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#Just starting to learn about Barbara

ibroughtyoumybullets-ningy · 2 years

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ok can we talk about when companions reach a point that they've started recognizing certain aliens, understanding futuristic technology, the some who even learn how to fly the tardis to a basic extent. Companions who might not have realized what they were in for the first time they stepped into the console room, heck companions who were kidnapped or had no option but to go with the doctor, and how they adjust to a life of traveling in time and space, how the doctor might rub off on them, how they start to catch on to things like threats of invasion. I forgot where I was going with this.

#doctor who #nuwho #classic doctor who #ok i saw a gif of jamie in seeds of death and started thinking #about companions who start to recognize certain aliens after fighting them several times #like vicki seeing the empty dalek shell in the space museum and going #'oh it doesn't look that bad' and ian and barbara just go 'yeah wait till you meet one'#or rose in the christmas invasion vs rose in army of ghosts and doomsday #the process of learning new things all the time and being able to share that with your closest friends #name a better found family than literally every tardis team go ahead i'll wait

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drchucktingle · 3 months

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my masks

hey there buckaroos. due to all of the attention the TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION situation has gotten i am going to take a minute to talk about my personal way as an autistic buckaroo. im going to tell you about my masks.

im doing this for a few reasons, some are good FUN reasons full of love and some are not so great.

lets start with the GOOD STUFF. first of all, i am talking about this because speaking on my way can help other buckaroo feel more comfortable speaking on there own way, ESPECIALLY if they are good at ‘passing’ for neurotypical like chuck is.

unfortunately the NOT SO GREAT reasons im talking about all this dang stuff are two fold. reason one: i have been put into a position of having to explain and justify my needs and boundaries by the TXLA. this is not something that i WANT to be taking up all of my time, but when large organizations do not make space for those who they have pledged to support, it puts us smaller buckaroos into position where were have to defend our existence. it is not plesent but it is necessary.

the second NOT SO GREAT reason is that ‘passing’ bisexual and autistic people like myself are ALWAYS just seconds from being gatekept from folks both outside and inside these communities. there will probably be a day on chucks deathbed where i take off my mask and say hello to this timeline (mostly so you can all see how handsome i am under here but I DIGRESS). i KNOW with absolute certainty (the same way other bi and autistic buckaroos are probably nodding along right now) that when that day comes i will STILL be accused of ‘not being real’ and ‘faking’ because i ‘dont look autistic’ and i have a beautiful ladybuck partner in sweet barbara.

ALL THAT IS TO SAY, i am taking a moment today to talk FOR THE RECORD about my neurodigence and my particular needs. hopefully i will not have to keep diving this deep every time an organization takes a discrimantory action against me, but i will also say this: at least it is a good fight on an important battlefield

anyway buds, here is the story of my way on the spectrum

when i was a young buckaroo i knew that my thought process was different. i could socialize easily, which is unique in contrast to many autistic buds (it is a spectrum after all), but my social ease was for an interesting reason. I ALWAYS KNEW WHAT OTHERS WERE ABOUT TO SAY. it was like a strange ‘human game’ where someone would say one thing and i would think ‘well you actually mean something else’ in a sort of logical way (this is why i later related to DATA from star trek so dang much). at first i remember thinking ‘well i am just NOT going to play along with this human game’. i quickly learned neurotypical buckaroos do not like this, that there is a BOB AND WEAVE to social interactions that must be learned.

later i realized ‘actually if i WANT to make friends and prove love is real then i can do this like an expert because i can SEE the game where most cant’. this got chuck many buds and took me on many adventures. please understand, i am not saying these connections are not important to me, they are just different. they are full of love, but i express this in my own unique way.

HOWEVER, while growing up i felt disconnected from this timeline in other ways, like an alien or a reverse twin trotting along in a world that is not quite my own. i did not feel emotions the same way my buds did. they would get upset over the ‘human game’ interactions and i would not be moved at all, HOWEVER i could see the way sunlight hit a window and start crying my dang eyes out over the beauty. so my emotion was still there and VERY STRONG, i just felt it in more existential ways (like hearing the call of the lonesome train). these days that feeling has progressed to where i am pretty much in a constant blissed out state of cosmic emotional connection (make of that last sentence what you will, but it is the truth). when i make existential posts online i am not just FIRING OFF SOME CONTENT, i really mean every word. this is really my trot.

anyway as a young buckaroo these feelings made me worry sometimes. i thought about various mental health dianosises and marked the parts and pieces that matched with myself. am i this? am i that? sometimes, instead of just being’ different’ i worried i might actually be ‘wrong’.

when i saw david byrne on letterman in my younger days i immediately recognized something connected to myself. i thought ‘wow this is the mystery being solved before my very eyes.’ i could hear it in the music of talking heads too. i started doing research and realized that i might be on autism spectrum, something that was later confirmed by a therapist (back then the diagnosis was called asperger's). it was a glorious and fulfilling moment. i was SO EXCITED TO BE AUTISTIC LIKE MY HERO. i felt very cool because of it, and i still feel very cool because of it.

one of the big reasons i talk so much about being autistic these days is because i want to make sure OTHER buckaroos can have that same moment that i did. they can see chuck and think ‘wow i really like this autistic artist, maybe being autistic is cool’

so what does an average day WITHOUT wearing the pink bag look like for me?

my thought process is exactly like ROSE from CAMP DAMASCUS, which is part of why i wrote the book. we have the same stim (complex order of finger taps), we prepare for social interactions the same way, we analyze things in the same logical trot that neurotypical people might think feels ‘detached’ but for me feels natural (certain reviews of camp damascus are very funny to me in this way. you can tell when a reader is just very confused by existing in an autistic brain for 250 pages.)

from the outside you would not be able to tell that i am on the spectrum. in fact you would probably find me very socially adept.

the problem is, all of that masking can take its toll. i spent years trotting in and out the emergency room, talking to confused doctors who could not figure out the chronic phantom tension and pain that radiated through my body. i eventually accepted the fact that i would either live a life constantly on heavy painkillers or just stop living altogether.

eventually, however, i started noticing a correlation between the way that i felt, and the space that i allowed for chuck and the pink mask. i was exercising that tension, allowing my mental mask of neurotypical existence to take a rest. i started practicing physical therapy and this time THE RESULTS STUCK because i was approaching from two sides, MIND AND BODY. after a while, i got my pain down to about 5 percent of what it once was. i still have flare ups in times of stress, but the healing has been very real and life changing.

lets get VERY specific now. if i attended the TXLA confrence without a mask and gave my talk i can tell you this: i would do a dang good job. i can work the heck out of a crowd and (not to reveal too much about my secret way) I HAVE BEEN KNOWN TO DO THIS ON OCCASION VERY WELL. however, going home from this event i would very likely be in pain. i would likely need to do physical therapy. i would likely need to stim for a while. i would NOT be emotionally fullfilled in the same way. in other words, without my pink mask i can charm the heck out of buckaroos, but THE SPACE OF CHUCK TINGLE IS NOT THE SPACE FOR THAT. the pink bag is a place for me to not have to put up with that tension. it is a place for me to unmask mentally by masking physically.

this pink bag space SAVED MY LIFE and i am not going to risk blurring these lines. if and when that ever happens it will be MY decision, not someone elses. that is my boundary. the part of me that neurotypically masks could handle a library conference in a purely technical sense, but the part of me that chuck represents absolutely cannot and should not be asked to do that without the pink bag. unfortunately, the complexity of this point makes it even MORE difficult for me to think about and takes up even more of my time, because it forces me to START QUESTIONING MYSELF and my own needs. to be honest, that is the most insidious part of other people questioning your identify and refusing to accept your accommodation needs without ‘proof’.

the thing is, while all of this discussion of disability and accessibility is important, i have a much larger point to make by writing these words.

a conference should not uninvite someone with an unusual physical presentation or a strange way of speaking REGARDLESS of it being classified as a disability. it does not matter WHY i look the way that i look and wear what i wear. i should not have to spend all day writing this post instead of writing my next book, just because my sensibilities are unique and my presentation is unusual.

fortunately the solution is very simple: let other people be themselves. its not hurting you to simply accept and nod at the buckaroos you think look strange. let us exist

#actually autistic #chuck tingle #tingleverse #buckaroo lifestyle

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fishfission-dc · 11 months

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Batfamily Powerpoint Night! (Part 9: Barbara)

<<Part 8: Duke | Part 10: Alfred >>

[Masterlist]

Barbara: Alright, my turn!

Tim: Frankly I’m terrified for what’s about to happen

Dick: Oh Babs will be nice, don’t worry :)

Dick: I stand corrected

Steph: Oh god

Bruce: [sighs and puts his head in his hands]

Barbara: I organized it roughly from newest vigilantes to oldest, since more patrolling means more room for spectacular failures

Duke: It was a bad day for me

Jason: HA

Steph: Been there, done that. Not on TV though that really sucks man.

Steph: NOOOOOO

Tim: ONE SQUARED?

Steph: I GOT CONFUSED

Jason: [Hysterical laughter]

Damian: One multiplied by one?!

Steph: I THOUGHT IT MADE TWO I UNDERSTAND MY MISTAKE

Duke: From this mask view footage Batman is just watching this go down

Bruce: He said he didn’t want help. Felt like a teaching moment.

Damian: (muttering) I was fine.

Dick: Damian we were not going to drive you to 5th grade with a knife in your liver.

Steph: You’ve had this footage for four years?!

Barbara: I keep a file for blackmail. Cass doesn’t really have much, though.

Cass: (signing) I did learn the dance. Eventually.

Tim: WILL THIS TORMENT EVER END

Jason: YOU CRASHED THE BATMOBILE INTO A WALMART, TIMMY.

Steph: You deserve every joke we make about this

Damian: Your idiocy must be remembered

Dick: Yeah Tim this is pretty bad

Jason: Can I have that mask view footage

Barbara: I got ya

Tim: I hate it here

Jason: I really can’t defend this one

Dick: Why...? Did you shoot the trashcan?

Jason: I thought it was looking at me funny

Damian: The trashcan?

Jason: I was up for 52 hours give me a break.

Barbara: Do you want to tell them why you pulled two all-nighters in a row? Or should I?

Jason: You are an evil, evil woman. How do you even- nevermind. Of course you know everything, why do I even wonder. And for the record, the first night I stayed up for a case.

Barbara: And the second night was for Animal Crossing.

Jason: ...perhaps.

Duke: Oh my god.

Steph: And you laughed at me?

Bruce: (sighs)

Steph: Stop you were adorable in high school

Barbara: Thank you, but the braces? The acne? The bangs? 15 year old Barbara had no idea what she was doing.

Dick: I for one thought you were very cute in high school.

Jason: Stop flirting or I will leave

Bruce: Why were you both on a roof at night in your school uniforms?

Dick: I think let’s move on

Dick: Nevermind nevermind go back

Tim: Oh my god, Dick.

Duke: ”Purposely” ?!

Dick: I was nine

Damian: I knew better by age 9.

Bruce: Lessons were learned. I hope.

Jason: I’m starting to think I was one of the better Robins

Dick: I felt like I see sounds for three days...

Bruce: All traces of this were wiped from the internet.

Barbara: Oh Bruce, you know I’m better than that.

Dick: Hold on, hold on, we need an explanation.

Alfred: (as he walks by) A little too much to drink goes a long way...

Tim: YOU WERE DRUNK? ON PATROL?

Jason: No way. Even I haven’t been that stupid.

Duke: What did you buy at CVS

Bruce: ...apparently... I bought lollipops.

Steph: “Apparently” as in the next morning you didn’t remember putting on the Batsuit, going to CVS, buying lollipops, and talking to a guy with an audio recording device?

Bruce: ...yes.

Cass: (signing) Very bad. Very funny, but very bad.

Damian: Also an ineffective use of a smoke bomb if this civilian saw you walk away...

Bruce: Barbara, you have made your point.

<<Part 8: Duke | Part 10: Alfred >>

[Masterlist]

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unclewaynemunson · 6 months

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Pt2 to this post

'Is something wrong?' Nancy asks, not long after the two of them have taken their familiar spots on the hood of Steve's car. They're basking in what might be the last warm sunlight of the year, looking out over the quarry, at a safe distance from the edge.

It's become a tradition the two of them share, ever since they reconnected back in March. It calms them both, to just sit here and take in the view, no one around but each other. Nancy is one of the few people Steve can share a comfortable silence with: sometimes they sit here quietly for what feels like hours, side by side, listening to music or to nothing but the birds singing around them. But they also have their best conversations here: it's the place where Nancy entrusted him she wanted to break up with Jonathan; it's the place where they talked about their shared past and decided they would always love each other as friends; it's the place where they finally talked about Barbara in a way they couldn't when they were younger. It's where Nancy talked about the ghosts still haunting her and Steve talked about how lonely he sometimes felt.

Steve huffs. 'How did you guess?'

'When you frown, you always do it with your whole face,' Nancy notes. 'So it's hard to miss, really.'

Steve glances at her side profile. There's a serenity to her features that's still relatively new. It means she's healing, slowly learning how to be happy again. It means she stopped waiting for the end of the world and started believing in a real future again. It makes Steve proud of how far they both have come.

'I had a fight with Eddie,' he confesses. 'And with Dustin, I guess.'

'What happened?'

He sighs. 'It's complicated.'

'Wanna tell me about it?'

The look in her eyes is kind and inviting. Steve hesitates. He wants to, but he doesn't know if he can. It's a risk. It's scary.

But he can't imagine Nancy Wheeler ever being careless with his secrets. He can't imagine her judging him, can't imagine her being as small-minded as most people in this town.

He was planning on telling her anyway, because things had been going so well with Eddie lately and – no, he shouldn't think about that right now. But maybe it would actually be nice to talk about it with Nancy.

'So, um...' His throat feels tight and his hands are sweaty. 'I recently discovered some things about myself. I-' The words get stuck somewhere on the way to his mouth, and he clears his throat.

Nancy doesn't push, but only gives him an encouraging nod, waiting for him to find his voice again.

'I found out I like boys,' he finally manages to confess. 'And I need you to know that – that that doesn't mean that what I felt for you wasn't real. It was. I loved you, and now I fell in love with a boy. And-'

'Steve.' Nancy's hand suddenly covers his, causing him to finally jerk his head away from the view over the quarry, to focus on her face again instead.

Her eyes are wide, and she squeezes his hand.

'You don't have to explain yourself to me,' she tells him. 'We're good. But thank you for telling me. For trusting me with this.'

Steve heaves out a relieved sigh, and Nancy smiles; it's that genuine kind of smile which reveals all kinds of dimples and soft lines across her face.

'We might be more similar than you thought,' she tells him, a faint blush spreading over her cheeks.

'Really?' Her words make his breath catch in his throat. He squints at her, trying to see her in this new light. 'Are you saying what I think you're saying?'

She shrugs. 'I don't know. I'm not sure yet,' she admits. 'Still figuring things out.'

'Take your time, there's no rush,' he tells her. 'But...' He bumps his shoulder against hers. 'When you're done figuring it out, talk to me, okay?'

She nods. 'Okay.'

For a while, it's quiet between the two of them. Some kind of raptor circles high above them in the sky. They both follow it with their eyes until it disappears among the tree tops west of the quarry.

'Is it Eddie?'

Steve blinks dumbly a couple of times.

'Wha- what?'

'The guy you were talking about. The one you fell in love with. It's Eddie, isn't it?'

'Jesus, Wheeler, what kind of sorceress are you?' Steve exclaims.

Nancy laughs again. 'You're not being as subtle as you think,' she tells him. 'The two of you have been hooking up for a while now, haven't you?'

Steve huffs dramatically. 'This is unfair. You know everything; I can't even tell you my own secrets anymore!'

'So what happened?' Nancy asks. 'You said you had a fight with him?'

'It's fucking stupid,' he sighs. 'Dustin was getting way too excited about the fact that I was gonna be hanging out with you, so I told him I was seeing someone. Next thing I knew, he was telling Eddie all about how I was seeing a girl.' He waves his hands around to make annoyed air quotations. 'I wanted to tell Eddie it was a misunderstanding, but Dustin was there, so I couldn't out us just like that, and he looked so betrayed and heartbroken... He didn't wanna listen to me.'

Steve sighs; he still can't manage to forget that look in Eddie's eyes when Dustin delivered the big news. 'I wish I would've talked about what I felt for him earlier. I should've been honest when I had the chance, y'know. But I was afraid he wouldn't wanna label what we had, that he wouldn't feel the same way – and now we're in this whole mess. God, he must hate me right now, Nance.'

To his surprise, Nancy gives him an unexpected slap against his arm.

'Ouch, what the hell was that for?!'

'What are you even doing here with me, Steve? You should've gone after him, tell him how you feel!'

'I tried, obviously, but he didn't wanna listen to me!'

'So make him listen! You're in love with him, he obviously feels the same way about you, and you let him leave to wallow in a broken heart he doesn't even need to have!' She rolls her eyes and slides off the car, adding something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like an exasperated 'Boys!' before she pulls Steve off the car as well. 'C'mon, time to get your ass over to the trailer park. Right. Now,' she says through gritted teeth. And, well, Steve knows better than to argue with a determined - and truthfully quite terrifying - Nancy Wheeler.

