kind of violence, like a glass cracking from the inside.

She doesn’t look at you. Your girlfriend can‘t.

“I didn’t even know how much I wanted them until I lost it. It was like—I don’t know, like something in me had already made space. Even before I knew for sure. Like my body was waiting.”

Every single word press against your ribs.

“I used to talk to them,” she says, barely above the sound of water lapping against the porcelain. “Just when I was alone. In the kitchen. In the car. While brushing my teeth. Stupid shit.” her lip trembled. “What our days would be like. What I’d name ’em. What kinda kid they’d be.”

“Babe..”

“I wanted a daughter,” she breathes, like it’s something she’s never let herself say aloud. “I thought I could do it right this time. Give her all the shit I never got. Protect her from everything I couldn’t protect myself from.”

Her voice goes thinner.

“I thought maybe if I had her, I wouldn’t be so fucking alone.”

Your arms wrap tighter around her, as if you could shield her from the past even now.

“When it happened… I couldn’t even scream. I didn’t cry. I just—sat there. In the bathroom. On the floor. Holding myself together like…if I didn’t move, it wouldn’t be real.”

Finally, she turns her head and looks at you. Her green eyes are glassy, rimmed red, and so hollow it nearly breaks you in half. Not because they’re empty but because of what they’ve carried, alone, for so long.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to die more than I did that night,” she confesses.

You reach up, your thumb ghosting over the strong, aching line of her jaw.

“Melissa…”

“I remember looking at myself in the mirror. I was soaking, shivering, bleeding. And I thought, This is it. I’m done,” her voice catches on the memory. “I didn’t even feel sad. Just… gone. Like I didn’t exist anymore. Like maybe I never really did.”

A tear slips free before you can stop it.

Melissa rests her forehead against yours. “But I didn’t do it. I don’t even know why. Maybe I was too much of a coward.” Her hand curls around yours, tighter now. “Or maybe—” she swallows, her voice so small “—maybe some part of me thought there’d be something waiting for me. Something better.”

Your hand finds her waist again. Anchoring. Loving. Unshaken.

And with everything in you, you say nothing. You just stay.

She studies you for a long time, her thumb grazing the back of your knuckles like she’s reading a language she’s only just started to learn.

Then Melissa smiles. It’s small. Barely there. But it’s real. “Turns out. I was right.”

And before you can fall apart, before your throat can collapse with all the things you wish you could’ve done for her—you feel her thumb brush away your tear. She doesn’t comment on it. She just wipes it gently, reverently.

“I got you,” the redhead says, like a vow whispered into skin. “I got us.”

(More coming soon.)

[sunshinebabiez]

A new chapter of Sweetening The Deal just arrived! Please give me your feedback, and lemme know what you think! 🩷 More chapters coming soon!! — Leti.

[schemmentigfs]

🩷

[schemmentigfs]

Sweetening The Deal. (part 13.)

Summary: while you and Melissa Schemmenti prepare yourselves to meet up with her mother and siblings, the redhead shares her most vulnerable side along with her deepest secrets.

tags: @lifeismomentsyoucannotunderstand @lisaannwaltersbra @italianaidiota @kukikatt @dopenightmaretyphoon @pitstopsapphic @jeridandridge @aliensuperst4rr @writerspirit

WC: 6k.

Warning(s): references about pregnancy loss, mentions of s*icide, domestic violence, depressive melissa.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8. Part 9. Part 10. Part 11. Part 12.

A deep feeling of longing and nostalgia spended on those almost two months, settles deep into the bones of the house, turning everything soft and honeyed. Through the open balcony doors, the untired wind carries the scent of salt and cypress, that smells like summer's long past, like childhood memories buried beneath the weight of time, a whisper from the hills beyond. It drifts over the bed, over the half-packed suitcase that sits gaping like an open wound from a cut that always bleeds, but Melissa Schemmenti barely notices.

She stands at the foot of the king bed, arms crossed tightly over her chest, staring down at the half-packed green suitcase like it’s something foreign, something unwelcome.

Her rough fingers curl against her biceps, itching for the familiar bite of nicotine, but she doesn’t reach for the crumpled pack on the nightstand. Instead, she chews the inside of her cheek, gaze flickering over the disjointed mess inside the suitcase—the neatly folded blouses, the tangled phone charger, the well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird she always takes on long trips. And then, nestled between it all, a bottle of the perfume you gave her last Christmas. The first one you spend together. Here in Lake Como.

It’s half-empty. She doesn’t even wear it that often, but she keeps it. Maybe because it smells like you, or maybe because it reminds her of the way you grinned when you handed it to her, teasing her for not owning a single “fancy” scent that didn’t feel like your eyes were burning when you smelled it. She told you then that she didn’t need a damn ass perfume—she smelled just fine without it. But later that night, when you were asleep after some hours of gentle sex, she’d dabbed some on her wrist, just to see if you’d notice. You did. The next morning, hugging her from behind and kissing her bare freckled shoulder.

Her digits hover over the bottle now, but she doesn’t touch it.

It shouldn’t be this hard.

It’s just packing. Just a suitcase.

But every time the green eyed woman reaches for something, her breath shortens, her chest tightens, and she finds herself frozen, staring at the open bag like it might swallow her whole.

Meanwhile, you move through the bedroom with an ease she envies—folding, gathering, humming under your breath like this is just any other trip. But even as you tuck one of her shirts neatly into the suitcase, she feels your gaze flicker toward her, soft and knowing.

She forces herself to move, reaching for a sweater she probably won’t wear but might need. She folds it carefully, smoothing out every wrinkle with slow strokes, like precision might settle the unease curling in her stomach.

“You feelin’ alright?” your voice comes from the other side of the bed, quiet but steady..

Melissa clenches her jaw, nodding once. “Sure, hun. Why wouldn’t I? We are going back to Philly, it’s a nice thing.”

You don’t call her out on the lie. But she knows you don’t believe it, the way she mentioned Philadelphia sounded a bit forced, like your girlfriend was about to throw up immediately just at the thought of returning. She shoves the sweater into the suitcase a little too roughly, hands lingering on the fabric. Her full fingers flex.

“It’s just weird,” she points out after a long moment, like that explains everything.

You pause, watching her. “Cause it makes it real?”

Melissa swallows. “Yeah....”

The word is barely more than breath.

She can feel her pulse at the base of her throat, can hear the slight unevenness in her breathing. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? To feel this way over a suitcase, over a trip she’s been putting off for too long.

Just a visit. Just an eldest daughter going to see her mother.

But it doesn’t feel simple.

Because the last time she packed like this, she had been leaving from Center City Philadelphia. Running. Throwing clothes into a duffel at two in the morning, her breath short, her hands shaking, Joe asleep in the next bedroom after drinking too much alcohol, oblivious to the fact that when he woke up, she’d be gone. Forever.

And even years before that—on the night she married him, on the night she should have been surrounded by love, by family—her mother hadn’t even been there.

Teresa didn’t mind coming to the wedding of her eldest daughter.

At twenty, she remembers clearly standing in the Catholic church basement, half-drunk off cheap champagne, her new expensive gold band still too tight on her finger, waiting for a woman who never arrived. Countless, countless people had whispered excuses. She probably got caught up at the store. She must’ve forgotten the time. But Melissa Schemmenti had known. Had known even then, even before the years piled on, before her real mother’s memory began slipping like sand through a sieve.

Pearl had been there, though. With her long chocolate brown curls and genuine smile. Sitting in the third pew, hands folded in her lap and dressed in her best, the same way she had been for every milestone of your girlfriend’s life. The woman who raised her, who fed her, who had kissed her scraped knees, who had taught her how to roll out pasta dough from scratch. Who taught her how to braid her hair, the basics and how to curse properly in Sicilian when the world was fucking unfair.

But your girlfriend hadn’t looked at her. No.

Hadn’t paid attention to the woman who had shown up during her entire existence and still does, too busy searching for the one who hadn’t. She had been too paranoid, scanning the room, too busy pretending she didn’t care, too busy laughing too loudly, drinking too much, leaning too hard into the role of a woman who wasn’t hurt, who wasn’t waiting for someone who would never come.