Read the last part here Taglist: @withacapitalp @ultimatedreamer104 @irregular-child @jcmadgirl @estrellami-1 @myguiltyartpleasure @hallucinatedjosten @jaybren @thew1ldblueyonder @melodymeddler @alycatavatar @zoeweee @lolawonsstuff @fairy-princette @saramelaniemoon @phirex22 @krazyperson @xxsky-shockxx (I only put people on this list who explicitly asked to be tagged. That's really no problem, I love to do that so dw about asking, but I got a lot of relatively vague reactions to the previous post that i'm not gonna dissect and interpret, bc I don't wanna clog anyone's notes unwanted. So just to be clear: i consider it a huge compliment if anyone asks for a tag but please do it clearly if you do!)

#look i can and i will exploit the miscommunication trope until yall are sick and tired of it #bc steddie is actually the perfect couple for keeping that trope believable #they're idiots with terrible communication skills it's canon #they WOULD #“can't you just talk to him?” “wait what i can????” IT'S SO THEM OKAY #nancy is the only sane person here i don't make the rules #don't mind me rambling about stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #nancy wheeler #platonic stancy #(i love platonic stancy they mean the world to me)#(i truly didn't mean to trick anyone into reading about them this just kinda. happened. idk)#this is making me wanna write more about their friendship actually they deserve their own fic #stranger things #fruity ficlet

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psychologeek · 9 months

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12.08.2023 prompt - Love Among the Shelves

Barbara was at the children's section's front desk when he approached.

It was her day shift, but every instinct she developed during her over-a-decade time as a vigilant, screamed inside of her that this man was DANGEROUS.

"Excuse me, sir!" She called him, as she took a quick look at the population.

(fifteen children, ten mothers, and a teen- probably a babysitter, or an older sister).

"How can I help you?" She asked as he stood in front of her, almost 2 ft over her. She quietly unlocked her wheels, and reach for the emergency taser.

"I want to get a library card." He says.

"This is the children section, mr...?"

"Dan. Just Dan. And that not for me, that's for the hellion". He gesture to his left, only seem to notice no one's there.

"ELLIE!"

"Sheesh, Old Mold." A kid show up. "No leed to yell. MY ears are still new and working."

"You can't just disappear without telling anyone!"

"What, am I in prison now? Oh, wait, I'm not the one who's been locked up!"

"You little hazard. What did we say about telling OUTSIDERS private information?"

"Do it for fun and profit?-"

And the man just grab by the back of her hoodie, and pick her up in one hand.

"That's the Hellion. She needs a library card."

The kid move a little, trying to escape, before giving up and just looking at Barbara.

"Hi! I'm Ellie - WOW ARE YOU JAZZ'S CLONE?".

-OR-

After learning that Danielle just travel around the world on her own, Dan's core re-develope his old obsession.

(protect her)

They travel across the world as Dan& Ellie - father and daughter.

Ellie wants to go to Gotham, (They have WEIRD THINGS) and they try getting a life there.

On an attempt to get something like normal (halfa?) life, Dan take Ellie to get her first library card.

Enter Barbara Gordon, a librarian extraordinary by day, and a vigilant named "Oracle" by night.

Somehow, she keep meeting that single dad (ex-prisoner) and his daughter.

(she CAN'T be introduced to Damian. The world may not survive it).

Or: I started thinking Dan/Barbara and now I can't unsee it.

Tag some I think would like this:

@stealingyourbones @im-only-here-for-the-fandom @hdgnj

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aspirationalpeony · 3 months

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Dark Horse

Summary: As a cameraperson on the Abbott documentary crew, you've always had a good working relationship with Melissa Schemmenti. One flirtatious night at her home sends you spinning as you try to figure out if this is really real—not to mention how everyone at Abbott seemed to know about Melissa's crush on you, long before you ever did. (See author's note at the end for prompt credit.) Content Warnings: Lots of smut, a bit of emotional confusion, and me having absolutely no idea how filming anything works. I just faked my way through it, very horribly. Oops! :) AO3 Link

It all starts with a late shoot.

It's just you and the mic guy and one other crew, and your camera trained on Melissa Schemmenti. She talks, in a way she's done rarely so far. A season and a half and she's always conscious of the stare of the lenses, quick to dart around a corner or cut herself off if she knows the opps are listening.

She takes big sips, almost gulps, from her wine glass. She leads you back and forth across her house, reaching over tables or pointing along walls to find a photo here, another there, and talks. "Me'n Kristen-Marie... This one—" pause for more wine—"from my college graduation." It's the two of them, almost mirror images of each other at that age, with a tall man whose lean face makes you think he has to be their father; on the other side of the girls is their Nana.

There's no trick in this photo: no wedding dress, no blood, no hint of drama between the sisters at all. They just look hopeful and desperately young. This feels private, that Melissa could have been so young—something that shouldn't be content for the show—and you feel an impulse to duck the camera away, hide her secret. When you look at Melissa again, she’s watching you; there’s a glitter in her green eyes you can’t interpret: not hostile, and not the look she gets when she’s hustling someone, either. The gaze she’s giving you is strangely soft.

“Whaddaya think?” she says, to you, not to the camera.

You swallow. Nothing you say will make it to the final cut, but the editors will hear your answer, so you can’t tell her she’s beautiful in that picture. “I think I’m lucky you’re showing me this,” you say at last.

Her eyes move over your face. You feel it almost like a touch, intimate and slow, and you aren’t making it up: her gaze stops at your mouth and hovers there. She bites her lower lip before she lifts her wine glass again for another pull. “Maybe I like ya,” she says. “Maybe you’ll get luckier.”

You’re still blushing when you wrap for the night. You sit on your couch at home—you’re always insomniac after shooting at night, your brain and body still buzzing with the work—and put on Netflix on low volume and you don’t watch, just feel your cheeks still burning, thinking about her lipstick on her wine glass.

Of course, the whole crew knows the story by the next morning. When you turn up, Pedro, your best friend on the crew, says, “Look at you! Dark horse!” and it makes your face sear with heat all over again. He lowers his voice, leans in and nudges you. “C’mon, nothing in the contract about that. You deserve a little fun. Let your Italian mama take care of you.”

You cringe. “Please,” you say, “never say ‘Italian mama’ to me again. Okay?”

“Just sayin’,” he says, and leaves it alone.

Of course, it doesn’t leave you alone. You’ve learned the best way to sneak up on a conversation with Melissa and Barbara is to come at it around a corner, so you’re hovering down the kindergarten hall, camera on the two women, when you hear your name, making you stiffen.

“You said that?” Barbara’s voice is incredulous, sharp. “What did she say?”

“Nothin’, really,” Melissa says, “she was on the clock, y’know.” The smile starts in her voice before it grows on her face. It’s a Cheshire smirk bigger and deeper than you’ve ever seen. “She got all flustered. It was cute. You think she knows I was shootin’ my shot?”

“I think you could have ‘shot your shot’ with a little more dignity,” Barbara says crisply. “Like an adult does. Politely. Pleasantly.”

“Soberly,” Melissa says. “Listen, if it works, it works. I just gotta find out if it did, y’know. Work. She’s kinda shy.”

“I didn’t know you cared for that.”

"What, the quiet ones?"

You have to pull away. You're going to miss the rest of the conversation, but your face is burning again, your heart is pounding, and you're grappling with the reality that Melissa and Barbara are talking about you, that you're subject enough between them to be chatted about so casually, that all this footage is... God, are you ever going to live this down?

You'll go shoot some Janine and Gregory. That's always a crowd-pleaser; the audience loves the sweet tension between them, the way the space between their bodies turns tangible the longer their eye contact holds. You try not to think about Melissa's gaze on yours last night. You try to do your job.

That goes as well as you might expect. Fifteen minutes into some uninspiring quiz-grading ("oh, I never fail anyone," Janine says, "I just give 'em a different colored star—they like the gold ones best, so—") Pedro comes to find you.

"Hey, listen," he says, "I need you to come take care of your Calabrian chili pepper."

"What?"

"You know, your spicy linguini. Your Italian ma—"

"Stop." Your head whips toward Janine at her desk and then back to Pedro. The only thing you can think of to say, your heart thumping all over again, is "She's Sicilian, not Calabrian."

"She's giving us nothing. You got to come do her talking head. She keeps trying to square up to Kai and he doesn't wanna fight her."

"What makes you think she won't fight me?"

He gives you a look over his glasses.

The change in Melissa is instant when she sees you approach. Those folded arms, her squared shoulders, her broad, foot-planted stance—it all melts. She leans into the wall, her head tipping, one booted foot lifting for her toe to play in idle lines along the floor, and, yeah. Whether you picked her or not, this is your Sicilian chili pepper, and you swallow hard as you approach.

"Heya, hon," she says, "who's this clown they got me workin' with? Don't they know I only do this with the professionals?"

You mumble a little as Kai looks between the two of you, rolls his eyes, and backs off.

"We were talking about her Friday night plans," Pedro says. "It's school game night and she's not going."

"Yeah, the kids are too easy to hustle," she says, "it ain't even fun. What, do I look like I wanna spend all Friday winnin' their, I dunno, their Yu-Gi-Oh cards?"

Now's when Pedro should prompt her, ask a question. You glance at him; he nods his permission. "Not sure those are a thing anymore," you say.

"Their Pokemon cards," she says. "Whatever. Point is, it'd be like taking candy from a... Jacob."

You don't look at her; you focus on the camera. It's easier than holding her green gaze. "Is that where you draw the line?"

"Gotta draw it somewhere," she says.

You can't help it. Cautiously you look up, try to make your voice neutral: "So how are you going to spend Friday night?"

She lolls her head to one side and looks at you. She sticks her tongue into her cheek. "Prob'ly practicing tricks," she says.

"Tricks?"

"Yeah," she says. "With my magic wand."

You don't really remember the rest of the interview. You sure you babble some other questions, and she gives you some smirking answers, but your head is full of white noise and a singular image: Melissa Schemmenti with a vibrator between her legs.

You're sure other things happen that day. Pedro definitely ribs you some more, you and Kai go get lunch and he complains for a while, Gregory and Janine have one of their not-flirting conversations where he draws up a tightly-plotted itinerary for game night, trying to prove it's possible to run a children's event without delays (it all goes back to his father, of course), at some point you go home and numbly resume your post on the couch in front of your TV screen, trying to make sense of it all.

That picture won't leave your head. You think of the look she gave you that night at her house—intimate, caressing—and how she'd look deep in her pleasure, drunk eyes half-open, her face pink, her hair wild. Does she get naked when she touches herself? She seems too impatient—more like a jeans around her thighs kind of woman—but for a night she's planning ahead—a night she's set aside, just for her pleasure...

Your head drops back and you shut your eyes to see her more clearly. You can imagine the scattering of freckles over her shoulders and chest, the shift of her heavy breasts and the hard peaks of her pink nipples—how does she like to be touched there? Maybe she grabs one breast while she uses the vibrator, plays with a nipple, imagining the rough, confident hand of a lover. You can see the soft field of her belly, the abundance of her hips, her thighs, picturing her cunt, the head of the vibrator against her clit—she doesn't tease, can't tease herself, you imagine, not Melissa.

You can almost smell her sex, you think, until you realize it's yourself you're smelling. Your cunt throbs. You could shove a hand into your underwear now and just take care of it, but...

Your small toy collection lives in a box under your bed. It's nothing fancy, but you do have a small wand vibrator. You peel off your trousers and underwear and drop onto your bed, back against the pillows, holding the purple toy in one hand. Does Melissa have one this size? Or a big, classic one, the kind that could buzz your clit right off? You click the toy on and draw it up your thigh. As it nears the sensitive crease between your leg and your sex, your thigh twitches without meaning to, your clit aching, and you think, okay, no foreplay.

You can't help but wonder as you delve the thrumming head between your folds: does she know you're doing this? Was that the idea—plant herself in your head, grow over everything, including your common sense and your inhibitions, until your whole world flowers Melissa? Could she be doing the same—getting a head start on Friday's plans—thinking of you, right now? You're normally quiet when you do this, but that makes you groan aloud. Your clit pulses.

How does she do this, on a school night, like tonight? Back to the image of her with her trousers halfway down her legs, her hand and her toy crammed into the space between the fabric and her body. You can't help but see her in the outfit from today, that green, clinging top, the black blazer discarded somewhere, slacks caught just above her knees, her hair mussed and tangling against the pillows as she works the vibrator over her clit. No playing games for her, either; just getting the job done, hard and fast.

You come, watching her in your head, her name on your lips; you hope she comes tonight, too, thinking of you, of what she’s doing to you.

The next day, Janine, Gregory, and Jacob are in hushed conversation by the supply closet. You pick an angle from just inside the nearest classroom and train your camera on the slight crack of the open door and you can hear them, even though they think they’re being quiet—classic them.

“I don’t know, what do you think?” Janine is saying. “I think it’s kind of nice.”

“I think,” Gregory says, “it’s like…” He pauses, picking his words. “Like watching a dog shake a chew toy.”

“I think it’s very brave of Melissa,” says Jacob, and your heart drops into your stomach. “Considering the historical era in which she grew up and started her teaching career, being openly bisexual in the workplace must be a very—”

“Please don’t let her hear you call her ‘historical’,” Gregory interjects.

“It’s cute she has a crush on the camera lady,” Janine says. (“Cameraperson,” Jacob corrects.) “I just want it to turn out nice. You know, the vending machine guy didn’t work out, so. And now he doesn’t stock Gushers anymore.”

“Maybe she’ll be a little more relaxed,” Jacob says. “A little more… Open, fun—”

“She’s not going to start liking you because she’s dating somebody.” Gregory, with characteristic bluntness.

“One can hope,” Jacob says.

“The camera lady—person—is so quiet, though,” Janine muses. “Melissa is so intense.”

“Bet that’s what she likes,” Mr. Johnson says, making them all jump. He steps out from the supply closet; he’s holding a Teachers Without Borders coffee mug you know has to be Jacob’s. He takes a long, slurping sip, making sure everybody sees the logo on the cup. “Melissa gets a sweet little thang to take care of. Camera lady gets an Italian mama.” He says it eye-talian. (Where is everybody getting this phrase from?)

“Please don’t say ‘Italian mama’ again,” Gregory says, giving you a little flush of vindication.

“Why not?” Mr. Johnson says. “When I was on tour in Rome—”

That’s enough for you. You decide the rest of the conversation can go unrecorded. You check the time and it’s nearly lunch—thank God, because you don’t want to make eye contact with any of them for a while; you don’t know how to feel about them all talking about you. You know it’s not you, really, they care about. It’s Melissa, her caginess at odds with how boldly, openly she’s been flirting with you, an attraction so obvious even the younger teachers that she’d never confide in can see it.

Something light and effervescent swirls in your stomach, but there’s a leaden weight there, too. Nerves. And desire. You let Pedro know you’re taking lunch and leave your camera behind, finding Kai a block down, away from the school, hitting his vape. He passes it to you and you take a pull, letting candy-scented vapor out of your nose. You don’t really smoke anymore, but anybody would need a little comfort under these circumstances, you think.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks.

“What?” You didn’t know Kai cared about that. “I mean, I guess I’ll talk to her, maybe give her my number, then see—”

“For lunch.”

“Oh.”

You get hoagies together, eating them over a public trash can, standing up. Back at the school you scrub your hands clean in the bathroom and duck Pedro and your camera and you find your way down the second-grade hall to the classroom that's usually the noisiest. It's quiet now: the kids are at the library doing a reading circle with the librarian. Maybe it says something that you know their schedule.

She's in there, glasses low on her nose, working. You pause just on the threshold of the open door. You try to piece together everything you know about her, to make it all fit into the person you see, just a small woman with a love of pleather and a never-ending supply of high-heeled boots, a baseball bat taped under her desk (you've seen it), a guitar propped in one corner of the classroom (does she ever play?), how now she's focused and reading with scrupulous intensity, doubling back on a sentence from time to time, her manicured hand coming up to twitch away a lock of red hair.

You knock on the open door. You see her hand pass under the desk toward the bat before she realizes who's standing there. She cracks a grin, lifting her glasses up to the top of her head. Her eyes travel up and down your body in another look that feels like a touch.

"I was wonderin' when you'd stop by," she says.

You give a little hum. You cross the room to lean against a student's desk, just opposite hers.

"No camera?"

"No," you say, "I wanted it to be just us."

"Huh." She taps her pen on her paper a few times. "You here to let me down easy?" She lifts her chin. The look she gives you isn't intimate now: it's far-removed and challenging, like the gaze of a duelist across a plain. You've seen this before, the way she starts closing herself off, armoring up.

You shake your head. There's a shift in her expression, but the walls don't quite come down. "I guess I wanted to ask what you want."

"That ain't obvious?"

"I mean..." Your arms come up, folding over your chest. "You know, I was here last season, when you were dating that guy... Hulk Hogan."

It surprises a laugh out of her. "Yeah, Gary."

"You asked him out and it was... Different. I mean..." You can't think of how to say it. At last, you say, "Do you take me seriously?" No, that's not it. "I mean, are you just trying to hook up with me? Because, I..." You're starting to burn up again. You rub the back of your neck. "That's not the kind of... Listen, you're beautiful, and sexy, but that's not what it would—I mean, to me, it—"

"You're so cute when you're all shy," Melissa says, sounding equally mystified and amused. She stands. "Look... Maybe I did this all wrong." She circles the desk. "Kinda treated you like a piece of meat."

"Just a little bit," you say.

"I take you serious, hon." She doesn't cross the gap between you two, but mirrors your pose, leaning on the edge of her desk, arms crossed over her chest. "Look, Gare was a nice guy. But he didn't have, you know... He didn't make me wanna..."

You think of Gregory's metaphor. "Shake him like a chew toy?"

Another laugh. "Yeah, that. And I guess I felt... You know, I'd kinda uncorked the bottle, datin' him, when I thought all that part of my life was done, and when you were at my place the other night, you just looked so good, and I just wanted..."

You smile, eyes down. The cold uncertainty is trickling away and there's warmth pouring into the spaces it's left behind. "Okay," you say.

"Okay?"

When you look up, she's moved a little closer. You can smell her perfume again, warmed on her skin over the course of a long day. You've had the privilege of seeing her in detail, so many times: the fine, thin skin around her eyes, the creases at the corners of her mouth that forecast her smile, the tiny hint of gray growing in at her temples, the mellow warmth of her green gaze, the slope of her nose crooking slightly to her left. It's different with no lens between the two of you, when you're close enough to touch.

"Yeah, okay," she says to whatever she sees in your eyes. She lifts her chin and drops her gaze to your mouth. It's a clear request.

You answer it. You dip your head; there's a moment where your noses nearly bump, but you change your angle, catch her lips with yours. There's a tackiness from her lip gloss and an incredible softness underneath. The warmth of her almost shocks you, vivid past your imagining. Her hand pets at your jaw; you feel the other curl into the collar of your shirt. She pulls you closer by the fabric and you gasp.

You renew the kiss, lips sliding over hers. Your hand rubs down her lower back. You can feel the divot in her spine where it meets her pelvis, just above the generous curve of her ass. Before you can overthink it, your palm is gliding over that curve, your fingers digging into its lushness, Melissa gasping against your mouth as you squeeze.

"Oh," she says faintly when the kiss is over and you're catching your breath. "Huh." Her look is glazed and a little bewildered.

"I, um, I don't want to send mixed messages," you say, "but about Friday..."

"Friday?" she echoes.

"Yeah." You bite down on your smile, watching her try to remember what the hell you're talking about. "I was thinking... I know a few magic tricks of my own."

"Oh," she says again. You watch her eyes spark with understanding, her smile appear slowly, then all at once. "I guess you could come over and show me your stuff." Her hands tighten in your shirt and pull you back in for another kiss.

"Hey, gimme your phone," she says, much, much later, when you're wearing more of her lip gloss than she is. "I want to give ya my number." You don't think before you're unlocking it and passing it into her hands. She lowers her glasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose and thumbs her way around your phone, creating a contact for herself.

You have a flash of nerves—what if she opens your Instagram and sees all the stupid accounts you follow? A vision comes of her seeing all the dog-using-buttons-to-talk videos you've liked, her libido instantly withering... Then she's giving you back your phone and smirking at you, wiping at your lip with her thumb. "Might wanna stop in the bathroom before you get back to work, hon," she says.

When you leave her classroom, it's like floating; you've never felt so light. You stop in the bathroom and you wipe all the lip gloss off your smiling mouth. You catch yourself humming as you and Kai catch some footage of Ava pretending to organize game night, Gregory trying to involve himself, Janine admitting to a little competitive streak.

Your phone buzzes, chimes. "Sorry," you say to Janine and Pedro, who's leading the interview. You wait until you can lower the camera lens to check the notification. You always keep it silenced during the day—did Melissa turn the ringer on?

Italian Mama iMessage

Your face burns. You take a corner away from Pedro and unlock the phone.

Italian Mama You made me real happy

Your blush intensifies; something flutters in your chest. The phone vibrates in your hand as another message comes.

Italian Mama Don't know how I'm going to wait until Friday

The echo of your own thought in her words makes your heart flutter again. You bite your lower lip and type back, Me neither. An electric spark of daring moves you, makes you send her, Maybe I'll practice some magic just to make sure I'm on top of my game.

Is that too much? You hope not. You've basically made a sex appointment with her for Friday—sex appointment, you think, and wince at yourself, your own awkwardness; it's a date—and you don't—your breath hitches as three dots appear on your screen, showing that she's typing.

Italian Mama Oh yeah?

Italian Mama Better practice hard

You feel a pulse low in your belly. You're ready to type a little more flirtation when another message arrives and makes you gasp aloud, quickly clamping your hand over your mouth before Pedro or somebody else can hear you.

She's sent you a photo. It's herself pulling down the scoop neck of the hot pink blouse she's wearing today. You can see just the tip of her nose, her chin, the proud line of her soft neck, her freckled sternum, and, holy shit. She's showing you her breasts cradled in a bra made of black lace. And you stare. And you stare.

Italian Mama Little incentive for you

Your mouth is watering. You can see the rosy shadows of her nipples against the lace. You barely register yourself typing back, You're perfect.

Italian Mama Thought you'd like em

You're typing before you can stop yourself. All I'll be able to think about now is what I'm going to do to you.

Three dots appear, then disappear. Appear, then disappear. Your confidence wavers.

Italian Mama I want you to tell me

You've never imagined you'd be turned on in the halls of Abbott Elementary, but suddenly you're so aware of your cunt, you can't stand it. You're throbbing. You peer around the corner; Pedro isn't even looking your way, he's talking something over about the schedule with another producer. You have time. You glance up and down the hall; nobody except an aide going into a room at the far end.

Your fingers fly over the keys. If you stop to think, you'll psych yourself out, so you blurt out every thought, the iMessage equivalent of babbling—what you'd be doing in Melissa's ear if you could have her right now, in your arms, again...

You're so fucking sexy

I've thought about you so much

I touched myself thinking about you the other night

I'm going to kiss you until you go crazy and you're so turned on you can't take it

I'm going to undress you and I'm going to kiss every fucking inch of you

I'm going to play with you until you're begging

Do you like it rough or gentle?

Three dots.

Italian Mama Little of both

You're typing again in a flurry. You can feel your heart pounding, your breath coming in harder. You probably only have a couple minutes left to really make her feel it.

I'm going to be so gentle with you until you beg me to be rough

I want to bite you

Do you like being bitten?

Italian Mama Yeah

I know you do

On your neck, on your breasts

I'm going to bite your thighs before I eat you out

"Homie, you coming?" Pedro says, with the best and worst timing—and phrasing—he could possibly have.

"Yeah, one sec," you say, and you're proud of how your voice doesn't wobble at all. "Let me just send this. Sorry."

I have to get back to work

Italian Mama Fuck you

Italian Mama How am I supposed to teach like this

Italian Mama Come here and finish what you fuckin started

You laugh, breathless and surprised. You text her, YOU started it! If she hadn't sent you that picture... You scroll back up and look again. In the bit of her face you can see, she's smirking, because of course she is. The luscious curve of her breasts—you can almost feel them, what it would be like to drag your nose down between them, mouth at the soft skin...

Pedro's waiting. You send her a bunch of blowing-kiss emojis and put your phone away again. You're still buzzing with arousal, but you feel a strange satisfaction, knowing that Melissa is a few halls away, squirming behind her desk, thinking about all the promises you've made.

The day passes, somehow. It's a strange mixture of slow, syrupy boredom and electric, frenetic activity as more preparations are made for game night, and your phone periodically buzzes with another message from Melissa. Thankfully (for your pussy—you think it might fall off if it keeps aching like that), the two of you leave the subject of sex, and just talk.

She asks you your birthday, your favorite food. Where did you grow up? What's your favorite color? Each one makes you smile. You feel like you're on the receiving end of a Schemmenti interrogation, a mob boss with her goons behind her. You get her answers back in turn: July 19. (You respond in shock, You're a water sign??? and you can almost hear her voice when she dryly responds, I got no clue what that means, hon.) Pasta con sarde. Grew up here in South. Pink.

Your heart flutters with every new thing you learn. Even though you go home (and rub one out) alone, she's a presence with you, not just in your fantasies; you find you're texting her until you fall asleep, phone sliding out of your hand onto the bedspread. And when you wake up the next day, preceding your alarm by a bit, you find a text from her waiting for you, just a few minutes ago: Good morning, baby.

You levitate all the way through Thursday. You spot Melissa a few times that day, but it's a packed day for her two classes, so mostly it's in the hall as she marches lines of students to and fro. She gets you back for yesterday, though: pauses in the doorway of her classroom as she's filing the kids in after lunch, and gives you an up-and-down look of such searing intensity that your body heats, scalp to toes. She smirks before she vanishes into her room.

She makes you crazy. God, she's incredible. You're texting her every chance you both can get, though she's sparser while she's with the kids; it's all light stuff. Get lunch here today, she tells you, Shanae made beef patties, and when Shanae slips you a couple of golden-crusted pastries, you bite into them, smelling warm, floral curry, savory beef on your tongue, and think of how Melissa it is, feeding you from a distance.

That afternoon, just after dismissal, she calls, "Hey," to you from her classroom door. You try not to jump to attention. "I gotta do a lot of work," she says, playing with the strap of her Apple Watch, "or I'd ask you over, but..." Strangely, her eyes drop. It's a hint of shyness and it makes your heart patter, tenderness and affection for her pouring into your chest. "I was thinkin', why don't we go out and get, like, food or a drink or somethin' tomorrow? You know, before you come over."

"Okay," you say. Her eyes flick up and as soon as she sees your goofy grin, her shyness melts away, turns back into the smirking self-assuredness you're more familiar with.

"You pick the place," she says, knocking the wind out of you at once.

Oh, crap. You remember what it was like with her and Gary: he tried to take her to a shitty spot for their first date, and she flicked him away from her like a bug. She's challenging you, you think, asking to be impressed.

You can do that. Dark horse, right? "Okay," you repeat. "I'll pick."

She leans back against the doorframe. All at once she's in that lolling, casual, flirtatious posture that she assumes for you and only you, her face tilted up, gaze intimate and a little sly. "You headin' out? I get a goodbye kiss, or what?"

"Okay," you say a third time, and you can barely kiss her, you're smiling so widely. You take your fill of her, in every sense, one more time before you leave for the day, nerves and excitement and that thread of arousal all tangling together, like a knot of live wires.

You're texting her later, because of course you're texting her later. Do you want it to be a surprise?

Italian Mama I dunno

Italian Mama Surprises never seem to work out for me

That gives you a little twinge. You find yourself running the tip of your finger up and down the side of your phone, the way you'd touch her hand or her cheek, if you could. How about just this one? you ask. And if you hate it, I'll never surprise you again?

You wish you could see her face. It would help you know if she's resigned or wary or scared. You don't want her to be antsy or nervous going into tomorrow; you want her to feel like she makes you feel: like you've got balloons and not bones, like a wind could catch you and carry you off, you're so light and so happy.

Italian Mama Ok

Italian Mama I'm gonna trust ya

It makes your heart do its now-familiar flutter in your chest. It's like there's a bird in there, some delicate fledgling thing eager to start flying. It wants to soar, holding its precious cargo: Melissa Schemmenti's trust.

The next day. Friday. Friday. Somehow, the school day rockets past you. Game night preparations have gone disastrously, and it's time for a patented Ava save, with the help of Janine and Gregory.

"Wow, who could've guessed," Kai mutters to you, and fidgets in the pocket you know holds his vape.

Your hand fidgets in your own pocket, around your phone. You and Mel exchanged good morning texts, a few kiss emojis, promises to meet up before dismissal to solidify your plans, but you haven't had a chance to see her at all.

"I don't know," you say, "I think they'll get it figured out."

"I think she's probably going to use it to mine Bitcoin somehow," Kai says.

Honestly, that sounds plausible. You shake your head anyway and make an excuse and scoot past Pedro. He's not encouraging Ava to stream game night live on Instagram, per se, but everybody knows that will guarantee some Coleman-style silliness, so he needs to get her there somehow. (Can you mine Bitcoin through Instagram?)

You don't need to send any directions to your feet; they're already walking you toward the second grade classrooms. Mel doesn't have lunchroom duty today, so you know she'll probably be catching up on two classes' worth of quizzes, or restocking art supplies, or prepping the next lesson's props and tools. Her door is shut and you peek in through the window.

She's writing on the whiteboard, looking back and forth from a worksheet in her hand, glasses on her nose. You knock. When she sees you, the narrow-eyed look of interrupted concentration melts away; she gives you a smile that shows her teeth, the kind that changes her whole face, turning her girlish, almost a little goofy. It makes your heart melt.

You open the door. "Hey," you say as she puts her glasses on top of her head and caps the marker. Being in the room with her, after not seeing her all morning, feels like coming out of the cold to a blazing fire. "Uh, hi. You look beautiful today." Then, for the third time, stupidly, adoringly, "Hi."

"You missed me, huh?" she says, putting down the marker and paper. "C'mere."

As soon as you're in grabbing distance, she takes two handfuls of your ass and pulls you in for a kiss. You're lost in it for long, long seconds.

She pulls back after giving your lower lip a bite that makes you squeak. She tucks her hands squarely in the back pockets of your jeans, holding you against her. "You look beautiful today too."

"Thanks," you say, barely registering the compliment, the way you're chasing more contact, kissing the corner of her mouth, nosing at her cheek. She's so warm in your arms. She's wearing one of her tough-girl outfits, a blazer and matching top in military green, and you sneak your hand under the jacket, finding a little stripe of bare skin between her shirt and her slacks. You touch her there with a teasing trace of your fingernail.

She shivers. Is she sensitive on her lower back? You file it away to investigate later tonight. The thought of being able to have her all to yourself tonight—hours and hours—sends sparks skipping through you. You have to kiss her again.

"You think it's unprofessional, doin' this at work?" Mel asks you breathlessly when you part again.

"I don't know," you say, "but whatever Gregory and Janine have been doing is worse, kind of."

"Yeah, that's for sure," Melissa says, and gives you a third kiss; this time, the delicate muscle of her tongue laps at you, little frissons of heat that go right between your legs.

"I came to talk about dinner," you say at last, when you think you can survive without kissing her.

"Oh, yeah," Mel says, "right. What am I wearin'?"

"Uh..." You hadn't considered it. You're just going in your usual date outfit—a button-up, a nice pair of trousers. "Business casual?"

"Okay, easy. Do I get a hint where we're goin'?" One eyebrow goes up. Her gaze acquires a competitive glint, one you've seen a hundred times through your camera. "I bet I can guess it."

"Here's your hint," you say, "it's not Italian."

"Smart cookie," Melissa says, which leads you both into another kiss, and then another. "It ain't a sandwich shop, is it?"

"No," you say, "I can't beat cousin Rocco."

"Soul food," she says.

"No. I'll come pick you up, is that okay?"

"Yeah, come, like, at five. I gotta change and do my face and stuff." She leans back, giving you a squint-eyed look of scrutiny. "Tell me it ain't French."

"It ain't," you promise, and seal it with a kiss. "I have to go. I'm pretending to be in the bathroom."

"Oh, shit," she says, eyes going wide, "we gotta catch up on this freakin' math unit and I forgot, I haven't peed in, like—"

"Go, go," you say with a laugh, letting her extract her hands from your pockets.

When you return, Kai narrows his eyes at you. You shrug at him and you're ready to get back to work, when he reaches across and plucks something off your shoulder: a single red hair. Crap.

"Damn," he says. "Dark horse."

"What's up?" Pedro glances over at you two. Fuck, you don't know if you can take his teasing today—you know he'll want all the details, and you love him, but you want to just get through work and get to Melissa...

"Nothing," Kai says, and drops the hair. He gives you a nod.

You nod back, warmth and gratitude making you smile. He doesn't smile back—you don't think you've ever seen him smile, actually—but you think you see the corner of his mouth curve up, just a little, as he peers into his camera.

Dismissal, a quick goodbye kiss with Melissa, home to get ready. You're normally an all-black kind of girl—it's just easy—but you pause in your closet and find a pink button-up. It's a mellow, soft shade, the same color as a silky blouse you've seen Melissa wear.

You put on your cologne, you style your hair. You look at yourself in the mirror. It’s funny: this is the same face you’ve always had, but three days of Melissa have done something to you. Your eyes look larger, softer; there’s a smile on your lips, small but persistent, that’s been there all day.

You haven’t always been lucky with women. You have love in your heart—God, a lot of it. Sometimes it feels like the water of an ancient lake, going down almost infinitely deep, and yet somehow about to overflow. You spent years going around offering it to anyone who would take it, and once they’d drunk their fill, they just moved on, satisfied, never giving a thought to you, never thinking you might want something back, even just gratitude.

So you pulled away. You just hurt too easily: keep them at arm’s length, never close enough to bruise. The quiet one, the shy one; that’s who you became over time, knowing that if you gave out of your abundance, you’d only be depleted. No one’s ever filled your cup.

You find yourself chewing your lip, staring at yourself. You want this to be different. You want this to be something else. Can it be?