It hadn’t been forgetfulness.

It had been a choice.

And now? Now, the matriarch of the Schemmentis barely even remembers she has a daughter. The thought makes her want to throw up all the edibles she ate compulsively to fight her anxiety and body images. Or hang herself on the closest ceiling with the closest rope. Melissa clears her throat, shaking it off, and reaches for another shirt, folding it with the same forced precision as the last.

You’re still watching her, your eyes patient, waiting.

She doesn’t look up, but after a minute, she speaks, her voice quiet. “I don’t know what I’m gonna find when I get there. In that stupid place.”

You don’t answer right away. Then, gently, “Babe. You won’t be alone, I will be there holding your hand the whole time.”

She stays in silence. Actually, Melissa barely registers the moment her hands start to tremble. One second, she’s gripping the edge of the suitcase, trying to focus on the way the zipper feels beneath her fingertips, and the next, her vision blurs, her chest tightening until she can’t breathe properly.

The older woman clenches her jaw, shutting her eyes roughly. She won’t cry like a stupid child. Not over this. But the weight of it is too much. Too many years of neglect between her and her biological mother, too many words left unsaid, too much anger buried under guilt.

Her breath stutters and quickens, and before she can stop herself, she’s turning on her heel, pushing open the glass doors, stepping out onto the terrace. The air outside is warm, the sky an impossible shade of blue, the scent of lemon trees thick in the breeze. It’s beautiful, really. Straight out of a museum panting.

It should calm her.

But the lump in her throat only swells.

The heiress of the Schemmentis grips the railing, eyes fluttering shut again, her shoulders rising and falling with each uneven breath. The villa stretches before her, the rolling hills of the countryside unfurling like a painting. The wind tugs at her auburn hair, sweeping across her pale skin, but it doesn’t soothe the ache pressing into her ribs.

She bites down hard on the inside of her cheek, willing the tears away, but one escapes, trailing down her cheek before she can stop it.

Then, before she can scream in pain, she feels something. Only warmth.

Your arms wrap around her from behind, slow and careful, your chest pressing gently against her back. You don’t speak right away, don’t try to fix it or tell her it’s okay. You just hold her, your hands smoothing over her forearms, anchoring her.

Melissa whimpers, a shaky, painful thing, tilting her head slightly toward yours like a puppy looking for affection.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” your girlfriend admits. “I can’t look into her eyes without crying. Last time, I visited her and Teresa didn’t even react when I was holding her damn hand!”

You press a kiss to the side of her head, your grip tightening just enough. “Melly, you don’t have to do it alone,” you remind her. “I’m right here.”

She swallows, another tear slipping free. She’s still terrified. Still unsure.

Her chest tightens further as she buries her face in your shoulder, her breath shaky but slowing as the steady rhythm of your heartbeat anchors her. She wraps her strong arms around you, pulling you close as if she could merge with you, as if you could absorb all the things she can’t say, all the fears she can’t voice.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. It’s just the gentle press of your body against hers, the softness of the breeze, and the distant hum of the villa that fills the space between you.

Melissa whispers against your neck. “I don’t deserve you. Never did.”

You pull back just enough to meet her green eyes, your hand cupping her cheek, thumb brushing over her skin gently, wiping away the remnants of her salty tears.

“Babe, you don’t have to deserve me,” you say softly. “You already have me. And I’m not going anywhere. Pinky promise.”

A breath escapes her plump lips, a quiet sob trapped somewhere in the depths, but the sincerity in your words, the softness in your gaze it's enough to quiet the fucking storm inside her, even if only for a second. The tension in her body eases a little and she lets out a shaky laugh. “Shit. I don’t know what I’d do without you, you know that?”

You smile, brushing her messy curls from her face before leaning in to kiss her forehead. “You don’t have to find out, my love.”

One of her perfectly manicured hands presses into your chest, fingers curling gently around your black top. “I know… but sometimes, I still feel like I’m on the edge, like if I fall, I might not come back from it alive.”

Your gaze softens even more, a look of deep understanding settling in your features. “You won’t fall again. Not with me by your side.”

Melissa sighs, letting herself sink into the feeling of being held in a way that feels different, grounding. She leans into you more, feeling the warmth of your embrace seeping through her already destroyed soul, a comfort she didn’t know she needed but now can’t imagine being without.

“You’re always taking care of me,” she murmurs, a little unsure. “I don’t know how to take care of myself, let alone anyone else.”

You smile, brushing your lips against her temple before pulling away gently. “That’s not true. You take care of me, too, in your own way. And right now…” you look her over, your eyes filled with a quiet tenderness. “Right now, it’s my turn to take care of you.”

Her heart made of gold but always hidden by rocks skips a beat, the words sending a warm wave of joy through her. “You know, you’re pretty damn good at it.”

Your lips curve—not in triumph, not in amusement, but in something quieter. A smile made of moonlight and mercy. You step back only slightly, just enough to take her in fully. Your gentle hands remain, anchored around the gentle swell of her hourglass waist. Her body is warm beneath your touch, shaped like something holy. Like she was carved to be held.

“Come on,” you whisper, voice low, coaxing. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She doesn’t answer at first. Her olive eyes, dark and rimmed with the fatigue of too many days spent fighting the world and herself, flicker with something ancient and childlike—resistance, pride, fear. But only for a moment. Then her chest rises with a breath so soft it nearly dissolves in the air between you. She nods.

You take her shaking hand, and she follows.

The hallway is dim, cast in the golden hush of quiet evening. The faint scent of lavender greets you before the huge door opens—candle wax melting slowly into itself on the windowsill, steam ghosting against the mirror, fogging the reflection. The deluxe bathroom hums with warmth, like a cocoon spun from safety and silence.

She doesn’t speak as you reach for the faucet, your movements gentle, unhurried. Water spills into the tub like a lullaby, curling in soft spirals, its warmth blooming into the room like spring thawing through snow. You test the heat with your fingers, adjusting the flow like one tunes an instrument—precise, intuitive.

Then, without a word, you turn back to her.

Her eyes are on you. There’s something wounded there, and something brave. You touch the hem of her shirt, asking without asking. She nods again.

So you undress her—not quickly, not perfunctorily. You unfold her. Peeling her layers back like pages of a diary, slow and reverent. Her blouse, soft and worn at the seams. The curve of her tense shoulders, revealed like a secret. Every inch of her is a story, and you read her like scripture, gently, with awe.

Even now, after all the endless nights tangled in each other’s arms, after all the times your mouths have met, after every inch of Melissa Schemmenti becomes familiar—you still find yourself stunned by her. Not just the shape of her, but the way she simply exists in her skin. Bold, even in her fragility. Sacred, even when uncertain.

You are still in love with the sight of her. That hasn’t dulled. It never dulls.

The swell of her hips, the lines of age and fire carved into her thighs, the freckles you find new ones of every time you look. The small, human imperfections she tries to hide, not knowing that you cherish each one like a found shell on a quiet beach.

Her body is not new to you, but it is never ordinary.

Using the purest of your smiles, you undress her with the quiet reverence of a worshipper. Not because she demands it—but because you can’t help it. Because her nude and natural form undoes something in you each time. Because even now, when she’s stripped of artifice, stripped of strength, she’s still the most disarming thing you’ve ever seen.

And your girlfriend lets you see her. That, too, is a gift.

She steps into the bath, the warmth rising to kiss her skin, her breath catching as the water wraps around her like a lover. You kneel beside her, and place your palm against her back, your thumb tracing the notches of her spine. Her breath begins to slow. Her muscles loosen beneath your hand, one knot at a time.

Her body leans into the comfort. Into you.

The steam curls like silk between you both, and when her olive orbs meet yours, there’s a tremor behind them—one of softness, not fear. Something ancient flickering in the dim light.

“Amore, you ever regret it?” she prompts, her tone super hushed, brittle as lace. “That night? The bar? Meeting me?”

The world falls away again. All you can hear is the water shifting, the flicker of candlelight, the tremble of her breath.

“No,” you answer without pause, because the truth is already there, glowing at the edges of your chest. “Not for a single second.”

She watches you. Not as a lover—tonight, not even as someone who is sure she’s loved. She looks at you as someone afraid to be believed. Someone who’s bracing for the absence of tenderness.

And still, you don’t look away.

“I wonder…” Melissa whispers. “If things would’ve been easier. If I hadn’t gone. If I hadn’t let myself fall into this—into you.”

You reach for her, fingertips brushing along her damp face, tracing the warmth beneath the surface. “Maybe,” you admit, your voice like velvet. “But then I wouldn’t have known what it feels like to love someone like this. I wouldn’t have you. And I’d choose this every time. The beauty and the ache.”

The older woman closes her eyes, your words curling around her like warmth. When she opens them again, they’re glassy with something soft—something unguarded.

“I’m not easy to love,” she sighs. “I’m tired. I’m old. I’m flawed. I’ve made mistakes I don’t know how to unmake.”

You lean forward, press a kiss to the space just above her brow. A sacred place.

“You don’t need to be easy. Or fixed. Or anyone else but who you are right now. I’ve seen all of you. I’ve loved all of you. And I’d walk into that bar a thousand times just to meet you again.”

Melissa exhales slowly, a breath that trembles just slightly before slipping free. Her focus stays fixed on the clean water—on the way it ripples around her thighs, glinting faintly in the candlelight like liquid gold. Your hand is still in hers, resting between the soft slopes of her knees. She hasn’t let go.

The question you already answered lies quiet now, like a stone at the bottom of a river. But something else rises to the surface—it feels darker, older. The part she’s always tried to bury beneath silk blouses and thick skin and walls built out of wit and control.

“But I was such a bitch to you,” your girlfriend says suddenly, her voice thick and scraped raw by something she’s held in her mouth for too long.

She doesn’t look at you. Not yet. Her gaze stays on the shifting water, as if ashamed to face the reflection she’s casting in it.

“Back then… when it was just money between us. I acted like I didn’t care. Like you were just another thing I could throw cash at and feel in control again,” her voice breaks—barely, but enough. “And you fuckin’ let me.”

The last words land heavy. Not as blame, but as disbelief—that you could have stayed, knowing the coldness she wore like perfume in those early days. Before she started to fall for you.

The green eyed woman finally turns her head, just slightly, her gaze finding yours. And for a moment, she looks like she’s waiting for you to say it. To tell her she’s right. That she was cruel, and foolish, and undeserving.

Maybe, deep down, she wants you to say it. To confirm what she’s always feared in the quietest corners of herself—that she doesn’t deserve this soft version of love.

Because Melissa Schemmenti is not used to being forgiven. She’s not used to being held with reverence or spoken to like she’s tender, like she’s worth gentleness. She was raised in noise, raised to survive, not to trust. Love, in her world, was always conditional. Earned through grit, or toughness, or silence. And when it came, it came with teeth.

So this? You, sitting in the bath behind her, arms wrapped around her body like she’s precious… your voice warm, patient, steady… it doesn’t fit with what she’s spent a lifetime believing. It almost feels wrong, like wearing silk over bruises. Like dancing in a church with muddy shoes.

And when she speaks—But I was such a bitch to you—there’s something frayed in it. Something more than guilt. Something like… a confession.

Not just of past mistakes, but of the deeper, darker truth she’s afraid to say aloud.

That maybe she isn’t the good one. Maybe she’s not just complicated or guarded or a little rough around the edges.

Maybe she crossed a line. Maybe she burned too much. Maybe she was selfish and cruel and used you like something disposable. Maybe all the cold, transactional ways she treated you in the beginning—when it was easier to call it money than admit she was already starting to care—meant something about who she really is.

Maybe the way she held you at arm’s length, the way she made you earn scraps of affection, the way she tried to stay in control by keeping you emotionally small—that wasn’t just armor.

Maybe it was a mirror.

And maybe what it reflected…was a monster.

So she doesn’t look at you when she says it. She stares at the water instead, at the bubbles breaking apart on the surface like they know something she doesn’t. Her voice is thick, but there’s steel in it—a brittle, defensive kind of strength that says I know who I am and I’m not asking for mercy.

Because that’s what she expects: that you’ll finally agree. That you’ll say yes, you were cruel, and selfish, and I should’ve walked away.

And maybe she wants you to say it. Wants to be punished. Wants to finally have it named so she can stop pretending she’s not afraid of what she’s done. Of who she is. Of what she might have broken in you.

You sigh, quiet but unflinching, tilting your head just slightly as you study her.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “You were kind of a bitch.”

Her mouth twitches, the corners barely lifting, as if she wasn’t expecting you to be that honest. But you don’t stop.

“Closed-off. Controlling. Emotionally constipated.”

That almost gets a smile out of her. Almost.

“But,” you continue, gently, firmly, “I never let you treat me like I was just some accessory. You remember that, right?”

You squeeze her hand. She doesn’t pull away. “I called you out when you needed it. And I stayed. Not because I was naive. But because I knew. I knew there was something underneath all that cold, sugar mommy bullshit. And I wanted to know her.”

Melissa lets out a soft scoff, shaking her head. “Jesus H. Christ. You make me sound like some asshole in a movie.”

You raise your eyebrows, smirking. “Well…”

The redhead groans, but this time, it’s warm. Familiar. The groan of someone remembering how far they’ve come. The groan of someone almost, almost, ready to forgive herself.

“I thought…” she starts again, quieter now. “I thought if I kept my distance, if I just kept things transactional… I wouldn’t feel anything.” She lets out a bitter laugh, eyes flicking back to the water. “But you made it impossible not to.”

You watch her for a long moment, your heart both aching and full. “Yeah, I tend to do that.”

Finally, her eyes meet yours again. And this time, she smiles—but it’s small. Fleeting. Like it’s still learning how to stay.

“I don’t know why you put up with me,” she murmurs. Her fingers tighten around yours. “Why you didn’t just walk away when I acted like a—”

“Because I saw you,” you interrupt, your voice quiet but sure. “Not the version you were trying so hard to be. Not the armor. The real you. And I liked her. Even when she was being an emotionally constipated, controlling bitch.”

That startles a laugh out of her—a real one, unguarded and unpretending. Her head tips back, just slightly, resting against the cool porcelain edge, and for a moment, she looks so young like that. Like an innocent girl learning to be loved.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters through her grin.

You shift beside the tub, rising from your knees and letting your hand trail down the warm water’s edge. And you watch her for a moment, her body half-submerged, damp tendrils of red hair clinging to her shoulders.

And then, slowly, without breaking her gaze, you slip your shirt over your head.

She watches you, not hungrily, not possessively. But reverently.

You step into the bath behind her, easing yourself into the water, letting it close over your skin with a quiet sigh. Melissa shifts to make room, her back brushing against your chest as you settle in.

You pull her gently against you, wrapping your arms around her waist from behind, your thighs bracketing hers. Her beautiful body melts into yours like it remembers this shape, this belonging. She lets her head fall back to your shoulder. Her eyes close.

“I don’t deserve this,” she whispers.

You press your lips to the crown of her head, your voice just breath against her scalp. “You do,” you murmur. “You always did.”

Melissa doesn’t answer, but you feel the way her hands clutch yours, one of them guiding your palm to rest over her chest. Over her heart.

“I stayed,” you whisper, “Because every time you pushed me away, I saw the way you hated doing it. I saw the way it broke you. And every time you pretended not to care, I could feel how much you did.”

Your girlfriend is quiet. Not because she has nothing to say, but because she doesn’t know how to say it. Her silence is not distance, it’s surrender. So, you kiss the place just behind her ear, then her jaw, then the curve of her shoulder, slowly, without asking for anything in return.

“You can be a bitch sometimes,” you say, your voice teasing but adoring, like it’s the fondest truth you’ve ever spoken. “But you’re my bitch.”

She groans, dropping her head back again, laughing softly. “Oh my God. I hate you.”

You smile into her skin. “You love me.”

“…Fine,” Melissa whispers, after a long pause. “I really do.” And this time, when she squeezes your hand, rough fingers woven between yours, pressed to the quiet beat of her chest—it’s not out of guilt or fear or penance.