You park your car in front of Melissa’s and find yourself wondering: text, or knock? You’re starting to get out of the car when the front door opens, and a rush of surprise and pleasure comes at the thought of Melissa waiting, watching for you. Then your breath catches hard in your throat.

She’s wearing a little red dress that… “Wow,” you say, before she’s even close enough to hear. The square neck of the dress is cut lower than her usual wear, and shows an abundance of skin that makes your mouth water. There’s a princessy quality to the cap sleeves, a delicate detail that’s perfect for Melissa: blazing, challenging red, with a hint of sweetness. The hem stops just above her knees. The fabric shows her body in intimate detail, the delicate rounding of her stomach and the flare of her hips, straining across the perfect shape of her thighs.

Her hair is down. Even late in the day it has a bit of curl. Her green eyes are like gemstones in the early evening light. Her heels have got to be four inches, but she walks with the steadiness of a queen. She’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.

You circle the car to get the passenger side door. “Hey,” she says, surprised, coming closer, “it’s pink,” and touches your sleeve. It’s not even contact with your skin, barely contact, period, but it sends tingles up and down your arm. “That’s my favorite color.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say, grinning like a fool.

Her eyes drop—that hint of shyness again, that tenderness that makes your heart strain against your chest, trying to reach her—before they flick back up. “How do I look?”

“I could look at you for hours,” you tell her honestly.

"I'd kiss ya, but you'd mess up my face," she says. "Here, you get one." She turns and offers her cheek.

You're smiling as you lean down to kiss the offered skin. She's soft and warm, and you get the powdery scent of her makeup, the richness of her perfume.

"Now, c'mon, feed me," she says, and you laugh and open her door.

You drive. She's exactly the kind of passenger you expected: "Hey, check it," every time she sees a car nosing out past a stop sign, or "On your left," when you're trying to merge. "Hey," she barks when somebody cuts you off, a gesticulating, accusatory hand in the air, "cazzo, you wanna watch where you're fuckin' going?"

Melissa. Abrasive, loud, bossy, and you don't feel bulldozed at all. You feel charmed. The smile won't leave your face. You don't know if she could be more herself than right now, in your ancient Volvo, wearing the sexiest outfit you've ever seen on her, looking simultaneously bold and delicate and delicious, and hollering out the window like an angry truck driver.

She's checking her phone as you pull up outside the restaurant, and doesn't look up again until you're opening her door. "Oh," she says, surprised, looking at the place: it's a red brick building, no sign; just a single hanging red lantern beside a white door. You can see her trying to puzzle it out, glancing at you and back to the door.

"It's a bar," you explain. You open the door to your favorite izakaya. Low, golden light and warmth spill out with the Jrock playing over the speaker system.

Melissa cocks her head and looks at you curiously. You only notice that her hand's in her clutch purse when she draws it out again; you hear the rattle of her keys dropping back to the bottom. "Thought you might'a been about to take my other kidney," she says. "I was gonna fight ya."

You blink. It's one of those Melissa-isms, delivered in her dry voice, that you think might be a joke, but it might not be, either. "I wouldn't win if you did."

"You sure as hell wouldn't, baby," she says, and lets you hold the door for her as she steps inside.

You love this place. It feels a bit like your first apartment after you left home, a lot of exposed brick, shoddy white paneling creating an accent wall, and decor that's a little vintage, a little silly: a big, ornate mirror that might have once decorated a cheap theater, brass sconces for lights, Gojira posters in the style of classic ukiyo-e. There's booths on one side of the room and a mirrored bar on the other, with a wall of sake and Japanese whisky.

The hostess recognizes you, waves hi, gestures toward the room for you to seat yourself. It won't start filling up until a little later, so you have your pick of the booths; you take the side that puts your back to the door, letting Melissa have the sightline to the exit.

The low light flatters her. Any light flatters her, but there's something about the dim, intimate, golden warmth of it that makes you stare as she studies the menus, first the drinks, then the food; her eyelashes cast delicate shadows on her cheek, the curve of her lips carving lines there.

She looks up and catches you. The thoughtful twist of her mouth turns into a smirk. The question, though, isn't what you were expecting. "What made you pick here?"

Huh. "I..." You rub the back of your neck, dropping your gaze. "I really like it." That's a start, but not all of it. "I thought you might not have this kind of food all the time. I never see you eating it and I wanted you to have a nice change. And..."

"I come here alone a lot." You shrug. "I have... Good memories here." They are good memories: people-watching, trying new drinks and food, chats with the bartenders, a karaoke night where you fell in with a group of laughing, drunk women who all worked at the same office, who tried to persuade you to bar-hop with them until last call.

But it's always been you, alone; sometimes folded in with somebody else out of goodwill, sometimes noticed for your familiar face and your generous tips, spared a few more minutes of a busy mixologist's time, but always a separation, a glass wall between you and the rest of the room. No one's been on this side of it with you before.

"I wanted you to have a good memory," you say, finally. "I wanted to share it with you."

You glance at Melissa. She's watching you with a look you recognize. It's the one she gave you that night at her house—just earlier this week, but it feels like a lifetime ago. It's tender and intent. It's encouraging. Like she's watching a flower bloom.

"It's already a good memory for me, hon," Melissa says. Something nudges your ankle. It's her foot in its killer heel, gently insinuating between both of yours. You feel her knee against yours, your calves aligned together. She smiles at you. "We're here together."

Your heart does one of its aerial flips.

"You sure get shy for somebody who was talkin' about suckin' my tits before, though," she says.

You choke on nothing. Your face and ears burn. She laughs, her head dropping back, the light glinting on her saints' medals.

"Biting," you squeak, when you can get air. "We were talking about biting."

"Biting," she says, "right. How come you can say all that to me but you're nervous tellin' me you like a bar?"

It's not a bad question. You trace the grain of the wooden tabletop for a second or two, eyes down. "I'm used to giving other people what they like," you say. "I don't mean—it's not that I was lying or faking. No way. I meant it, I mean it, everything I say to you. So much, Melissa." You dart a look up to make sure she understands. "I mean, it's easy for me... For other people, I can express..."

Her hand finds yours on the table and stills it. Her manicured finger gently swipes along the curve below your thumb, down to the sensitive inner skin of your wrist, and traces slowly there, back and forth. She's giving you that look again, gentle and focused and intimate. "I get it," she says simply.

A rush of relief fills you, settling the rattle of your anxious nerves. You turn your hand over and hers settles into yours.

The server appears for your drink orders. You order the house sake, and Melissa says, "Yeah, me too." With your small glasses of sake, the two of you pore over the menu, picking a few things Melissa knows, a few things she's never had before.

The first few plates come out: shumai, hamachi, a bowl of spicy pickle. She gets pieces of toro, unagi, and salmon, and you get a roll and a plate of chashu buns. She gives those a look of pure lust.

"Take one," you say, and push the plate toward her.

She doesn't hesitate. At her first bite, she lets out a guttural moan that goes right between your thighs. You're suddenly much more aware of her ankle still caught between both of your own.

"You think I could get this recipe?" she says of the chashu after the bun has vanished.

"I think you can get whatever you want." Especially from you, especially if she keeps making those noises.

"I sure can," she says with a flirtatious bat of her eyelashes.

You've seen Melissa eat before, scraping the last bite of salad out of a tupperware or sipping from a Stanley Tucci mug, but it's different like this, sharing a meal. You love watching her small, plump hands with her chopsticks, her drinks; you love her expressive eyes, the way they widen or flutter shut at a perfect bite. Everything she tries she makes you try—insistent, "Here, you taste," like you're not the one who's had the whole menu before, and you oblige, trying to taste it for the first time, like her, letting each one blossom over your tongue, letting yourself fall under her spell.

The bar is packed by the time you're through and she's nibbled her way through a couple of frozen mochi. "We gotta come back here," she declares as the two of you leave, hand in hand. "I wanna try more. You got good taste."

"Yeah, I do," you say, looking at her. It's full dark now, but the streetlights and the moon illuminate her, outlining her red hair in silver, the shape of her hips.

"You gonna take me home now?" she says. She moves closer. "You made a lotta promises, you know."

"I know." Your hands settle on her hips. She tilts her head up; you catch her lips, tasting the plum wine you two shared. It's your first real kiss of the night, and she's mellow, soft, delicious. Still, you tell her, "We don't have to, tonight. I want to, but I don't want you to think..."

"I know," she says, and gives you another kiss. "If I thought you were buyin' dinner to make me put out, I would'a had way more food." Another kiss. "Come on, let's go. Or maybe you don't wanna get lucky?"

You drive back to Melissa's place, her hand on your thigh the whole way. Back over the welcome mat that reads GO AWAY, into the picture-lined place where it all started over a glass of wine.

Melissa takes your coat and her own and gives you her back, hanging them up in a closet by the front door. "I can get you another drink," she's saying, but all you can see is the back of her dress: the silver line of the zipper running from collar to hem, almost invisible.

You move closer and she stiffens when she feels you there, your chest to her back. You gather her hair, move it aside. Above the collar of the dress you can see the line of her nape and the muscle where her neck and her shoulder join. You lean down and kiss it.

Breathing in, you can smell her perfume again, her makeup again. Now, her skin. It's a scent you couldn't begin to describe, something living and animal and sensuous. And her hair: warm, intimate, a little bit of hairspray. You kiss the side of her neck.

"You have no idea," you say quietly. You nose against the shell of her ear. Its soft cartilage is cold from the night air outside, but warming quickly, flushing pink as you kiss it. "You have no idea how gorgeous you are. You don't know what you've been doing to me."

You lift your hands and find the tongue of the zipper. Her breath hitches. You slowly draw it down. The rasp of it is loud between your bodies.

The band of her bra. Red lace. Down her back to the luscious curvature of her hips. You're holding your breath. Her panties are red lace, too, a high-waisted thong that hugs her belly and hips but, oh, fuck: leaves her ass almost totally fucking bare. Of course, in that clinging dress. Couldn't risk panty lines.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you say, and slide the dress fully off her body. It's a puddle of red fabric on the floor. You push her chest-first against the closet door and drop to your knees.

"Oh my God," she says weakly as you hold her hips and kiss your way up the back of one thigh, then the other. The flesh here is dimpled with cellulite, a mark of her perfect abundance. You nose over the curve of her ass and bite one cheek and she squeaks and gives a weak, "Huh," afterward, like she'd surprised herself, and you bite the other cheek and her hips rock back into you.

She's still in her heels. You're starting to smell her sex. You think about having her bend over and put her hands against the door and let you eat her from behind until her knees shake and give out. Fuck, you want to, but you've been making promises; you have plans.

You straighten back up, brushing kisses up the line of her spine. "I want to see your bedroom."

"Fuck," she says dizzily. "Okay. Uh..." She starts to step away from the closet door and for the first time all night, she wobbles in her heels. She gives a little growl of frustration that's so Melissa you can't help but laugh, making her glower your way as she toes out of the shoes.

She leads you up to her bedroom. The big bed is made, but there are plenty of signs of life: the vanity against one wall, scattered with makeup; the bedside table with a dog-eared book and a pair of her glasses; there's a bra tossed over the cracked closet door.

She turns to face you, unself-conscious, and grabs you for another kiss, deep, dirty, her tongue licking into your mouth. "Can't believe you wore my favorite color," she says breathlessly, and starts fumbling with the buttons of your shirt. "God, you look so hot."

Your shirt's halfway open when you get your mouth on her neck. She groans, hands loosening on the fabric. Soft, right along the line of her jaw, under her chin, down her throat where you feel a moan vibrate through the skin. "Harder," she says.

You stay soft. The hollow of her throat, her clavicle. You nose one strap of her bra. She whines, "Harder," and grips your hair.

"I told you," you say. "I'm going to make you beg." She gasps. Your cunt pulses. You wonder if the same thing happened in her classroom that day, if she sat at her desk squirming, little hitches of her breath betraying her.

You squeeze her ass and she sways into you. Your hands shape her hips, up her sides, over her back, feeling the landscape of it, the valley of her spine. You trace the band of her bra. It's so pretty, you almost don't want to take it off.

"Where's your vibrator?" you ask.

"Huh?"

"Your vibrator," you patiently repeat, and lean back. You see in her eyes when it clicks. She leans away from you toward the nightstand, pulling open the top drawer. Inside, there's a pack of melatonin gummies, a lavender and chamomile room spray, a mini bottle of Jack Daniels, and a hot pink wand vibrator. Her sleep aid drawer, you realize.

You pick up the toy. It has a good weight, and the silicone is almost as soft as her skin. You find the power button, click it on, and cycle with a few presses through the three strength settings. You settle back on the first one and test it against the inside of your wrist, feeling the rumble against the sensitive skin there.

You look up again and Melissa's sitting on the edge of the bed. She's breathing hard, staring at you, and she's blushing.

"Lay back against the pillows for me, baby."

She scoots back, gives you a challenging look, and spreads her legs. You can really smell her, a thick, rich, saline scent that makes your mouth water. The drawer's still open and you spot a small bottle of lube; you take it out just in case, then slide the drawer shut.

"You gonna get naked?" she says as you join her on the bed.

"Not yet," you say and kiss her again. And again. The vibrator sits on the mattress, turned off, and you want to make her forget it's there. You take your time, licking at the serrated edge of her teeth, sucking on her lower lip until she's whimpering.

You couldn't have imagined that sound coming from Melissa Schemmenti. You chase it, have to have it again. Her lipstick is smeared, almost gone. She keeps tugging on your hair as you kiss her, starting to squirm beneath you, saying things like "More," and "Harder," but not please—not yet.

She slides down against the pillows, laying herself more fully under your body, and the motion makes the vibrator roll down the mattress to bump her side. Her breath speeds up all over again, and her eyes flick from it to you.

You pick up the toy and click it on. "Keep your legs spread."

"Oh, fuck yes," Melissa says, then whines aloud when you touch the vibrator not to her clothed pussy, but to the inner crease of her thigh. "Fuck, c'mon."

"C'mon, what?" You trail the vibrator up the inside of her thigh, toward her knee, and back down again.

"You know—" her breath stutters when you switch legs. "You know what I want."

"And you know what I want."

That makes her moan. Her head drops back, her chest heaving. You lean down to kiss her sternum, to finally nose against one perfect breast, the way you've hungered for it since that photo. The lace of her bra scratches your cheek. You can feel her nipple through the cup, taut against the fabric. You bring the vibrator up and tease its rumbling head over that peak, making her shudder, then replace it with your mouth, letting her feel the heat and wet, just barely, still separated from you by her bra.

"God, fuck," she says, "fuck you," and you switch breasts, teasing her other nipple to aching stiffness. You nuzzle the skin that her bra offers up, the plump perfect roundness of her breast, part your lips, drag your teeth over it. She's so soft here, so much, and it's perfect. Your hand drops with the vibrator and you trace it over her hip toward her sex, making her squirm, as you busy yourself with soft bites and sucks.

You change your angle a little, propping a hand against the pillows so you can lean over her. Your body casts a shadow and her green eyes look up at you from beneath it, somehow both pleading and mutinous. You idle the vibrator back up along the waistband of her underwear and then slowly down toward her cunt, playing it over the plumpness of her mons.

"Fuck," she says, "fucking fuck you, okay, please," and you smile. "Please, I said please, will you fucking please—"

You bring the wand down over her pussy. Her head rolls back and she groans, starting to squirm. "Pull down your bra for me," you say.

"What?" Her voice, face, are foggy and vague, but after a few seconds she understands, lifting her hands to tug down the bra's cups, showing you her perfect breasts. They're begging for your mouth, and you promised her you'd give her what she wanted when she begged, didn't you?

You drop your head. Kiss over one breast, then the other. Mouth at the flesh—so fucking soft, so good against your lips, sucked into the wetness of your mouth. The tops of her breasts have a small scattering of freckles that you have to dust in turn with adoring kisses. Her hard nipple brushes your cheek and you draw it past your lips as you trace the wand vibrator up and down, from her clit to the entrance of her cunt, back again, never letting it linger.

You switch to her other nipple, leaving her breast damp and reddened from your mouth. Her head tosses back and forth against the pillows as she whines, squirms, moans, says, "Fuck," and, voice breaking a little, "You're still fuckin' teasin' me—please, please, I said it, please—"

The words, her need, are electricity surging straight to your aching clit. Your voice is a rasp to match her own when you lift your head and breathe in her ear, "You sound so good like this, Melissa." She gives a broken whimper. "You're so perfect. I'll give you more. I promise. I'll take care of you. Take your panties off for me, sweetheart."

With a grateful sob she lifts her hips and shoves her underwear down her thighs, no further. You flash on that fantasy you had of her, getting off after a school day, slacks and panties around her knees as she fucked herself. Looks like you were right.

"You might need," she starts to say, but you're already reaching across to pick up the bottle of lube. You click off the vibrator and let her watch you drip the lube over your fingers, slicking them up. She's panting harder and harder just watching you.

With your other hand freed from the vibrator, you can pull the thong all the way off her legs, leaning back on your knees to do it. You push one thigh then the other wide apart. Her pussy is plump and gorgeous, red and swollen, her own wetness gleaming from between her spread labia. You add to it: the softest touch of your fingertips against her sex, trailing up and around the peak of her clit, not touching it directly.

She makes a noise you can barely describe, a groan of misery and arousal and desperation. Sliding your fingers back down toward the heat of her cunt, slipping one slowly inside, watching her as you do it. Her eyelashes flutter, her lips parting. Once you're sure she's wet enough, you add a second finger. The lube and her own gathering wetness makes a slick, dirty sound as you begin to stroke inside her, all delicacy, all torment.

"Oh, fuck," she says, "don't stop, Jesus Christ, please, don't stop, I need it, I, I..." Now she's babbling, the way she's made you do, one hand fisted in the bed covers, the other grabbing your wrist. "I need it so bad, I need you to fuck me, I've been waitin', please..."

"You've been waiting?" It occurs to you that this version of Melissa, already begging, might be willing to tell you some embarrassing truths. "How long?"

"Since we met," she gasps. "Since—oh, fuck..."

Since you met? That was the very first day of shooting—getting all the establishing shots, the very first moments and interviews. She intimidated you—her and Barbara both did—but Barbara, at least, gave a little, showed a bit of herself to the camera. You remember how Melissa was, arms folded over her chest, cool and hostile with Pedro as he tried to coax her out, get her to introduce herself.

Her eyes had moved from him to you, looking past the camera. "You Sicilian?" she'd asked you. She smiled at you that day and it transformed her sullen, cagey face, turned her, however momentarily, sweet. "Italian?" she'd continued, then her eyes darted from you to Pedro, over to the boom mic guy, trying to get a read on all of you. "You from South?" Her smile vanished. Her voice tightened up again: "Okay, you guys workin' with the cops? 'Cause you gotta tell me."

You reward her for the honesty with a press of your palm against her clit. Her hips jerk up. "I remember that day."

Her head drops back again, her eyes squeezing shut. The words leave her in a breathless rush: "You were so cute'n I hated the cameras but whenever you were there I would just—and you were always so, you were gentle, and—I always knew when you were lookin' at me—"

"I was looking at you every chance I got." You watch her face as you begin to ease a third finger inside her. This one has to burn a little; you can feel her body, resistant at first, starting to stretch to take it, and you don't push; you wait to see her eyes open again, their needy, yielding look. She lets go of the covers to grab one leg under her knee and pull it wider apart to help you. You add a little more lube, just in case, not wanting to hurt her.

"I was always looking at you, Melissa." She stares up at you. There's a crease between her brows, her swollen lips parted; she looks stunned, overwhelmed, face pink, as you slide that third finger inside her.

"I was always looking at you," you repeat, and begin to gently fuck her. Her cunt opens for you and desperately clenches against your fingers, grasping and irregular, trying to keep you. "You're so beautiful. I always wanted you. I thought you were the sexiest, meanest—" that surprises a panting laugh from her—"woman I'd ever seen. You were so smart, so funny—you protected everyone, and you took care of everybody—" her eyes squeeze shut. "Let me take care of you now."

You reach over and pick up the vibrator. You click it on. Her eyes open again at the sound of its buzz. You press the button again, then a third time, bringing it to its strongest setting. Melissa's eyes are huge. She's panting, staring, knowing what you're about to do, and the look of vulnerability and desire on her face, her smeared lipstick, her messy hair, she's perfect, so perfect, and you need to make her come now.

"I need it," you tell her, holding her gaze. "I need it. Let me feel it, Melissa." You bring the vibrator to her swollen, begging clit.

A moment of nothing but her breath caught in her chest and her wide-eyed gaze on yours. Her pussy clamps down around your fingers and you feel the ripples of her orgasm start before she drops her head back and gives a wounded, animal cry.

You chase the waves of her climax, fucking her through them, coaxing them toward you; you rub the head of the vibrator along her slippery clit. Her head tosses back and forth on the pillow like it's too much, but her hand still grasps your wrist, keeping you right where you are, and her hips are working, riding your fingers.

"I can't," she starts saying when she can heave a breath back into her lungs, "I can't, I can't, oh, please—" you click the vibrator off and throw it aside; it nearly rolls off the mattress. You spread the lips of her pussy wide and you lean down and bite one shaking thigh, then the other, then seal your lips over her swollen, tender clit.

Fuck the vibrator: this is your new favorite toy. You play with it and play with it and Melissa comes again, or keeps coming, you're not sure which. One leg goes over your shoulder and her hips twitch and writhe until you have to hold her down.

"Oh my G—oh my God, oh, baby," then, just chanting over and over again, like you could ever tell her no again, like you can deny her anything in the world: "Please, please, please..."

Anything she wants. The whole fucking world, if it were yours to give. You suck and lick at her cunt as her hands find your hair and yank.

How long can she go for? How many times can you make her come? You want to know. You want to fuck her until she faints. But that's not for tonight—not without planning, not without her consent—so when she starts making airy noises that are weak and almost pained, you ease off, slowing your mouth and fingers, letting her come down.

You rub her hips and thighs and her soft belly, and give light kisses to the mound of her pubis. She stops pulling on your hair, grip going slack at first; then, as she comes back into herself by slow degrees, she scratches her nails gently against your scalp.

Kisses for her stomach, her ribs. "Here, baby," you whisper, and reach under her body; she lifts up so you can unhook her bra, sticky fingers brushing her skin. You ease it off and drop it to wherever her panties went. She's nude under you now, flushed all over, body loose and relaxed against the mattress; you pet every inch of her you can reach.

You cup her cheek. Her head turns into the contact. There's sweat gleaming along her hairline and her upper lip. Her eyes, mascara and liner blurred, open to meet yours; her gaze is bleary at first, then sharpens.

You expect another fuck-you, or a joke, or even a "thanks, I needed that," but what she says is, "Now you sit on my face."

Your mind whites out. It's possible you forget the English language for a second or two. When you're back from wherever your soul departed to, she's pulling on the buttons of your shirt, brow knit and wearing an impatient little scowl, yanking the last ones open. "What?" you say weakly.

"I said," Melissa says, fully herself again, no longer the begging, needy, squirming creature of minutes ago, "now you sit on my face. C'mon. Get this off." She grabs the buckle of your belt and works the tongue out of it with a metallic clink.

"I," you say, "I," and she drags your trousers down your legs. You have to lean back off her to get them and your underwear all the way off. Your shirt still hangs open, showing your bra, your bare stomach. She leans up to kiss your sternum with an open mouth, tongue flickering hot against your skin.

"I told you," she growls against your neck, "to sit on my fuckin' face," and there's no more of anything in your world but her, you scrambling up onto your knees, spread wide, her sliding down the bed to get under your cunt.

You falter for a moment; she grabs your hips and yanks you down. There's no playing, no teasing. She drags the flat of her tongue up the folds of your pussy and takes your clit into her mouth and sucks. Her green eyes are open and staring up at you and you see your own dazed pleasure reflected in them.

It takes about five embarrassing seconds before you come in her mouth. She moans loudly against you and tries to hold you where you are, but your legs are shaking badly; imagine if you broke her nose the first night, God—you lift one knee so you can get off of her and drop onto your back.

She follows you. Clambers on top of you intently but unsteadily, still wobbling from her own orgasms, and kisses sloppily down your stomach to get back to your pussy.

"Melissa—" you're gasping, and she's putting her tongue inside you, angling her head to get it in as far as she can. She licks, sucks, wraps her arms around your hips and holds you against her as you try to buck away. The wet noises of her mouth against your cunt are obscene.

You come again, and maybe one more time, you're not sure; your mind blanks again. When you can think, feel, process again, she's giving little kitten licks to your sensitive sex that send shudders up your whole body.

"Okay," you say. Your throat hurts a little—how much noise were you making? You clear it. "Okay. You win." You tap out on the mattress like a boxer. She's wearing a look of supreme satisfaction as she lets you go, her face covered in slick wetness, her makeup a disaster, her hair a messy tangle. She's so beautiful. Your heart does a now-familiar backflip.

She crawls up your body and flops onto her side next to you, curling onto your chest. There's long minutes of just you two breathing, the sound filling the room, a tingling starting in your pussy that you know is the herald of after-sex soreness, her damp fingertips tracing idly on your skin.

You start to smooth out her hair. It'll take a shower and a comb to really fix—maybe you'll suggest it. You trail your fingers down and follow the freckled curve of her shoulder, the roll of flesh on her side along her ribs, the dip of her waist before it opens onto the perfect field of her hips and ass.

Her eyes flick up to yours. They're softer and happier than you've ever seen them; the look on her face is gentle and content. You bring your questing hand up to cup her cheek. She kisses your thumb.

"I'm hungry again," she declares.

A laugh bursts out of you, full of affection. "What?" she says, clearly about to be offended, but before she can go any further, you pull her fully into your arms, wrap around her and squeeze.

You press your face into her neck and inhale, smelling her sweat and skin and sex. "You're perfect for me," you say into that warm curve, muffled against her skin. "You're just perfect." You peck a kiss onto her jaw and lean back to touch her cheek again. "Should we make something? Do you want pasta?"

She grins at you. It's that big, Cheshire smile you saw on her face a few days ago, telling Barbara about how she shot her shot, full of preening satisfaction. She leans in and brushes your nose with hers.

"I knew I picked right," she says, simply, happily. She laces her fingers with yours. "Come on, I got a robe you could wear. You like carbonara?"

She leads you off the rumpled bed. You can see you've left a blurry pink bite mark on one cheek of her perfect ass. She brings you a fuzzy shortie robe ("I like your legs, baby, lemme see 'em") and puts on a silk one herself, and takes your hand again as she opens the bedroom door.

You feel good. You're happy. You realize as she brings you to the kitchen, to the very heart of her home, that you're not alone anymore.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Author's Note:

I received the following prompt from an anonymous reader on Tumblr:

"can you write some fluffy smut for Mel x reader where everyone thinks Mel would be in charge in the bedroom because she’s so tough and reader is so shy. but actually reader takes care of Mel."

Back when Season 2 was airing, I saw a few fan posts saying that Lisa Ann had suggested there was a cameraperson on the crew that Melissa thought was cute, which led to the rare scenes where Melissa opens up to the camera. I'm not sure if this is accurate to what she said, but that idea has stuck with me. When I received the above prompt, it went into a blender with that thought, and this is the smoothie that resulted.

I hope I've done justice to this lovely prompt!

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti #as an FYI: this is my longest fic yet and may be easiest to read on AO3 :)

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fancyfade · 17 days

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Honestly I do think of Cass's reading, and her initial desire and later refusal to try*, has a lot to do with her perfectionism and well... like "sore-loser-ness" (not saying that you're a loser if you can't read, but like. she perceives not being good at something as "losing" and she hates it).

in one of the really early Batgirl issues (#3? I can't remember?) we see Cass tries to save a man who writes a letter to his wife, and she starts trying to read and write after seeing how the man's wife was affected by his letter. Then it's kind of ditched for a while. Later, Cass and Babs have friction because Cass doesn't try to learn how to read and it makes Babs mad, and she belittles Cass in a moment of stress.

And like. For Cass, we see that a lot of fighting stuff (which she perceives as very important) comes naturally to her. Barbara spars with her with escrimas and Cass picks up on it in 5 minutes, just from the body language reading. Cass learns Shadow Thief's techniques while fighting him. She also values being perfect, being great right away. When she temporarily has lost her body-language reading, she asks Bruce how long it takes until she's as good as he is, re-training herself, and he says probably 10 years. She thinks David (her bio father who raised her as an assassin with no language) made her perfect in just 8, and there's the whole repeated quote - Perfect for a year, or mediocre for a lifetime? She chooses perfect for a year - agrees that she will fight Shiva to the death in one year after Shiva restores her skills, and intends that she will die then because she won't kill anyone else (and should note - she never does really doubt that she can beat Shiva, even though other characters do).

Anyway where I'm going with this:

We have Cass, and she's got to be perfect. That's her thing. She's great at picking up new fighting skills, she tries to learn how to talk but because her brain is literally wired differently it doesn't happen until the meta messes with her brain, then it happens overnight. Her re-gaining her skill is not something that emphasized as "she trains a lot" (though we do see her training a lot - it's not what causes it to be re-gained so quickly), it's the deal she makes with Shiva. When it comes to reading, this is probably the only thing that's been that she genuinely struggles with, a lot (due to how her brain was wired), that doesn't have a quick-fix. And Cass is a perfectionist so she is going to feel embarrassed when other people find it easy and she doesn't. the way she protects her feelings is by, once she fails, not trying again. If you don't try, you can't fail and you can't feel bad about it.

*for a while

#dc comics #cassandra cain #batgirl #batgirl 2000

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pinkthrone445 · 1 month

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-Abbott's house- Part 2

Part 1

Pairing:Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

Gender:Fluff, funny, soft

Warnings:none(?) future smut

Summary:The district gives the school the idea of spending a month living together to strengthen bonds, you never thought that would change your relationship with some so much.

Hi! This is an interactive story, if some thinks about something funny that one of the people of Abbott would be like to do, and you would like me to introduce it in the second part of the fic, you can leave it on the comments. I hope you like this part! Thanks for your coments!

It had been a couple of days since you had slept with Melissa, and instead of you stopping thinking about it as time went on, your desire to sleep with her again and feel her warmth near you only grew, it had been years since you had had such a perfect and peaceful night's sleep.

When the weekend came, some planned to go home on their days off to visit relatives, Barbara would see her husband again, and Mr. Johnson would see a son he had, which you were very surprised to learn that he was a father. Mel decided to stay since she had nothing else to do, just like you, Jacob, Janine, and Gregory. Ava said she was going to see her boyfriend and that it was forbidden to enter her room.

Jacob, Janine, and Gregory planned to go to a bar, but you didn't feel like it, so you decided to make other plans. Mel didn't want to leave you alone, so she decided to stay with you without knowing what she was getting into.

As night came, you started to pack your bag to go out, Mel sat on her bed watching what you were doing

-"Are you going to tell me where we're going to go?" - she asked, and you shook your head, laughing at her annoyed face

-"To a mall that I saw online..."-You muttered, hiding the true purpose, Mel decided to go along with you even though she knew you were lying.

When everything was ready, the two of you got into Melissa's car, you gave her the address, and you let her drive.

When you arrived at the location you gave her, the two of you got out of the car and she didn't hesitate to take your hand, which made you smile as you felt how well your hand fit hers and how her warmth always balanced your cold hands.

-"This doesn't look like a mall, I'm afraid you'll abandon me here..."-She muttered and you laughed, it wasn't a mall, but if you told her where you were going, maybe she wouldn't want to, yso you wanted to save yourself that trouble. As she entered the building, Mel understood why you had been so vague with what you were telling her. It was a skating rink, which she didn't know how to do and probably would have refused to come if you had told her, but seeing your excited face to be there, she decided to stay.

-"Let's go rent some skates!" - You screamed and tugged at her hand. Once ready, you entered the skate rink but the redhead wouldn't let go of your hand-"Do you want me to get you a walker to help you keep your balance?" - You asked truthfully and she shook her head laughing out of nervousness and embarrassment

-"I'm not a child, I can do it alone" -she muttered stubborn

-"If you say so" - You let go of her hand and started skating around her , twirling and doing little pirouettes

-"How are you so good at ice skating?" - She murmured in surprise and annoyed without moving from the spot, she looked like a cat near the water with how tense she was

-"A friend taught me... It's nice, give it a try!" - You screamed excitedly and skated a little farther away from her

-"Don't abandon me, please" - She whispered, embarrassed that she couldn't take a single step alone

-"I thought you could do it alone... Do you want me to push you?" - You asked with wickedness in your laughing voice, if your face was an emoji at that moment, it would be the devil smiling

-"No! Don't even think about it! I'll take off my skates and kick your ass... Come here and hold my hand" -She demanded and you came over laughing and let her put her hands around your arm, starting to skate gently with her

-"Thank you for coming with me Mel... I know this is not your first choice of activity... But I love to skate and I wanted to share it with you... Form a good memory together" - You whispered and felt her grip on your arm grow tighter

-"It's okay, it's more fun than I thought... Besides I like knowing what you like and what you don't... Like scary movies, maybe I'll use that to my advantage while we're here so we have to sleep together again" - She joked and you laughed a little, blushing.

For a while the two skated talking about a couple of things, sharing anecdotes and jokes until it was time to close so you had to leave. You carefully guided Mel, who hadn't let go of your arm in all this time, to the edge of the rink and made her sit down so she could remove her skates. Carefully you knelt in front of her and untied the shoelaces

-"I can do it hon" - She murmured, looking at you and you nodded

-"I know you can do it, but I want to help you anyway"-You responded by carefully removing her skates and putting her shoes on, when you looked up, the redhead was looking at you with something hidden behind her eyes, a look you couldn't quiet decipher, it was as if her gaze let out words that her lips couldn't say yet.

-"Thanks hon" - She whispered with a different tone in her voice, one you hadn't heard before

-"You are welcome Mel..."-You whispered as well, mesmerized by her eyes. After a few more seconds, you cleared your throat looking away from her and changed your own shoes.

The return home was peaceful, the comfortable silence was filled by soft music as you looked at the street lights with a smile that you couldn't wipe off your face.