It’s just love.

Quiet. Undramatic. Fierce in its steadiness. And it’s hers. And it’s yours.

The silence that follows is comfortable and you hum low in your throat, a soft, instinctive sound as your fingers work through the thick waves of her auburn hair, lathering slowly. The warmth of the water curls around both of you like a gentle fog, lavender-scented and still. She’s totally settled between your legs, her back resting fully against your chest, her skin slick and warm against yours, the heat of her body blooming through the quiet rise and fall of each breath.

It’s rare, this kind of softness from her. Melissa’s a woman made of corners and caution, someone who’s learned to carry herself like a fortress, tense, always braced, as if relaxing might be the thing that undoes her completely.

But here… in this small, silent bath lit by the hush of candlelight… she melts. Slowly. Unfolding beneath your hands like something tightly coiled finally remembering how to exhale.

Your fingers massage gentle circles into her scalp, slow and reverent, like worship. She sighs under your touch, low and quiet, like her body is remembering what safety feels like. You tilt your head slightly, careful lips brushing her temple as the water laps gently around you both.

Then your fingers slip lower, sliding down the nape of her neck, parting the wet strands of her hair.

And that’s when you see them.

Tiny, pale ribbons of skin, just barely raised. Faint silver scars, scattered like forgotten constellations across her scalp. Hidden things. Old things. So subtle they could be missed in the shadows of candlelight—if your hands didn’t know her so well.

You stop.

It’s only for a second—your breath catching, your fingertips hovering mid-motion—but she feels it. Of course she does.

Melissa always notices.

“What?” she asks softly, her voice tight, closed-off. A reflex. The shape of someone who’s already pulled the door shut behind her.

You swallow, slow, and trace one of the marks with the back of your digit—so delicately it barely counts as touch.

“These,” you speak. “I never noticed them before.”

She stiffens instantly. Not visibly—but you feel it. The air sharpens. Her muscles lock, subtle but undeniable, and her breath falters in her throat. The easy intimacy of a moment ago retreats like a tide pulling from shore.

“It’s nothing, ok?” the redhead answers quickly—too quickly. Her voice is brittle, cracking around the edges of a lie she doesn’t want to tell but doesn’t know how not to.

You don’t press. You simply bend forward, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. Your lips linger there, warm and still, letting her feel the steadiness of your presence.

“It’s not nothing, Lis,” you whisper into her damp hair.

Melissa lets out a soft breath, but there’s no relief in it. Just restraint. She leans forward slightly, like she’s trying to make space between you—trying to slip back into control. But you don’t let her go. You wrap your arms around her middle, pulling her gently back to you, her spine aligning to your chest again. A silent reminder: You are safe. You are not alone. I am not afraid of your past.

After a long moment, her head tilts, resting once more against your shoulder. And when she speaks again, it’s quiet. Small. Like a secret said into the night.

“It was Joe. My ex-husband,” your sugar mommy explains. “A long time ago.”

Your arms tighten instinctively. You don’t say anything, not yet. You just listen, your heart suddenly full of ache.

“He never hit my face,” she continues, more to the shadows than to you. “Didn’t want to leave anything people could see. He was smart like that. But my head? My ribs?” her body is shaking in fear now. “Son of a bitch knew where to land it. How to make it hurt without making it obvious.”

Melissa’s raspy voice is even, but inside the smoothness is a jagged edge—sharp with memory. Worn with shame. The years folded into her words like seams in old fabric.

Your hands stay on her. One pressed gently to her stomach, the other cupping her shoulder, grounding her.

She exhales again, but this time it cracks into something bitter. “One time… he broke my wrist after a fight,” she holds back a sob. “Threw me into the stairs and spit on my face.”

Your stomach turns, slow and sick.

“I hit the landing so hard I couldn’t get up. Not for a while. My legs just—stopped. I stayed there for hours,” she laughs, but it’s not a real sound. Just a breath twisted into something cruel. “Just laying on the stairs. Like trash he hadn’t picked up yet. Only God knows how I got the urge to stand up and throw myself into the bed acting like nothing happened.”

“I hate that you went through that,” you whisper, lips brushing her forehead, wishing you could unwrite those nights. Wishing you could hold the version of her that laid there in silence and make her feel anything but discarded.

“Yeah, well,” the Sicilian quips. “I let it happen.”

You shake your head before she even finishes the sentence. “No. He did it. He made that choice. That’s not on you, Melissa. Not ever.”

She doesn’t argue, but she doesn’t agree either. She just sinks back into you, the weight of her memory still wrapped around her like a second skin.

The bathwater sways gently with your breath, soft ripples moving between your legs and hers, rising against her hips like a silent promise that none of that will ever happen again. You reach for her hair, rinse the suds away—your fingers moving gently, reverently, as if you could wash him out of her strand by strand.

“I see you,” you whisper against her ear. “Not what he did to you. Not the pain. Not the scars. You.”

“I was twenty-two when it started,” she murmurs, her voice nearly drowned by the hush of the water and the candlelight whispering against the tiles.

Just above her shoulder, you breathe in. Her words don’t shock you, not really. You’d always known there were things she carried like stones in her chest—buried beneath sarcasm and strength. But hearing it aloud is different. Hearing her speak it, like a ghost climbing out of the well she locked it in… it splits something open in you.

Twenty-two. Barely older than you were when you first met her. A girl still figuring out how to carry her own name without apology. And she had already survived him.

She shifts slightly between your legs, her back still warm against your chest, the bathwater curling gently around both your bodies. One of your arms moves to gently comb through her damp red hair, as if you could untangle the memories with your fingers.

“At first, it was just words,” she says, almost casually, like she’s trying not to sound dramatic. But you can hear the old bruise in her tone. “Little things, y’know? ‘Why’d you wear that?’ ‘Why are you talking to him?’ ‘You gonna eat all that?’”

Melissa mimics his voice, laced with condescension—almost mocking—but you feel the tremor in her. “Shit that made me second-guess myself. Made me smaller.”

You press a soft peck to her shoulder, your lips lingering there, your arm still wrapped firm around her soft belly, grounding her.

“And I stayed.”

You close your eyes and press your forehead to the back of her neck, your breath failing. “Mel…”

“I thought it was normal,” she cries. “I thought maybe I deserved it. He had this way of twisting things—always made it seem like it was my fault.” she lets out a humorless chuckle. “And then you start believing it. That if you just act right, if you just love them hard enough, they’ll stop. They’ll change.”

Your grip tightens around her. Your palm presses flat to her chest, protective. Her hand slides down, finding yours, and she starts to trace soft circles over your skin. A rhythm. A tether.

“When did it end?” you ask, careful, like you’re afraid of scaring the memory back into silence.

“The night I lost the baby.”

Your breath stutters in your lungs.

She’s never told you this.

The words hang in the space between your bodies, heavy and electric, like a storm that’s taken too long to arrive. You feel her stiffen, like she wants to pull them back, as if saying them out loud made them more real than they’ve ever been.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she exhales. And the next words fall out of her like a confession.

“I never told him I was pregnant. That night… he was angry about something. I don’t even remember what anymore. It didn’t matter. It never did,” her fingers tighten around yours. “He threw me into the wall.”

She pauses, and you can feel her body remembering. The pain of it. The helplessness.

“And then there was blood.”

You close your eyes, a sting rising behind them. You press your lips against her damp skin, trying not to let your rage spill out. She doesn’t need your fury right now. She needs your calm. Your arms. Your stillness.

“I didn’t even realize it was a miscarriage until later. I didn’t… know, at first. My body just felt—off. Like it was unraveling.”

“I was in the shower.” The image is unbearable, her alone, under too-bright light, scalding water masking the sound of grief. “There were these cramps. Like something twisting inside me. And then blood. A lot of it. Just rushing down my legs, mixing with the water. I remember holding onto the wall, thinking, This can’t be happening.”

Your fingers stroke her chest again, the motion trembling now.

“I knew what it was,” she continues. “Deep down, I think I knew. But I stayed in the shower. I screamed, shaking, until the water ran cold.”