-"Are you okay hon?" - Mel's voice brought you back to the present, and you nodded

-"Yes... It was a beautiful night, I enjoyed it a lot... It's been a while since I've had such a good time, I wish nights like this lasted a little longer..."-You muttered without thinking and looked out the window again after smiling at her

-"We're in no hurry to go home" - She replied and you looked at her confused

-"What do you mean?" -You frowned more

-"I mean the night isn't over yet, are you hungry? - She consulted smiling at you and you nodded

-"I could eat"-You answered, and at that very moment, the redhead changed the course she was driving in and headed to a drive-thru to order food. Without consulting you, she ordered your favorite food as if she had known it for years, which surprised you, then she ordered for herself and paid-"How do you know what my favorite food is?" - You asked, still surprised, and she laughed

-"Because I pay attention to you, whenever you bring this food to work, you do a little dance of happiness"-she muttered and you blushed. Instead of giving you your food on the spot, she kept driving to a secluded spot where there were almost no lights.

-"Mel? What are we doing? Are you going to give me my last meal and then you're going to kill me?" - You joked and she laughed, shaking her head

-"No...I just want you to keep enjoying the night" - The redhead opened the glass of the car ceiling and told you to look through it, as there were no lights nearby, the stars were seen in their maximum splendor and the moon looked bigger than ever. Mel took the food and gave you your share smiling-"Enjoy" - She whispered, caressing your hand and you stopped seeing the sky to see her in her eyes

-"Perfection..."-You whispered, not quite sure if you meant it because of the beauty of the stars or because of her beauty, everything was perfect, specially her.

As you ate, music played softly in the background, your chest brimming with calm and happiness.

When you finished, a soft and fresh air began to run, as the roof was open, a shiver ran through your body. Mel carefully leaned back your seat and hers and then covered you with her coat, the position you were in, was perfect for continuing to gaze at the stars. The redhead grabbed her cell phone, put it in the car and started playing your favorite series and then leaned back in her seat again. Silently and delicately you reached for her hand and intertwined your fingers with hers without saying anything else, the caresses she began to give in your hand, relaxed you even more.

From the moment you arrived at that house you didn't know what was going on, but you liked to enjoy the attention that Mel gave you. At school you were friends, but not to this point of trust that you were having right now.

When the second episode started, the redhead noticed that you had fallen asleep holding her hand, smiled at how cute you looked, stopped the series that was playing. She carefully buckled you up and then drove slowly home.

When you got home, Melissa saw that Jacob's car was already at the driveway, meaning they already had comeback from the club.

You were deep asleep in the passenger seat, lying and facing the same side that Mel was driving, the redhead turned off the car and stared at you for a few seconds, your breathing was calm and you looked happy even in your sleep, your lips were slightly parted and your hand was touching slightly her leg. You looked so peaceful and beautiful, your lips soft, soft, plump and ready to kiss. The redhead began to lean gently towards you, almost brushing her lips against yours. Your breath tickled her face as she checked to see if you were really asleep. When she was about to connect her lips with yours, Jacob ran out of the house smiling in relief at the sight of Melissa's car, the young man glued himself to the window of the car screaming, not knowing that you were asleep because of the tinted windows

-"Melissa! Help us! Jeannine it's trying to cook!!"-His screams caused you to wake up scared and startled, almost hitting Melissa because of how close she was to you

-"Hey! Hey hon, it's okay, you're safe, it's just Jacob being Jacob" - The redhead took your hands gently and caressed them, making you soothe a little, then she kissed your forehead and the tip of your nose making you laugh a little lost and sleepy-"That's it... That's better sweetheart... Jacob we will be there in a minute" - she told your housemate and helped you put on her jacket before getting out of the car with you.

Upon entering, Mel thought you were going straight to the room to continue sleeping, but instead you stayed by her side

-"Don't you want to sleep anymore? When I'm done cooking something for them, I'll go to the room... I don't want to risk Janine burning down the house for trying to cook..." - She murmured and you laughed as you sat at the counter watching her cook

-"I'll wait for you, I don't like to be in the room alone" - You murmured and hugged yourself with the redhead's jacket you were wearing, taking advantage and breathing in her perfume.

While Mel cooked, she would treat you to small bites on your lips to get your opinion on whether there was anything more to the plate. When the food was ready, you and Mel went to the dorm room. Mel was about to lie down on her bed when she heard your soft voice inviting her to sleep with you, which she couldn't say no to and crossed over to your bed hugging you and giving you warmth, helping you sleep better.

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti soft #melissa schemmenti smut #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti fanfic #melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti abott elementary #abott elementary #abott elementary fanfic #abbot elementary #abbott elementary fanfic #abbott elementary #lisa ann walter #lissa ann walter #lwl #pinkthrone445

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fadingdaggerr · 5 months

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would that i

pairing: melissa schemmenti x gn!reader

summary: melissa knew what love should look like, and learned what it shouldn’t be. learning what it actually is takes time | 3.4k

translations: nonna/nonno (grandma/grandpa), t’amu (i love you) | reminder that sicilian is slightly different from italian in dialect

warnings: allusions to cheating (minimal), allusions to unhealthy relationships (minimal), making up my own melissa lore bc i’m so normal about her, kissing/making out

note: a little bit of this was an homage to my grandparents, the people that showed me what love should be. thank u and love u

When Melissa was in sixth grade, her teacher assigned a two-page essay on what they thought of when they pictured love. The moment Mrs. Erikson said this, Melissa knew she was going to write about her Nonna and Nonno.

Every morning, Nonna made breakfast and coffee, she packed Nonno’s lunch, and always left a note that said T’amu in her flowy cursive. Every evening, Nonno brought in the laundry off the line and folded it while Nonna made dinner. Even when they fought, there was never a loss of their kiss good morning, goodbye, and good night. Only on anniversaries was Nonno allowed in the kitchen, and they’d dance while sauce simmered on the stovetop. Love between them seemed easy and gentle. Melissa spent every Saturday night and Sunday morning across the street at their house, and every time she found something to add to her list of what love looked like and how it should be.

Melissa thought she had found love with Tommy Adkins in eighth grade. She’d even bought a new dress to wear to autumn formal, pink and ruffled and perfect. By the time she was ready to leave, her face almost hurt from the amount of times she redid her makeup so that Tommy would call her beautiful instead of bangin’ for once. That night she watched him dance with Jennifer Milano with a half-baked excuse of him “not wanting to kiss a chick with braces.” Melissa cried for two hours while Nonna told her she was better off, a bowl of pastina pushed her way. She forgot about him by the time Monday rolled around.

High school boyfriends came and went, but in college Melissa fell in love for the first time. A true, deep love with a firefighter-in-training that knew her neighbor. Everytime Joe visited Brian, he stopped across the hall to see Melissa, leaned against the doorway with an easy smile. He was charming, respectful, and funny, everything she had been looking for. Two months after she graduated, he dropped to one knee and she jumped into his arms. They moved from their apartment to a home in south Philly. Melissa worked during the day, and Joe started night shifts at the fire station for the extra pay.

Night shifts began to extend, and Melissa never saw him. He’d eat the plate she’d prepared in the fridge and leave the dirty dish on the counter. Dirt and ash from his boots tracked across her rugs and carpets, scuff marks in her living room. What almost killed her was the dirty cast iron skillet left in the sink. When she brought anything up, he’d deflect and leave. Every now and then, he came home with flowers “just because.” But then flowers began to follow every extra long night, and she could smell the floral perfume that didn’t belong to her and didn’t match the flowers. It took her months to say anything, and all she was met with was eyes that couldn’t look at hers.

Melissa began to think that what her grandparents had could never be hers. A loving life was in the cards, and Joe had only solidified this. She stayed at Barbara’s that night.

—

A few years later, her perspective was changed when a new fourth grade teacher joined the staff mid-term. Never in her years had she allowed someone in so easily, allowed them to be her friend and not just a coworker. Somehow, in two years, Melissa realized she’d never felt so cared for and loved by anyone.

—

“Is there a chance I could pour a cup of coffee before you start bursting my ear drums?” Melissa says when Jacob and Janine start babbling behind her about something she didn’t care about at 7:30 on a Friday morning. Ever since she turned onto the street the school is on, a headache had been growing steadily. Staying up late to finish grading was the worst idea she’s had all month. The two teachers cringe slightly, lowering their volume. When the door opened again for you and Barbara to enter chatting with each other, volume lowering at the sight of Melissa sat at the table with fingers pressed to her temples. She hears a bag drop on the table quietly, opening one eye to see you trying to be as quiet as possible as you dig around.

When you finally stop, you pull out a bottle of ibuprofen and pass it to her. She waves it off, muttering a don’t need it. When you don’t reply, she peers up to see you still holding the bottle out with an expectant look on your face. You shake the bottle, “don’t suffer just to look tough.”

“Melissa Ann, take the damn pills,” Barbara orders from her seat, spooning some sugar into her coffee.

“I don’t need ‘em,” she mumbles out again.

You push your hand forward more, “please. If not for yourself, for your students. You’re irritable when you have a headache.” Barbara chuckles and sends a knowing look to Melissa. Janine and Jacob, on the other hand, turn and look at you, fully expecting the red head to make some harsh reply or threat back to you. All she does is puff out a laugh and grab the bottle from your hands. She decided not to remark on the weird looks she was getting from the peanut gallery.

When getting the kids ready for recess, she sees you peering around the corner to the doorway. She holds a finger to ask you to wait, and gets a double thumbs up in return. After zipping many jackets and helping with gloves, she watches the little eagles run outside in the chilly autumn air. As she walks back into her classroom, she sees you sitting in her chair waiting patiently for her. “You know, I don’t let anyone sit in my seat,” she jokes as approaches.

“Good thing I’m not just anyone, now am I?” you joke, standing to meet her.

She fights her smile as she answers quietly, “no, you’re not.” She takes a second to breathe when she sees a grin cross your lips at her comment, “we still on for dinner at mine tonight?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” the grin on your face growing, the giddy feeling in Melissa’s chest with it. You loop your arm with hers and walk towards the lounge.

When Melissa opens the front door, you expect a greeting, but instead you get a groan as she stomps back to the kitchen. Dropping your bag and shrugging off your coat, you walk into the kitchen, placing the box of pastries on the table. Melissa returns to angrily rummaging through the refrigerator, desperately trying to find something. It wasn’t until two hands pulled her back by the shoulders, turning her around. She relaxes into your touch, closing her eyes.

“I’m out of basil,” she says through a sigh.

“Want me to go to the store?” you ask, wanting to remove any stress from her.

“No,” Melissa answers as she opens her eyes, “you just got here, that wouldn’t be fair.”

You laugh, “we could go together. Or we can just be lazy, order a pizza, and not get off the couch.”

“Second one,” she sighs out, pulling away to clean up the dishes she took out. While she’s distracted, you take the time to call in the order, pay, and tip over the phone so that Melissa won’t even have the chance to say herself.

“If there’s pineapple on there, I’m kicking you out,” she yells from the kitchen after she hears you hang up.

“No, veggie. And yes, I asked for no mushrooms. One of these days though, I’ll convert you to being a pineapple woman,” you joke tilting your head back to see her standing behind you, “plus, you wouldn’t dare kick out the person who brought you zeppole.”

She gets closer, leaning over with her hands holding the backrest on either side of your head, “is there chocolate sauce?” The excitement was evident in her tone, bringing butterflies to your stomach. You can’t form words with her standing over you and smiling like that, so you just nod.

Later into the night, the TV played Weeds while you sat in comfortable silence, only breaking it when you both repeated the same joke out loud every now and then. Your legs were thrown over her lap, her fingers playing with the folding fabric of your jeans as she watched the screen. Her subconscious drew her attention toward you, eyes tracing over smile lines and the glowing reflection in your eyes from the TV. She watches you lean forward to grab a zeppole, ready to offer it to her. It’s only then that you catch her stare.

“You okay?” you ask, turning and scooting closer to give her your full attention.

She gives a quick squeeze to your leg, “yeah, hon. I’m better than okay.” She feels even better when you lean into her, placing your head on her shoulder. She drops her head to yours, a deep breath leaving her as she finally relaxes fully for the first time all day.

—

Some time between then and now, things had changed, Melissa wasn’t exactly sure when. At some point the Friday dinners turned into Saturday plans, then Sunday since the farmer’s market was open, no other reason. Breakfast on those days translated to bringing coffee to each other at work, ignoring the questioning gazes of other staff members as she passed you your coffee, despite having never asked how you took it. What had started with you sleeping on the couch when the night grew later, migrated to the spare bedroom.

On a Sunday night, it changed again. You watched the tail end of an Eagles’ game while sitting in her bed after helping grade book reports. As always, your head rested on her shoulder with her own resting on yours. Anytime something that wasn’t a point being scored happened, she explained it to you, though she knew not a thing she said would help make sense of it. It didn’t matter to you, all you wanted was to hear her voice and have her attention.

“Your bed is comfy,” you mutter when the commercials begin before the last quarter.

A smile crosses her lips, “treated myself to a good mattress when I kicked bozo out. Glad you approve.”

“You deserve nice things,” you say as you settle into her more, and through a yawn add, “the best things.”

That night, you’d both fallen asleep slumped against the headboard, leaning into each other for comfort.

Melissa woke up to a rhythmic thumping under her ear and a hand in her hair gently playing with amber waves. The small smile that came to her lips would have been foreign to her if she wasn’t so comfortable, the content feeling in her chest would be almost alarming. When her eyes cracked open, she recognized her bedroom and sheets. She groaned into the cold morning air, and the hand moved from twirling the ends of her hair to scratching her scalp, making her tuck into the warmth beneath her even more.

“Good morning,” you rasp out, having only been awake a little longer, the only response being another groan. She finally rolls off of you, much to your dismay, and sits up on her elbows, looking at you with sleepy, squinted eyes.

“It’s Monday,” she grumbles.

You chuckle, grabbing her glasses off the nightstand for her, “fine, just morning then.”

Something about this morning felt different to Melissa. You’d never spent the night on a school night, let alone sleep in her bed, but that wasn’t what shook her. It wasn’t you making her coffee, sipping it to make sure it tasted right before handing it to her. It also wasn’t that you turned off her alarm and woke her up yourself without making her ears bleed. She thought it could be that you’d opened the door for her on the way out, or how you offered to drive her to and from work to make up for staying late, but not that either.

Maybe it was how she didn’t want to get out of bed, or how her coffee tasted better than any time she’d made it herself. Or how she hadn’t slept that peacefully in twenty years. It could have been how much she enjoyed being driven to work, and having full control of the songs you listened to on the way there, or the fact that she sped ahead to open a door for you this time. She doesn't have time to dwell on it once she gets to her classroom, a knock on the doorframe comes the second to place her purse on the desk.

“I thought you weren’t in today, I didn’t see your car in the parking lot,” Barbara says as she walks in.

Without looking up from her bag as she pulls out folders, Melissa answers, “I got a ride in.”

“Did you now?” Barbara asks with an amused tone. “And would that someone happen to be the fourth grade teacher that practically lives with you?”

“We don’t live together,” Melissa says incredulously, “we just fell asleep, so we drove in together. It’s not a big deal, it’s not like we’re actually together.”

Barbara can’t hide her laugh, “you fell asleep? Both of you? And where was that?” Melissa only mumbles back, so Barbara presses, “where did you both sleep, Melissa?”

“My bed,” Melissa finally says a little louder, but not much. She wants to send her head through a wall knowing that Barb just figured her out.

“Oh, girl. You are in deep,” Barbara says with a smirk. After she leaves the room, the spiral in Melissa’s head goes faster.

Said spiral carries her through lunch, and only stops when you sit across from her and stare at her for a moment. Her face contorts in a what? look before you reach across the table and brush your fingers through her hair. When you pull back, there’s a purple string from the third graders’ projects between your fingers. Barbara kicks her from under the table, and she kicks back with equal force. They both see you look at them weird, before brushing it off and going back to getting your lunch out. Barbara cocks her head to you, staring at the red head, silently telling her to do something. The look the kindergarten teacher gets back replies not now.

When the end of the day rolls around, Melissa is anxious for your eventual arrival in her doorway, keys swinging around your pointer finger. All she could think about since you parted ways this morning was your hands in her hair and your heartbeat under her ear. She hadn’t felt so content and so at peace in so long, the feeling was so new that it almost scared her. Melissa had to remind herself that this was about you, not anyone else. You’d never hurt, belittled, or offended Melissa, you’d never made it your mission to anger or disregard her, nor had you ever tried putting yourself before her. She knew that feeling this way about you shouldn’t scare her, but it did.

The sound of keys and footsteps in the hallways alerted her to your approaching presence, making Melissa quickly rise to her feet and grab her things, realizing she’d been spaced out since the last student left. As she predicted, you stood there spinning your keys, smile growing when she turned toward you. It drops slightly when you see her smile not reach her eyes. “Ready?” you ask.

“Sure, yeah,” she clears her throat, “let’s go.”

You can tell her mind is running into overdrive as you pull onto her street. When you park in the driveway, you unbuckle to turn in your seat and face her.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

She turns to you with a scrunched face, “what are you, 90?”