You hold her tighter, your cheek pressed against her spine like a prayer.

“I wish I could go back,” you hold back tears. “I wish I could find you in that bathroom, take you away from him, wrap you in something warm and safe, and tell you that you didn’t have to stay. That none of it was your fault. That you were already enough.”

Melissa turns then, slowly, the water sloshing softly around you both. She shifts in your lap until she’s facing you, straddling your thighs, her hands moving to your face. Her eyes, green and tired, still shining from the past find yours. She reaches up, tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear with the gentlest touch.

“You did. Maybe not back then. But you did.”

And before you can speak, before you can tell her again how much she means to you, her lips are on yours.

The kiss is slow. Deep. No urgency. Just years of ache pressed into skin, just gratitude and surrender and the smallest, trembling seed of healing. Her hands slide into your hair. Yours settle on her waist.

And in that warm, candlelit tub, with ghosts drifting just outside the door, Melissa Schemmenti kisses you like you’re the first kind thing that’s ever happened to her.

Because maybe… you are.

Hours seem to pass and she traces looping shapes along your forearm—absent and idle, like her body doesn’t quite know what to do with stillness. You don’t move. You just hold her, your arms gently encircling her, your chin resting in the crook between her shoulder and neck. You wait, not to fix, not to force but to be there. However long she needs.

“I wanted that baby, Y/N.”

The words fall out of her mouth like something broken free after years of being buried. And they land with a quiet kind of violence, like a glass cracking from the inside.

She doesn’t look at you. Your girlfriend can‘t.

“I didn’t even know how much I wanted them until I lost it. It was like—I don’t know, like something in me had already made space. Even before I knew for sure. Like my body was waiting.”

Every single word press against your ribs.

“I used to talk to them,” she says, barely above the sound of water lapping against the porcelain. “Just when I was alone. In the kitchen. In the car. While brushing my teeth. Stupid shit.” her lip trembled. “What our days would be like. What I’d name ’em. What kinda kid they’d be.”

“Babe..”

“I wanted a daughter,” she breathes, like it’s something she’s never let herself say aloud. “I thought I could do it right this time. Give her all the shit I never got. Protect her from everything I couldn’t protect myself from.”

Her voice goes thinner.

“I thought maybe if I had her, I wouldn’t be so fucking alone.”

Your arms wrap tighter around her, as if you could shield her from the past even now.

“When it happened… I couldn’t even scream. I didn’t cry. I just—sat there. In the bathroom. On the floor. Holding myself together like…if I didn’t move, it wouldn’t be real.”

Finally, she turns her head and looks at you. Her green eyes are glassy, rimmed red, and so hollow it nearly breaks you in half. Not because they’re empty but because of what they’ve carried, alone, for so long.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to die more than I did that night,” she confesses.

You reach up, your thumb ghosting over the strong, aching line of her jaw.

“Melissa…”

“I remember looking at myself in the mirror. I was soaking, shivering, bleeding. And I thought, This is it. I’m done,” her voice catches on the memory. “I didn’t even feel sad. Just… gone. Like I didn’t exist anymore. Like maybe I never really did.”

A tear slips free before you can stop it.

Melissa rests her forehead against yours. “But I didn’t do it. I don’t even know why. Maybe I was too much of a coward.” Her hand curls around yours, tighter now. “Or maybe—” she swallows, her voice so small “—maybe some part of me thought there’d be something waiting for me. Something better.”

Your hand finds her waist again. Anchoring. Loving. Unshaken.

And with everything in you, you say nothing. You just stay.

She studies you for a long time, her thumb grazing the back of your knuckles like she’s reading a language she’s only just started to learn.

Then Melissa smiles. It’s small. Barely there. But it’s real. “Turns out. I was right.”

And before you can fall apart, before your throat can collapse with all the things you wish you could’ve done for her—you feel her thumb brush away your tear. She doesn’t comment on it. She just wipes it gently, reverently.

“I got you,” the redhead says, like a vow whispered into skin. “I got us.”

(More coming soon.)

[derpyavocado]

ABBOTT FANDOM

i drew my faves for pride this year and i’m thrilled with how they turned out! hope you enjoy! ᕕ( ⁰ ▽ ⁰ )ᕗ

first up is jacob! canonically mlm >w<

next is melissa! she’s bisexual (semi-canon?) ^w^

and last but certainly not least is ava! i personally headcanon her as pansexual :3

[schemmentigfs]

abbott’s official instagram page posted some of melissa schemmenti moments that implies that she is queer to celebrate pride month and quinta’s comment it’s taking me out.

[schemmentigfs]

Okay hear me out, mel is getting really into an wagles game one night and reader gets all needy and stuff and wants attention and mels like “in a bit” or smth like that so reader straddles her ans starts riding her thigh. But instead of giving reader attention she simply grabs on to her hips and guides her kissing her neck every now and then with her eyes still on the screen. But eventually reader gets too loud and mel has to pause the game and edges reader over and over again until the game ends. And when the games ends mel lets reader come but then over stimulates her as “punishment” for being all needy and bratty during a major football game

Whimper Though The Fourth Quarter.

Summary: you wouldn’t dare interrupt your girlfriend’s Philadelphia Eagles game ritual knowing that it could bring you consequences, right?

WC: 5k.

Taglist: @lifeismomentsyoucannotunderstand @lisaannwaltersbra @italianaidiota @kukikatt @dopenightmaretyphoon @pitstopsapphic @jeridandridge @aliensuperst4rr @writerspirit

Warning(s): shitty writing, mommy kink, thigh riding, petnames, overstimulation, a tiny hint of tomboy schemmenti, sweet aftercare bc mel isn’t that cruel.

The legendary Melissa Schemmenti wasn’t just a Philadelphia Eagles fan. That didn’t even begin to cover it. She was raised into the Birds, baptized in midnight green the way other kids were taught to fold their hands in prayer or memorize the family recipe for Sunday sauce. Loyalty to the Eagles wasn’t a choice in the Schemmentis household; it was a fucking birthright.

Some of her earliest memories were stitched not just with the faces of family, but with the sound of them living for football. She could still picture her childhood home — a narrow rowhouse in Philly with a too-small living room and mismatched furniture — somehow crammed wall-to-wall with siblings, uncles, cousins, neighbors, and anyone else who bled green that Sunday. People perched on armrests and footstools, yelling over one another, the television flickering like a sacred altar at the front of the room. Her beloved Nonna Giulietta’s sharp voice rang out louder than the commentators, a stream of Italian curses aimed at opposing quarterbacks, while from the kitchen drifted the warm, greasy perfume of sausage and peppers bubbling on the stove.

That was what Sundays meant.

First came Mass, a non-negotiable Schemmenti ritual and then, right after, a different kind of religion. Philadelphia Eagles football. It was sacred. Immutable. If there was a wedding or a funeral, you planned around the game. Rain, snow, heartbreak, power outages — nothing interrupted the flow of church and then football. The noisy family showed up in their jerseys like they were suiting up for battle, and she had never questioned it.

Because it wasn’t just a game. Not to her.

The Eagles were the one constant in a world that spun on chaos. When her parents fought. When her siblings were assholes with her. When uncle Archie talked about her weight gain. When her Nonna got sick. When Melissa, at twenty-four, got her heart broken by some cocky bartender who moved to L.A. and stopped returning her calls, when at thirty-nine, Joe cheated on her for the first time and just years later she was ready to sign the divorce papers — the Eagles stayed. Through losses and wins, through the highs of their Super Bowl run and the lows of a season riddled with injuries and disappointment, that team was her anchor. When everything else went sideways, she had those crisp fall Sundays. She had the cold beer in her hand, her name stitched on the back of a well-worn jersey, the sound of the crowd roaring on the television, and the pounding in her chest that told her hope wasn’t dead yet.

She didn’t just watch the games — she felt them.

Every touchdown was a shot of adrenaline that had her on her feet, shouting like she was on the field herself. When the refs blew a call, she’d erupt with muttered strings of colorful language thick with Philly accent and Italian roots. And when they lost — and they had lost, plenty — it wasn’t just disappointment. It was grief. It was mourning. She’d carry it around for days like a bad hangover, stewing in the injustice of it all.