You shrug and point to her sleeves, “you’re thinking. You play with the thumb holes when you think.” She’d curse you for noticing if it didn’t make her heart clench. “You don’t have to tell me,” you add, “but I’ll listen, if you want.”

She looks at you for a moment, surrendering with a, “wanna come in?” You only answer by taking your keys out of the transmission, hopping out, and opening the door for her.

The discussion gets put on hold while Melissa heats up leftovers from the night before. She carries both bowls out to the living room where you’re turning on the TV back on for background noise. As Melissa sits down, she faces toward you and you mirror her pose. “Sorry I was acting weird,” she mumbles before taking a bite.

You shake your head, “you’re only allowed to apologize when you’ve done something wrong. Thinking isn’t doing something wrong.” When she doesn’t speak again, you offer up something else, “Ava almost had a heart attack over you this morning.”

She looks at you confused, “were we wearing the same shade of green again?”

“No. She thought you didn’t come to work this morning cause your car wasn’t there, was going off about how she was going to have to sub because there’s still a shortage in the area,” you laugh, “I had to tell her I drove you in, which also ended me in a twenty minute interrogation during my prep period.”

“What sort of interrogation?” she asked, already nervous.

You look down the bowl in your lap as you speak, poking the food around, “the kind where she asks for a detailed account of my whole weekend. Weird amounts of detail too, mealtimes, where I slept, where we went, what shows we watched.”

“What’d you tell her?” Melissa can feel fear creeping into her bones.

“That we went to the farmer’s market, watched sitcoms, and I slept in the guest room,” you answer truthfully, “and what did you say to Barbara?” Her head snaps to you, you lean your head to the side, “she stopped by to ask me about my weekend, she seemed a little too excited to see me if you hadn’t spoken to her first.”

Melissa moves to place her bowl on the coffee table before looking back to you, “she asked why we drove in together. I said we fell asleep, and she asked where we fell asleep. Might’ve told her you slept in my bed.”

“It’s impossible to lie to her,” you say as you copy her move. You’re silent for a moment, then finally ask, “what were you thinking about?”

She takes in a deep breath and exhales to calm her nerves, “this morning. This whole weekend, but mostly this morning.” She glances up, and sees your face had dropped, worry setting in, and she’s quick to revise her statement, “in a good way. This morning, this weekend, they meant a lot to me.”

At her words, your lips stretch into a smile, “it meant a lot to me, too.” She can see you internally question saying the next part, “and you. you mean a lot to me, a crazy amount.”

It’s her turn to smile like an idiot now, a pretty blush covering her cheeks, “you mean a crazy amount to me, too. Being around you it’s... It’s easy. I like being with you.”

“I do, too. Sometimes, when I’m here I almost forget I live somewhere else. The second I step inside and I’m with you, I don’t know, leaving just feels wrong,” you say honestly, eyes flickering over her face as you speak, scanning for a rejection you won’t find.

“Waking up to you was nice,” Melissa mumbles, “you’re a pretty good pillow, if I do say so myself.”

Your airy laugh makes her heart race, it goes even faster when you lean in to reply, “I wouldn’t mind waking up that way again... and again, and again.”

She matches you lean in, smiling, “yeah?” Your noses are almost touching, she can feel your breath just barely touching her face. Her eyes flick to yours and see you looking back, faint lines forming as your lips turned upward as her gaze.

“Being with you makes sense,” you say quietly into the space between you, eyes flicking to her lips then back up.

Her hand moves up to your cheek, warm hands and cool rings holding with gentle affection. Olive eyes look into yours for permission, but your answer is closing the space between you. Her other hand flies to hold your neck, your hands holding her wrists. They slide from her arms to her waist, pulling her closer and crawling beneath her shirt to rest on her skin. She takes the chance to straddle your lap as her tongue slides over your bottom lip, asking for the instantly granted entry. Her lips were soft, savoring the feeling of yours against hers, committing it to memory.

Your arms tighten around her, holding her as if she’s this precious thing, and it makes her only give more into you. Her lips slow, and you can almost feel the love she’s trying to convey in her action. But your lungs can only survive so long, and she pulls her lips away, resting her forehead against yours.

“Stay?” she whispers through her breaths as she recovers.

“Wasn’t planning on leaving,” you mumble back, dazed from her kiss. You duck foreward, hugging her as she still sits in your lap. Her arms circle your shoulders, hearing you mumble into her neck, “I love you.”

She presses a kiss to your head, “I love you.”

Melissa’s heart beat against your ear, calm and steady. The smell of her perfume and honey shampoo flooded your senses, making you nudge into her further. You tilted your head, lips pressing softly to the skin of her neck, moving upwards back to her lips, pressing a long, sound kiss there. You pull away to look at her, smoothing back copper strands.

“Is it too early to go lay in bed for the rest of the night?” you ask quietly.

She huffs a laugh, “I was gonna suggest the same thing.”

By the fifth episode of Weeds, Melissa noticed your breathing even out. She peered down at you where you lay curled into her side with your head on her chest, arm slung over her middle, lips slightly parted. She presses a kiss to your head as she shuts the TV off, and lays there to just bask in you being with her. She’d never felt so adored, so cared for, so at ease. This is was it was supposed to be.

feedback appreciated as always <3

title from would that i by hozier (i’m sure everyone knew that. we’re all gay here)

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #lisa ann walter #abbott elementary #lgbtq #lgbtq fanfiction #lesbian

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notyourhetloki · 9 months

Text

Ken with a gn doll!reader love interest

Reader: gender neutral

/Ken x Doll!Reader/

A/N: Guess who's obsessed lol anyway... This is NOT spoiler free! In fact, this is set AFTER the movie! I gave Ken a redemption arc because I think he'd be willing to better himself so here you go...

Word Count: 1348

—

How it started:

You were hanging out with Allan at the beach when suddenly Ken approached you, waving and smiling as he spoke: “Hey Allan! Hey (Y/N)! Wanna play volleyball?”

Allan glanced nervously at you before you two agreed, following Ken through the sand.

The game was fun but you were losing, that is until you had the chance to score, jumping up in the air and striking the ball with full force… hitting Ken right in his face.

He dramatically fell back, face covered with his hands while groaning. You quickly ran to him, kneeling on the sand and patting his shoulder. “Ken! Are you okay??”

He revealed his face, slowly blinking while examining you. You worried he was mad... you were new in Barbieland and didn’t want to make any enemies. What if he hated you?

“That… was… AWESOME. How did you learn to plunge like that??” Ken gave you a big smile, and you couldn’t help but reciprocate.

How it went:

You had been hanging out with Ken a lot lately, spending time at the beach or at your Dream House (all dolls had their own house now, including Kens). He even invited you to his Mojo Dojo Casa House (yes he still called it that) to watch some movies, and you gladly accepted.

He was nice to be around, always glad to help with whatever you needed and always excited for your next activity together. He was goofy and made you laugh, which made him feel good about himself.

And because the way to his heart was through his ego, you two became best friends as soon as you started complimenting him. He even admired you back, making you feel all fuzzy inside.

Ken was ridiculously charming, and you felt yourself falling harder with each moment you spent side by side. But, you had to remind yourself you were not Barbie, and he was Ken... He couldn't possibly be interested in you... right?

Besides, you knew he had a lot to learn yet. After the incident with Kendom and the whole patriarchy thing, he started studying sociology and began a journey to better himself, and you were happy to be there to help.

You reminded him of his daily mantras ("I'm kenough") and accompanied him every time he visited the library for more books. Ken cringed while you reminded him about the past. “At least you apologized to Barbie, right?”

“…”

“RIGHT?”

And just like that the two of you were on an adventure to the Real World, for Ken had a very important mission.

—

You had never been on rollerblades before, so as you arrived at the Real World, you started to wobble. Luckily, Ken caught your hand and continued to hold it, helping you balance. You felt heat rising to your cheeks, blushing at the unexpected touch and intimacy. (Unbeknownst to you, Ken was blushing hard as well, trying not to think much of it. You were just friends, right? This was normal… right?)

You both found Barbie, and you were proud to hear Ken’s apology as he spoke. “I’m… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything, Barbie. For trying to install patriarchy in Barbieland, for stealing your house, for all of it! You don’t need to accept my apologies, but I just needed you to know that I’m trying to better myself every day, and (Y/N) is helping me with that!” While Ken looked ashamed, Barbara looked shocked.

In the end, she accepted his apologies and smiled at you as you waved your goodbyes.

Ken felt immense relief and happiness now that he took this new step in his self-growth journey. He was so happy in fact, that he felt like holding your hand again. You both looked at each other and smiled, hearts racing and faces blushing.

—

You were in his Mojo Dojo Casa House, chatting and giggling like teenagers. Ken started asking about you, very interested in everything you had to say. He was fascinated and wanted to know more about you, and soon he caught himself asking more intimate things. “So… do you have a girlfriend? Or… a boyfriend? I mean… I don’t know, are you even into Kens? I mean…” he stuttered as you laughed.

“No, I don’t have a girlfriend or boyfriend… in fact, I never had a significant other before…”

Ken’s blue eyes grew wide, mouth slightly agape as he slid closer to you. “Oh… really?”

“I mean… I’m not a Barbie, not a Ken… not sure I’m even supposed to have someone.” You suddenly grew a little sad at that, being so vulnerable with Ken all of a sudden.

You looked down in shame, but Ken quickly lifted your chin up so you looked at him. His expression was fond, eyes roaming through your face and finally landing on your lips. He grew closer and for a moment you actually thought he would kiss you.

But he didn’t, he stopped and moved back, suddenly a bit confused and anxious. “Ha… I’m… I’m sure you’ll find someone eventually…” he said with an awkward smile.

How it ended:

Ken was desperate when he asked Allan for help. He was so confused, so… eager. He had never felt this way before, not even with Barbie. You were different, you listened to him, inspired him to become a better person, spent your valued time with him and you two had so much fun together! He felt genuinely happy around you, and in the last times you hung around, he felt the deepest urge to kiss you. This desire had been growing the more he tried pushing it away, so he decided to ask for help.

“I mean… (Y/N) is not a Barbie, and I’m Ken! It doesn’t make sense, right?”

Allan looked at him with slight confusion as he responded. “I mean… there are truly no rules, it’s not like there’s a book written somewhere that Kens should only date Barbies.”

Ken was left starstruck because I mean, Allan was right. There are no such rules in Barbieland, that was just something everyone assumed one day. “Thank you, Allan!” He hugged his friend before heading out.

—

Ken invited you on a beach date night and you happily agreed. You two sat on the sand as you watched the waves, but he only had eyes for you.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” You wondered about the sea and the stars. “Yeah…” he answered, not looking at them.

Slowly, Ken moved his fingers to touch yours, and while turning your head to look at him, you let your hands completely meet.

Your heart beat fast as he smiled that gorgeous smile of his, cheeks rosy and eyes glowing blue as he finally spoke. “(Y/N)… can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Ken.” You smiled in anticipation.

He looked down, doubting himself a bit before looking up again and almost whispering. “Can I kiss you?”

At that moment everything made sense, and you couldn’t help the big smile on your face as you spoke. “Of course!”

He matched your smile and squeezed your hand in excitement before turning away a bit and fist-pumping the air, then turning back with a more collected expression on his face.

Ken stared at your mouth before leaning in, and you leaned as well. Slowly, you met in the middle and finally kissed. Gentle, he grinned against your lips.

The first kiss was quick, but as you stopped and looked into each other’s eyes, he came back crushing onto your mouth, not wanting to be separate anymore. Ken took your face into his hands and you grabbed him by the collar of his shirt.

You both needed to breathe eventually, so you parted. You took the opportunity to ask a very important question. “Ken? Would you…would you like to be my boyfriend?”

Ken gasped, his eyes growing wide and teary as he held your hands in his. “That would be the coolest thing to ever happen to me… yes!”

The two of you hugged tight, and for the first time in forever, everything felt just right.

—

#ken #ken x reader #ken x you #barbie ken #ryan gosling #gender neutral #ken x gn reader #imagine #fanfic #headcanon #self insert #fanfiction #y/n #notyourhetloki

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solaireverie · 8 months

Text

dr3 | deep blue but you painted me golden

part two — take the moment and taste it

[ series masterlist ] part 1 | part 3 | part 4

pairings: daniel ricciardo x f!leclerc!rbr driver!reader, lestappen

summary: [ social media au ] a rough race for both charles and y/n results in daniel lashing out and max... well, you'll just have to see

warnings: language, f1-typical trash talk/hate

faceclaim: barbara palvin + random faceless checo pics + pinterest

author’s note: it gets rough before it gets better, i promise. also, i’m thinking about making a series taglist 🤔 if you’d be interested, let me know in the replies. enjoy!

1,578 likes

ausgp A chaotic first lap sees both Leclercs OUT of #AusGP!

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user this doesn't look like a great start for y/n... 😬

↪ user you do know that she's a rookie, right? a rookie who already has a podium?

↪ user with the rocket ship rbr have this year anyone could get a podium 🙄

user y/n spinning out in australia of all places has got to be some kind of fate 🫥

↪ user we all knew red bull were taking a risk and the question now is if the risk is paying off

↪ user the manifestation worked for danny's home crowd lmaoooo

user let's be real, if this keeps happening daniel should get y/n's seat

598 likes

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, redbullracing and 367,192 others

yourusername not the result we wanted, but unfortunately the result we got. i'll learn from this experience and we'll be back.

comments have been limited on this post

charles_leclerc ❤️❤️❤️

maxverstappen1 💪

redbullracing we're all behind you, y/n

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, lilymhe and 403,135 others

yourusername if a man talks shit then i owe him nothing 🐍

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user she ATE and left no crumbs 😍😍

lilymhe you dropped your crown, queen 👑

↪ yourusername no you 😘

user absolutely living for y/n in her reputation era 😌

user between charles and y/n f1 is never beating the allegations of being the prettiest sport

user all the people defending daniel for "speaking his mind" better not say a word about y/n now

liked by yourusername

user red bull aren't going to be happy with either of them 💀

charles_leclerc i've always got your back 💛

↪ maxverstappen1 charles, can we please just talk about it?

likes and reblogs are appreciated!

masterlist

#solwriting #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 #f1 #daniel ricciardo #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo fanfic #daniel ricciardo imagine #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 x you #f1 social media au #f1 imagine #f1 smau #lestappen #lestappen fanfic

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drchucktingle · 1 year

Note

What flavor of queer are you, if that's not too invasive of a question?

question is just fine with chuck it is kind of interesting story.

on LGBTQIA trot i am TECHNICALLY two letters

easy first one is B that does not need any more explanation. that has always been my trot

second way is what i have learned through talkin with my online buds way of non-dysphoric trans. it has taken chuck LONG time to understand this but it has been fruitful journey i think. long ago chuck would post online about becoming other people or things or concepts or wrestling with my IDENTITY as a buckaroo (whether that meant becoming sweet barbara or becoming my reverse twin or becoming the entire seahawks footballs team, very handsome). in fitting with my entire heckin LIFE some buds probably thought these were jokes when they were not at all. they were just personal artistic bubbles tumbling up and popping in ways i didnt understand yet.

but through posting these thoughts and THEN writing trans tinglers and talking to my trans buds online, i started to realize there are all kinds of versions of a trans identity INCLUDING the ones that rolled around deep inside of me that i never had a name for.

three events helped chuck understand this

first: the trans buds chuck talked to while researching harriet porber said 'well i always knew if i could press a button and change my body to match my gender i would instantly do this' and chuck thought 'of course woudlnt we all do this?' and they said 'well no, do you feel this way?' and i would say 'yes very strongly'. i will FOREVER be grateful to trans community for these conversations and maybe it is another reason why being anti-gatekeeping is so important to chuck.

second: thought about all the games i have ever played like a dang videogame or a role playing game, chuck would ALWAYS choose ladybuck character. didnt really think this was a unique thing at time but it is a pattern across whole life

third: chuck was trotting around with some buds and they all said 'whose bod would you choose if you could transform into any body?' (this is common topic for chuck believe it or not.) and the buckaroo guys went around naming the usual brats pitt or handsome channing and it got to chuck and i said 'obviously brie larson' and then the dang guys just kind of stared at chuck and then i realized 'oh, i didnt even think my answer was unusual but i guess they were only talkin guy bods'

these three things happened pretty close to one another but they were all bubbling up for decades and expressed in various ways even chuck did not entirely understand

anyway. chucks way is NOT that i feel uncomfortable in my body and it does not bring me grief. i am not upset about it honestly. i do not even THINK about it most days. however, it is all TRUE and in a purely technical and utilitarian sense of A PLUS B then YES, male would not be my preferred gender.

didnt talk on this for a while because there are MANY dysphoric trans buckaroos who go through a lot of hardships and i have gone through ABSOLUTELY NONE IN THIS WAY. it has not made my life more difficult and it does not haunt me, so i do not want to have my voice drown out other trans buds who need space to shout. i am very privileged so even though technically this applies to chuck i do not need or want any bonus points.

that beings said, part of my journey on the autistic spectrum was to recognize that EVEN THOUGH my personal story is not tragic, it is still an important one to get out there onto this timeline. IN FACT there should be more stories of buckaroos who love being autistic like chuck. i am PROUD of my trot and i love my autism (this is also why i wanted to explicitly say my lead character in camp damascus is autistic)

so in the same way, when directly asked, i will say: i am technically non-dysphoric trans ALSO this has not weighed on my life at all. my story is not tragic it is full of joy and excitement. i will not shy away from this because there are all kinds of buckaroos on this spectrum.

anyway that is my VERY LONG TROT hope you enjoyed getting to know chuck a little more thank you for this question buckaroo

#chuck tingle #tingleverse #love is real #camp damascus #trans #lgbtq #bisexual #autism #non-dysphoric #buckaroo lifestyle #queer

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puppetmaster13u · 4 months

Text

So I am rotating the batfamily, but not like, civilian or vigilante. I am slowly rotating them all having a Malone-sona of sorts that is their in to organized crime.