Her whole life was mapped by the team.

Her papa lifting her up after a huge playoff win, spinning her in circles while she screamed with joy. Her sister Kristen Marie once painting her entire face green for a parade down Broad Street after the Eagles clinched the division, the pictures still framed on her mantle. Even Jacob, her ex-roommate and platonic soulmate, who knew jack shit about football. She could still remember the night he flopped beside her on the couch with a bowl of chips and said. “Explain it to me like I’m five years old,” just to distract her after a nasty breakup with that last guy who was easy forgettable. She’d explained first downs and holding penalties between shots of whiskey, and by the end of the game, he was pretending to be outraged at a bad snap just to make her laugh.

Months later even when Jacob Hill was able to move out to an adorable and dreamy apartment complex with his new long term boyfriend Elijah, the olive-eyed woman kept inviting him around to explain all the game and team lore for him.

Beacuse it wasn’t just football. It was family. It was tradition. It was stitched into her DNA.

So when it was game day, a big game, you didn’t interrupt Melissa Ann Schemmenti. You didn’t call her. You didn’t text. You didn’t try to schedule dinner or start a fight or invite her out. You especially didn’t try to seduce her out of it.

Unfortunately for her and, frankly, for the fate of the Eagles that Sunday afternoon you, her sweet and provocative girlfriend, hadn’t gotten the memo that clearly stated: during the game, the priority is football. Period.

You were the kind of woman who turned distraction into an art form. A dazzling threat, made of curves, dangerous intentions, and an annoyingly irresistible charm. And there you were, sitting on her lap like it was your rightful throne — wearing nothing but one of those oversized shirts.

The Eagles jersey you wore was one of Schemmenti’s oldest and most cherished. The fabric, already a little worn with time, carried that unmistakable scent of fabric softener mixed with the woody perfume she always wore. The knit, frayed at the shoulders and collar, hung loosely on your body, swallowing your curves with a careless ease that only highlighted what it left exposed.

It was a classic dark green, with white and silver accents, the number on the back, partially hidden by your bare back, belonged to a player she always cursed out, yet stubbornly refused to stop loving.

“Mi amore. Whatever you’re thinkin’ right now? Don’t.” she warned, without taking her green eyes off the screen, moving just lazily enough for you to see her white boxers. It was the kind of piece she only wore at home, comfortable, vulnerable in a way almost no one else ever got to see. The soft cotton hugged her strong thighs naturally. The elastic waistband, with the brand name nearly faded, sat a few inches below her belly button, exposing a sliver of hip whenever she stretched out on the couch.

The fabric was slightly wrinkled, hinting that she’d probably slept in them the night before. It was a simple, practical pair of boxers but on Melissa Schemmenti, with that mature, effortlessly sexy body, it became a kind of quiet provocation. The white stood out against the warm tone of her hydrated soft skin, and the way she moved — or didn’t move — made you want to tear them off with your teeth.

She was, in public, the picture of classic femininity. Low heels, flawless hair, manicured nails in rich crimson shades, and a confidence that could silence an entire room the second she walked in. She had that unbothered sex appeal. Tight dresses, fitted blouses under leather jackets, gold hoops that chimed softly when she moved, everything about her screamed woman.

At home, your girlfriend dropped the polish and slipped into a version of herself that was quieter, more grounded and somehow even more alluring.

Her signature red hair was always thrown up in a messy bun, a few strands falling loose around her temples. Her face was bare, revealing freckles she usually covered up out of stubborn habit. And then there were the clothes.

She loved dressing masculine when she was off the clock not as a statement, but because it just felt right. Oversized t-shirts, worn soft from years of use, still holding the faint scent of laundry detergent and whatever beer she had spilled on them the last time she yelled at the television. Loose white or grey boxer briefs, stolen from some discount rack in a department store, hugging her hips with the easy intimacy of routine. No lace, no effort to be “sexy.” Just comfort.

That duality was part of what drove you wild. The same woman who wore heels and lipstick at work was the one who left the toilet seat up and swore at the screen like she was calling the plays herself.

Feminine by nature. Masculine by comfort.

“But you’ve been watching for hours,” came the sulky protest, breath warm against the redhead’s ear. Your fingers toyed at the neckline of her faded jersey. “C’mon, baby. Just halftime. Ten minutes. I promise I’ll make it worth it…”

Her pulse fluttered somewhere south of righteous.

“Listen, crybaby,” she quips. “I love you, but if you try to pull me away in the middle of a fourth-quarter red-zone drive, I will put you on the ‘do not disturb’ list next season.”

“Red...”

“No, be a good girl and wait. Mommy is busy and you wouldn’t dare interrupt her.”

You pouted.

Not a half-hearted, childish pout. No! this was a masterpiece of melodrama, crafted with intention. Your eyes narrowed, bottom lip pushed out just enough to make a statement, arms crossed tightly under the loose jersey hanging off your frame. It was way too big on you, practically a dress, brushing halfway down your thighs. But it did nothing to hide the way your entire posture screamed for attention.

Melissa didn’t budge.

She sat in the middle of the worn leather couch, leaning forward with the focus of a general mid-battle. The Eagles were in the red zone. Ten yards out. Third and goal. The game was on the line. Her breath came in shallow, sharp bursts, one hand wrapped around the neck of her beer bottle, the other clenched into a fist on her knee like she could will the quarterback into making the right damn play.

You couldn’t understand this kind of tension. It was a game. Just a stupid game. But for Melissa Schemmenti, it was religion.

And then it happened.

The ball was snapped. The defense flinched. A clean pass, fast and ruthless, cutting through the field like a bullet.

Touchdown.

She erupted like a volcano. She leapt off the couch as if jolted by electricity, arms shooting into a victorious V, her eyes bright with feral joy. Beer sloshed out of the bottle, splattering onto the old rug, the same one she refused to clean with anything but baking soda and vinegar but she didn’t even notice.

“GO, BIRDS! TAKE THAT, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!”

Her raspy voice boomed through the living room, loud enough to rattle the windowpanes.

You groaned. Not a subtle sound, but a deep, dramatic moan, as if your very soul had been personally betrayed. You let your body collapse against the back of the couch in despair.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Mels,” you whined, glaring at her profile like it had offended you. “This is ridiculous. We should be making out or cuddling or doing anything other than watching a bunch of guys fight over balls. Balls.”

She didn’t look at you. Didn’t even flinch. One hand lifted lazily in your direction like a traffic cop waving someone along.

“We’re down by three. Fourth quarter. Two minutes left. Do I look like I’m joking?”

You groaned again. Louder. And muttered, just under your breath but loud enough that she’d catch it. “You sound like an old lady who needs to get laid.”

Her jaw ticked. Just once. But those forest eyes still glued to the screen flashed with danger. Still, her response came out calm. Too calm.

“I need the Birds to convert this third down. Then we can talk about me getting laid.”

You let out a long, aggrieved sigh. And shifted in her lap.

Once. Then again. A little roll of your hips, subtle but deliberate. The warmth of your body pressing into her thighs, the curve of you brushing against her jeans.

The redhead didn’t even blink.

“Sweetheart,” she spoke, “if you don’t stop wiggling around, you’re gonna make me spill my beer.”

That earned another pout. A new one. Smaller, sulkier. But when she didn’t so much as glance at your legs or the heat in your eyes, you gave up the game — for now — and stood up with exaggerated indignation.

“I am not sitting here, ignored and sober,” you huffed, backing toward the hallway, the jersey slipping up just enough to reveal your favorite pair of panties. The black lacy ones Melissa definitely had a thing for. You were all long legs and frustration. “You want another beer?”

Your girlfriend, still laser-focused on the screen, raised her bottle without looking. “Yeah, thanks, babe. Grab one for me while you’re back there.”

There was a pause. The tiniest glimmer of mischief sparked behind your eyes. Then, wordlessly, you pivoted and disappeared not into the precious kitchen of hers, but down the hallway to the bedroom.

Melissa’s brow furrowed a little. “Hon. The fridge is that way, y’know.”