Like you can't tell me people wouldn't start noticing this family that the bats, the literal cryptids and monsters of Gotham, don't even touch and lets continue to operate despite taking the older crime families apart.

And to Gotham that screams power.

Alfred = Albert “Old Al” Malone I wanna say that he doesn't go out as 'Old Al' often, but gives off Godfather sort of vibes. Usually sitting there with an old cane (that definitely has a sword, they're all dramatic like that lol) half in the dark with a cup of tea or other drink. He gets to stretch his acting skills and honestly the kids definitely had a say in the persona. Old Al is something they all made together and they have fun implying so much fun shit.

Kate = Mary “Madam” Malone She definitely gives off 'snap your spine over her knee if not for the fact it would get your blood all over her clothes' vibes. Stylized nails, hair up in fishtail braids or ponytails or whatever, looks like she could tear out ones throat and they'd thank her. It's a running gag that she's in finances, even if no one in the underbelly believes it.

Bruce = “Matches” Malone I mean, it's classic Matches (though most probably assume that Matches isn't his real name) who seems rather chill until someone breaks the rules. Gives off vibes that he doesn't usually get his own hands dirty but will do so to make a point, and enjoy doing it. He sometimes uses Matches to check in on places he can't as a shadowy cryptid, and it's not like the lower income areas would fully trust Brucie Wayne.

Barbara = Madison “Maddie” Malone Now let's be honest, Barbara enjoys messing with people, she enjoys knowing every little thing as Oracle, and she definitely does that as Maddie. The thing is, no one knows how she learns about things, other criminals search for a traitor, for a leak, for anything, and get nothing. Which is utterly terrifying. Because there has to be some sort of information network, there has to be. And somehow they're so good that they're indistinguishable to any others.

Dick = Micheal “Mikey” Malone Honestly Dick uses this chance to get into a bunch of fights just for fun. Flirts a bit more freely but doesn't really have an interest in actually getting with someone. Just has funs and is known for throwing his own parties that usually end in free-for-all brawls. He absolutely loves being able to have parties that are the opposite of galas he's usually dragged into.

Cass = Molly Malone She's quiet and graceful, but she takes it to unnerving levels as Molly. Looks slim but carries guns on her at all time to better differentiate between Cassandra Wayne, Black Bat, and Molly Malone. Everyone knows if you need a weapon, guns, meelee, whatever, she's the one you go to. Gotham help you if you cross her though.

Jason = Peter “Petey” Malone Where Molly Malone goes, everyone knows Petey will be there as well. Jason absolutely adores the time he gets to do so, it's his turn to be silent and dramatic. Everyone can recognize the jagged scar over his neck, they can recognize it from corpses the Bats have gotten their talons on. Honestly he's delighted in being able to be Cass' enforcer of sorts and just have a good fight. Even if he complains about how making his Malone mute makes it where he can't quote Shakespeare like he wants to.

Steph = “Mia” Malone Ah yes, the explosive Malone. The one who has more arson charges than Firefly. Or at least she would if she was caught, but the entire Underbelly knows it was her. Steph is living her best life being able to pull all sorts of pranks and crazy shit and takes several ideas from Harley. Honestly she probably smells like gasoline or smoke all the time, and definitely put glitter in her hair. Maybe even has red hair as a Malone as well.

Tim = Alvin “Al” Malone He still goes by Alvin Draper too, which results in half the underbelly thinking that Draper is his middle name. Honestly he's having the best time, everyone knows to come to him for forgeries and less than legal identities, which he loves to create. I mean just look at how many new identities he creates for himself alone. He enjoys this type of thing, and hey, it's so easy to keep track of whose identity is fake when you're the one who made them. Plus it also lets him do good for those on the run for good reasons, a way to make sure people are safe.

Duke = Dennis “Denny” Malone Everyone knows Denny was adopted, but y'know what, I bet they don't care. And you know Duke is utterly insane, like jump off a bridge to escape the cops and create the We are Robin gang insane. And he gets to play that up as Denny. He will put forth the most batshit ideas and actually pull them off. I bet he uses his future-sight to cheat at different games and pool tables and all sorts of things, but no one can ever prove it. Because there is no proof, and the other people playing just has to deal with it.

Damian = “Mini M” Malone The little baby of the family, who everyone knows the older Malones absolutely dote over. This is his chance to act like an actual child, just with a hint of art theft. Hey, it wasn't like they got it legally either, so it's free game, especially if they weren't taking proper care of the art or a pet. He's just pleased to get to have even more pets, and that Goliath his demon dragon-bat gets to go on walkies.

Jarro = Jadan “Lil J” Malone Now Jarro is delighted to have a third mech, and is even more delighted for people to believe Damian (or technically M jr) and him are twins. Gives off someone is going to die- of fun with Mini M, and honestly enjoys being able to use his natural telepathy to be a small horror movie child that knows too much. Like will stare up at someone with wide eyes covered in blood and the others in Gotham's underbelly still aren't sure if the blood was his or someone elses. (it was neither)

================================================

Honestly I might write a oneshot or something for the Cryptid Batfam focusing on just them as the Malones family.

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im-totally-not-an-alien-2 · 1 year

Text

Danny, on the run from the GIW decides to take shelter in Gotham because if the GIW have any sense they'd never set foot in there.

Even if Batman and the JL agree with thier opinion on ecto entities (as evidenced by their lack of speaking out against the anti-ecto acts) Batman was notoriously territorial and would have issue with a wildly incompetent government organization throwing missiles around his city all willy-nilly.

With that being said it was probably best for Danny to wear a disguise. Sure, they didn't know Fenton and Phantom were the same person yet but Danny Fenton suddenly turning up in Gotham after going missing in Amity is certainly going to raise some eyebrows regardless of the necklace he had that jammed his ecto-signature and made him untrackable.

Danny started off by going blond. Its something he's always wanted to do and now with ghostly shape-shifting powers he doesn't even have to worry about frying his hair or dying his eyebrows to match. After that all he needed to do was part his hair down the middle, add a lip ring or two and maybe a bit of make up.

Danny stared at himself in the mirror. He looked like a completely different person.

A completely different and very attractive person. He looked good. The newly blond man threw on a green jacket and went out to explore the town. He did not expect to literally bump into the Tim Drake. The Wayne adoptee just stood there mouth opening and closing comically. Did he offend him? Crap. He had promised Jazz he would stay off of the radar of the Waynes and the bats specifically and here he was angering one of them.

Danny decided to book it before it became a scene, ignoring the lovestruck Tim's crys for him to wait.

Back at his apartment Danny quickly changed his look to red hair tied back into a two inch low ponytail, green eyes and freckles that unbeknownst to anyone else was made up from the lesser known constellations.

The coffee at this Cafe smelled amazing! Too bad Danny wouldn't get to try it because the next this he knew freaking Red Hood was behind him asking to talk. Our favorite ghost boy wouldn't be embarrassed to admit he let out a small squeek before bolting out the door yelling, "I'm not even a criminal!"

It took Jason a few seconds to process that the guy he had tried to flirt with ran away in terror. Crap.

Day three and four were blissfully Wayne and bat free, though he did find out that Tim Drake and Red Hood were looking for his two false identities. Joy.

Day five he met the stabby Robin who very valiantly beat up two people who had been following him. Danny didn't even notice he was being followed and thanked the bird for saving him. Danny, who was shape-shifted into a very pretty girl at the moment, offered to buy him something to eat as a thank you. "Danielle" insisted and Robin allowed it. Danielle never noticed the slight pink on Damians cheeks as they went over to one of Damians favorite restaurants.

Day seven he had went out as blondie and got confronted by some girl named Barbara. She was nice and managed to convince him to come to a Cafe with her. He told her his name was David and he ran away from his parents with the help of one of his friends family members and that he was Jewish, which was true...except for the David part. He learned that if you wanna keep your story straight keeping to almost truths was your best bet. She in turn told him about Tim and how he's a friend of hers-uh oh- and that he's been looking all over for him.

Danny-David- tells her he's sorry but he didn't mean to offend Tim and doesn't want any trouble before laying down enough money to cover his half of the bill and the tip and booking it out of there

This repeats with most of the family trying to flirt with him or adopt him into the family when he's out as Danny.

Bruce Wayne approached Danny when he was waiting to board an elevator, "Hel-" was all the billionaire could get out before Danny cut him off "Hell no." And then he just got in the elevator and pressed the close doors button and was gone again.

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s-ublimewrites · 5 months

Text

writing sonnets (melissa schemmenti x f!reader)

synopsis: your students tease you relentlessly and melissa can't help but to join in

words: ~1.4k

warnings: none i think? wholesome borderline crack

note: im not sure i ever actually gender the reader here? but f!reader to cover my own ass<3

Don’t get it twisted - you love the inquisitive nature of your students, you really do. It’s something every eighth grade English teacher longs for. But your fourth period class has a certain knack for getting you off topic with their curiosity. On this particular day - a Friday, so blissfully close to freedom - you have relinquished all control and let them fall down the rabbit hole of fanfiction, of all things. Leave it to middle schoolers.

They had only been learning about first, second, and third person narration - so innocuous, you didn’t see how you could possibly be derailed. Maybe you’d make it through the lesson, and you could relish in the four minutes of silence you get between periods, and-

“Where is second person narration used?” Angel doesn’t bother raising his hand, and you don’t bother admonishing him.

You think briefly. “Honestly, not many pieces of published works use it - not that I’ve seen, anyway. We don’t talk about it much. I’ve really only seen the second person used in one place.”

You intend to leave it at that, but of course, Angel pushes.

“Where?” he asks.

In the second you use to inhale before tackling the question, Kennedy takes the liberty of answering: “Fanfiction, duh. That self-insert stuff.”

You can’t help it - a laugh bubbles out, and this is the moment everything begins to spiral.

“Yeah,” you collapse into your desk chair, “Kennedy’s right. Fanfiction.”

Kennedy takes the opportunity - it’s been presented to her on a silver platter, really. “You know about fanfiction, Y/L/N?”

“Sweetheart, my generation invented fanfiction. And I’m a writer. This was my game before you were even born.”

Angel is on his feet, his hands slamming on his desk and his voice rising with excitement, “WHERE CAN WE READ YOUR FANFICTION?”

“Oh, my God, no. You can’t. It’s not on the internet or anything, I’d just, like… send it to my friends, or whatever,” you insist, hands coming to cover your red face as you laugh.

The class, buzzing with chatter and giggles, continues to harass you. “So, what, Ms Schemmenti reads your fanfiction?”

Your hands are still covering your face. “No, Ms Schemmenti most certainly does not!”

“That’s because the fanfiction is about Ms Schemmenti. Y’all see how Y/L/N be looking at her in the halls,” someone says, and several others voice their agreement.

“She’s down bad for real.”

“What?!” your head snaps up, eyes searching for whoever made the comment. The bell rings before you can get your answer. “Get out of my room, you absolute little monsters. Have a good weekend, please read chapter th- oh, okay, you’re gone. Cool. Awesome.”

You look at the camera. It zooms in on your red, deadpan face. You drop your forehead onto the desk.

When you walk into the lounge at the end of the day, you slump into the chair beside Janine, who’s engaged in a conversation about a scrabble tournament (sober scrabble - boring) with Jacob and Gregory. Barbara listens, not contributing, surely stockpiling the information so she can tell Melissa later. Melissa, who is thankfully not in the room at the moment. You think you would burst into flames.

Janine halts her conversation about triple word scores when you throw yourself down into the chair by her.

“Rough day?” Janine asks tentatively.

“Long. The kids were focused on literally anything other than The Outsiders.”

Janine nods. “I get it. Fridays, y’know? It’s always hard to keep them on task.”

“Well, Y/N,” Jacob starts with a smirk, “my students were actually pretty interested in the topics of your class today. It’s all they could talk about when they sat down for seventh period.”

You glare at him hard and warn, “Jacob. Do not.”

Janine looks back and forth between you both and turns to Gregory. “Is there something I’m missing?”

“No,” you say sternly. Your eyes don’t leave Jacob’s shit-eating grin. “Not a thing.”

Jacob, it seems, has exceptionally few survival instincts and carries on giddily, “Y/N’s students found out she writes fanfiction-“

And, oh, good, Barbara is listening now, too. “Fan-fiction?”

“Why is everyone saying that word today? It’s all I’ve been hearing in the halls since, like, fourth period.” Melissa asks, striding into the break room and taking the seat next to you.

“I’m going to have to transfer schools,” you say, closing your eyes.

Melissa pays this no mind. “All the older kids keep looking at me, too. It’s weird.”

You glare daggers at Jacob, whose face must hurt from the width of his smile.

“So weird!” Jacob says innocently.

Melissa narrows her eyes.

“Why are you being weird? And not normal Jacob weird,” she questions, turning to you. “Why is he being weird?”

You slam your boot into Jacob’s shin under the table. “He’s not. No one’s being weird.”

Melissa’s eyes flick back and forth between the two of you suspiciously. “Okay, someone tell me right now - what the hell is a fanfiction, and what does it have to do with me? And, apparently, Y/N?”

“Melissa, I am so glad you’ve asked, allow me to explain-“ Jacob starts, leaning across the table toward Melissa.

“Oh my God,” you cut him off. Time to swallow your pride.

You explain the situation… sort of. You explain in a watered-down way that incriminates you less.

“So, yeah, they found out, and because I said ‘friend’ they connected it to you, and they misconstrued the whole thing, and it’s literally not a big deal-“ you're rambling and she knows it.

“Wait,” Gregory stops you, “so this is why I heard Angel say ‘Y/L/N be writing sonnets about that red hair’ during lunch?”

Janine raises her eyebrows. “‘Sonnet?’ Pretty good vocab word.”

“Thank you, Janine! And thank you for focusing on the important part of the matter at hand: my impeccable teaching skills.”

“So,” Barbara chimes in, “do you or do you not write these little stories about Melissa?”

“Barbara!” You’re mortified. “No! I do not!”

At long last, Melissa speaks. You don’t need to look at her to know there’s a smirk on her lips. “She doesn’t need to. Clearly, the material writes itself.”

“Melissa,” you plead.

Melissa laughs that laugh, the one that makes the corners of your mouth turn up despite your discomfort.

“Maybe that could be your end-of-the-year writing project for the kids - make them write that fanfiction,” Melissa teases.

“You’re just as bad as Angel!” You laugh incredulously and let your hand smack Melissa’s shoulder. The others don’t miss the way Melissa doesn’t break your fingers at the gesture.

In fact, Melissa's eyes soften as she bumps your shoulder with her own. “No, no, I can see it - newbie woos the Philly Eleven. There’s potential there.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, I am pretty charming.”

“I’m going home,” Barbara stands up with a polite (if somewhat exasperated) smile, “Very glad we got this out of the way. Have a good weekend, everyone. Y/N… call me later.”

Barbara pats Melissa’s shoulder with a pointed look toward you, and takes her leave rapidly.

“Uh,” you stare after her. “Yep. Bye, Barb.”

Melissa’s eyebrow quirks up. “What was that?”

“Dunno,” you reply. “I’m sure you’ll know everything approximately five minutes after I hang up with her, though, so don’t worry.”

Janine butts in (ah, yeah, the nerds are still here), “You guys call Barbara? Can I have her cell number? I always want to ask her but-“

“No,” you and Melissa say in unison, and Janine sighs heavily.

You heave out a sigh of your own. “I need to go home - moreover I need to be somewhere no one is asking me about my nonexistent fanfiction habits.”

You stand, and Melissa stands with you as you both gather your belongings. “Impossible. I have your phone number.”

You “accidentally” smack Melissa with your purse, and Melissa “mistakenly” shoves her chair into your leg in a way that makes your knee buckle, and the rest of the Abbot crew watch the scene in morbid fascination. Because the cold hard truth is that if anyone else had dared to do… well, any of this, Melissa would be shoving her earrings into her pocket and removing her heels. Fight or fight instinct, y’know?

Instead, though, she just swears at you in Italian as you head for the door, grinning widely when you return the sentiment in plain english.

Ava entering the lounge halts you in your tracks.

“Y’all will never guess what Angel just emailed me,” Ava exclaims, holding up her phone. “Did you know he knows the word ‘sonnet’? Proud of him.”

“Forward me that?”

Another smack from you. “Melissa, stop!”

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti fanfiction #abbott elementary fanfiction #melissa schemmenti #abbott elementary #lisa ann walter

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