No answer.

Another play on the screen. The crowd roared from the speakers. The Eagles pushed forward. She sat on the edge of the couch, vibrating with tension but something tugged at her. A whisper of doubt. She glanced toward the stairs, lips tightening.

“Babe?” the second grade teacher called out. “You okay?”

Then, faintly a soft thump. Like fabric hitting the floor. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment. A quiet groan left her lips.

“…That better not be what I think it is.”

Melissa tried — she really did — to keep her attention on the screen. Another snap. Another pass. Another completed play. The Eagles were gaining ground.

click. The unmistakable sound of a drawer sliding open.

Her head turned toward the hallway.

“Y/N,” she warned, tone quieter now, like she was negotiating with a bomb. “If you’re doing what I think you’re doing in there…”

Another cheer from the television. She sat up straighter, clutching her beer with both hands now.

“…you’d better bring me that beer first,” she murmured to herself, torn between lust and loyalty. “Jesus Christ.”

Melissa Schemmenti didn’t move. But her grip on the bottle had tightened.

Behind the bedroom door, you paused, barefoot on the cool wood floor, the dim light casting long shadows across your legs. From the living room, the muffled roar of the crowd continued — a distant pulse of adrenaline and tribal fury — but it was that warning, that made you insane.

If you’re doing what I think you’re doing in there..

You couldn’t help the grin that pulled at your lips. God, she was so damn stubborn.

Stubborn and beautiful and maddening in that irresistible, grown-woman way that made your skin tighten and your breath hitch in your throat.

You peeled your panties down with calculated slowness, letting the soft fabric brush over your skin as it slipped down your thighs. The air was cool, goosebumps rising along your legs, your core pulsing with the rush of what you were about to do. The cotton pooled at your feet, delicate and quiet. You stepped out of them, toeing them aside, your body now clothed in nothing but her jersey, hanging dangerously low over your hips.

You weren’t going to beg. Not tonight.

If she wanted to act like the game was her girlfriend, fine.

You’d just remind her of exactly what she was missing.

You pulled the hem of the jersey down a bit — not to cover yourself, but to tease — and stepped lightly back into the hallway. The cold ass air kissed your thighs, your pulse thudding just beneath the surface as you moved quietly, purposefully, toward her.

Melissa hadn’t noticed you.

She was locked in. Elbows on her knees, jaw tight, those sharp green eyes glued to the television. The light from the screen washed over her face, casting her in flashes of blue and silver. One arm was slung over the back of the couch, her legs spread comfortably apart in that effortless way that drove you insane. Her beer, half-finished, sat abandoned on the table beside her. She didn’t even reach for it. Every muscle in her body was humming with focus, tuned entirely to the fourth quarter.

And that — that — was your opening.

Without a word, you crossed the room and climbed into her lap like you’d done it a thousand times before. Straddling her thick, jean-clad thigh, you settled your weight down with slowness, your naked flesh meeting the rough texture.

The older woman tensed beneath you, her spine straightening like she’d been shot. Her head turned sharply toward you.

“Babe,” she rasped, the syllables rough from yelling at the screen. “Don’t be a naughty girl.”

But her tone faltered, just barely. Cracked at the edges. Because now she felt it. The unmistakable truth that you were completely naked beneath that shirt.

You leaned in, giving her your best wide-eyed look, teeth catching the corner of your lip. “I didn’t do anything,” you murmured, pretending innocence you didn’t possess.

Her hands, those strong, capable hands that had scolded and held and ruined you before, twitched at her sides. But she fought back.

And then you moved.

Your hips rolled forward, dragging yourself across the muscle of her thigh in one sinuous glide. The friction was good, pressure building right where you needed it. You pressed your forehead to hers, your breath feathering across her lips.

“Fuck, mommy,” you moaned. “This feels so good.”

Melissa groaned, guttural. The kind of sound pulled from the chest, like she was trying to hold onto her last thread of sanity.

She rolled her eyes in disbelief. “I swear to God, baby. Don’t make me choose between you and the Birds right now.”

You leaned in closer, mouth grazing her jaw. “Then don’t.”

Your girlfriend didn’t push you away. So you kept moving.

Slow. Shameless.

The worn fabric of Melissa’s jeans was rough against your soft skin, but it was exactly what you needed. Solid. Textured. Unforgiving. Each lazy grind of your hips dragged slick heat across the ridge of her thigh, and the soft, wet sounds that followed was obscene — too quiet for the game to mask, too intimate not to notice.

Your hands clutched her shoulders, nails grazing the worn fabric of her jersey. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. Melissa Schemmenti, the most infuriating woman on the planet, kept her green eyes locked dead ahead on the television like her soul had money riding on this fourth quarter.

You whimpered her name once more — breathy, high-pitched, wrecked — and still… nothing.

She didn’t look at you.

Didn’t push you off.

Didn’t help.

But she didn’t stop you either.

And that restraint, that maddening stillness beneath you — only made it worse.

The heat pooled low in your belly, coiling, pulsing, threatening to consume you from the inside out. You rolled your hips harder now, grinding yourself down on the hard muscle of her thigh with a soft gasp, chasing relief that stayed just out of reach.

Finally, she moved. Not much.

Just one hand.

It lifted lazily from the armset and slid up your thigh, warm and calloused and super slow. Her fingers stopped at your hip, settling there — not to guide you, not to take control — just to feel you. Just to remind you that she was there. That she knew what you were doing. That she liked it.

Your breath caught in your throat.

She still didn’t look at you. Her posture barely shifted. But her mouth… her mouth dipped to your neck, brushing against the sensitive skin like a spark just waiting to catch. A soft exhale. Then lips — plush and hot and patient — pressed a kiss against your throat, right where your pulse fluttered like a warning.

And then… teeth.

She didn’t bite down. She didn’t mark.

She just grazed you. A promise. A warning. A tease.

“Better not cum before they make this field goal,” your girlfriend murmured and it felt like gravel sliding along your spine.

You whimpered — not just from the pressure, or the build-up, or the aching tension that had your thighs trembling — but from the audacity. Melissa Schemmenti was letting you ride her thigh like some desperate, ruined dog in heat, but hadn’t spared you a single full glance.

She was holding you. Kissing you. Letting you use her body.

And still watching the damn game.

“Mels!” you gasped, your voice thin and cracking, your forehead falling to her shoulder as your rhythm faltered for a second. “Shit. just—fuck, just do something.”

“I am,” she said. “I’m watchin’ the Birds win this goddamn game.”

Moans tumbled out of you without warning. You weren’t playing coy anymore. You couldn’t. And that damn woman… she just sat there.

Unmoved.

Unbothered.

“Jesus,” the older redhead muttered finally, dragging her lips from your neck to your collarbone, pressing a kiss to the soft curve there. “You’re makin’ more noise than the damn commentators.”

Your response was half-moan, a half-whine.

And Melissa? Didn’t look at you.

Didn’t help.

Didn’t stop.

The rhythm had turned desperate, no longer about teasing or playing. It was need, pure and simple, pulsing hot between your legs and climbing toward something unbearable.

Now, your clit throbbed, painfully sensitive, each pass of your damp pussy dragging over in a delicious, tormenting friction. The edge was there, right there, only to dart away again like smoke between your fingers.

You couldn’t take it. You couldn’t.

Your hand slipped down without thought, fingers diving between your thighs — slick and shaking — finding that swollen, aching bud. And when you touched yourself, really touched yourself, your entire body jolted.

“FUCK,” you screamed. Loud. “Please. I will be good. I will be so fuckin’ good for you, Mommy.”

Your hips bucked against Melissa’s leg, chasing the pressure. Your digits moved in tight, fast circles over your clit, messily coordinated with each thrust of your hips. You were panting now with your mouth parted. Moaning into the warm, familiar curve of her neck.

“Mommy...”

The one hand that had been resting lazily on your thigh, tightened. Her palm wrapped around your hip bone with practiced ease, steady and anchoring, keeping you locked in place. But her eyes never left the television. She sat there, beer resting against her knee, her expression calm, unreadable.

Like you weren’t losing your mind right there in her lap.

Like you weren’t soaking through her jeans.

Like you weren’t whimpering her name with every breath.

“You alright there, doll?” she asked casually — so casual — like she was asking if you needed anything from the store. “Soundin’ a little outta breath.”

“You evil bitch...”

Ignoring the fact that you just cursed her, calling her a bitch. Melissa made a soft humming sound. Thoughtful. Unhurried. Then leaned in and kissed your neck, like nothing in the world was more important than the skin just below your jaw.

“Field goal’s up,” she grinned, lips brushing your pulse point. “Fifty-five yards. No timeouts.”

Your back arched. Your thighs clenched around her. Your hand was working faster now — tight little circles that had your whole body shaking.

“Lissa—please—I’m so close.”

She turned her head, just slightly and let her mouth ghost over the shell of your ear. Her breath was hot when she spoke.

“Hold it for Mama, sweetheart.”

Your eyes rolled in pleasure.

The fucking climax was right there, shaking through your core, begging to break loose. You pressed your face into the crook of her neck, eyes squeezed shut, teeth catching your lower lip to stop yourself from screaming.

“I can’t,” you cried desperaely.

“You will,” it wasn’t a suggestion. It was a sentence. “The kick’s up.”

“F-fine.”

Hours later, the Philadelphia Eagles game ended with a roar. the stadium on television erupting, the commentator losing his mind, something about a miracle kick and playoff chances. Melissa barely reacted. Just a small grunt, a satisfied smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth as she leaned back against the couch.

You, on the other hand, were wrecked.

Still straddling her lap, still trembling, still soaked through and aching — your forehead pressed to her neck, your hand frozen between your legs, your whole body suspended in agonizing anticipation. Your cunt squeezed around nothing, and your legs were so shaky you weren’t sure they’d hold if you tried to stand.

The older woman reached forward lazily and clicked the remote. The screen went black.

Silence fell over the room. She looked at you.

Her green eyes were hooded, darker now. Her jaw clenched. There was a heat simmering there, something dangerous. And it made your stomach drop in the most delicious way.

She dragged her gaze down your body, the oversized jersey hanging off one shoulder, the sweat on your skin, the flushed pink of your cheeks, your thighs splayed wide across her lap, trembling. Her eyes landed on her own jeans, full of your wetness and she smiled.

“Good girl. Still holding it?”

You whimpered. “Y-yeah…”

“Let your Mommy take care of it now, baby.”

Without another word her hand slipped down, fingers sliding between your legs, through the slick heat she’d spent the last fifteen minutes building up. You gasped, nearly choking on it, your hips jerking forward.

She was soaked. You were soaked.

Her middle finger found your clit, circling it once.

“Babe—” you begged. “Don’t—don’t tease—don’t—”

But Melissa was already slipping lower.

One thick finger pressed against your tight entrance, then slid in with a smooth, practiced motion that made your back arch and your mouth drop open in a silent scream.

Then two.

Her fingers curled just right, dragging against that spot deep inside that made stars burst behind your eyes.

She started fucking you slow at first, deep and measured, her palm grinding against your clit with every thrust. You were melting, unraveling in her lap, clawing at her shoulders, sobbing her name into her throat.

And Melissa, strong, steady Melissa Schemmenti stayed in position, her legs still planted, her back pressed into the couch like nothing had changed.

Except now her mouth was on your neck again. Now her fingers were deep inside you, relentless and sure, each movement making you shake harder in her lap.

“That’s it, princess. Take it. You needed this, huh?”

“I tried to be good,” you sobbed. “I tried—”

“I know you did, honey.” Her thumb brushed your clit, and you could swear that your soul left your body. “You did so good for me.”

Without warning, she speed up. Her fingers thrusting harder now, deeper, wet sounds echoing in the quiet room, obscene and perfect.

“Come for me,” she licked your ear. “Now.”

And you did.

Your body seized in her arms, a cry torn from your throat, your whole world narrowing to the explosion behind your eyes. You came hard — soaking her hand, clutching her shoulders, your hips jerking erratically as she worked you through it.

“Jesus H. Christ,” you whispered, tears in your eyes from the intensity.

You hadn’t even recovered from the last orgasm when you rocked your hips again, grinding down onto Melissa’s hand.

She was still deep inside you. Thick fingers slick and buried to the knuckle, stretching you open. Holding you there.

“Mels..”

She didn’t move a muscle. Just watched you. Her focus on the way your hips rolled, her jaw tense, her breath catching just slightly.

And when you did it again, moaning softly this time, thighs shaking her lips parted with a dark, dangerous sigh.

“Fuckin’ hell…”

She adjusted the angle of her fingers inside you, just enough to make your breath catch in your throat and then her voice dropped.

“You really don’t know how to quit, do you?”

Her free hand gripped your thigh, firm and possessive, holding you in place as you started bouncing in earnest, fucking yourself on her fingers like you needed it.

Melissa bit down on her lip. Her nostrils flared.

“I swear,” your girlfriend growled, “next time, I’m putting my cock on, and you’re gonna ride it until you forget your own fuckin’ name.”

Your breath caught. She kept talking.

“Gonna bend you over the arm of that couch… pull your panties to the side… and push in slow, inch by inch, while you beg me to go faster.”

Your hands were clutching her shirt.

“Gonna hold you down by the throat,” she chuckled darkly, “while I pound into that pretty little pussy from behind and make you scream into the cushions while you take it like the desperate whore you are.”

“Yes, Mommy. Do it, I beg you.”

She grabbed your hips with both hands now, her fingers still buried inside you, and thrust up — once, deep and sharp.

You cried out.

“You want that cock so bad, huh?” she said, smirking darkly. “Want to sit on it like this — bounce those hips until you’re dripping all over me?”

You were so close again it hurt.

“I’ll make you watch yourself in the mirror,” the older woman promised. “Make you see the way you take it. The way I wreck you.”

That was it.

You came again with a full-body shudder — clenching around her fingers, mouth open in a silent scream as wave after wave crashed through you. You collapsed against her chest, gasping, dizzy, clinging to her shirt like a lifeline.

Melissa didn’t pull out right away.

She held you, fingers deep and still, rubbing gentle circles into your back with her other hand while your body spasmed and twitched in her arms.

“There you go. That’s it, baby. I got you.”

You whimpered softly, tears pricking at your eyes. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. She kissed your temple, then your cheek, slow and sweet — the sharp edge of dominance giving way to something so gentle, it made your chest ache.

After a moment, she finally, carefully, slid her fingers out, easing the stretch. You winced, and she cupped your thighs, soothing.

“Shh, I know. You’re okay. You did so good for me.”

You didn’t answer — too fucked-out to form words — but you melted into her chest with a tiny, breathless sigh. The redheaded woman held you close, wrapping one arm around your waist and burying her face in your hair.

A minute passed. Then two.

Your body was limp and sticky, your breathing uneven. She could feel your heartbeat against her.

Then, wordless and strong, Melissa stood and carried you. One arm under your thighs, the other across your back. She walked you up the stairs like it was nothing, her jaw set in that quiet, focused way she always got when she was taking care of you.

In the bedroom, your girlfriend laid you down gently on the mattress and disappeared for a moment. Returning with a warm washcloth, a soft towel, and one of your favorite oversized shirts.

The redhead cleaned between your legs with steady hands — careful, tender, not rushing a thing — her eyes flicking up every few seconds to make sure you were okay.

“You still with me, honey?” she asked gently.

You nodded, barely able to speak, and she kissed your knee before slipping the clean shirt over your head.

Then she stripped down to just her boxers — no fanfare, no performance and crawled into bed behind you, pulling you close into her chest.

Her hands never stopped moving. One rubbed your back in slow, soothing circles. The other tangled in your hair, her fingers carding through it gently.

“Proud of you,” she whispered into your skin. “You were perfect.”

You sniffled, eyes fluttering shut and pressed your face into the crook of her neck.

“Love you,” you whispered, barely audible.

Melissa smiled.“I know,” she murmured, brushing her lips across your temple. “I love you too.”

And then she held you. Long after your body stopped trembling. Long after your breath slowed.