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lezbeanxo · 6 days ago

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Sottovoce (under her breath)

previous req where reader is a new teacher at Abbott, Melissa keeps saying things in Italian thinking the reader doesn't understand, but she's actually fluent 😙

(Angst, pining, smut)

Word Count: 3k

The first time Melissa muttered something in Italian, you pretended not to notice.

It was your second day, and you were juggling a coffee, your attendance clipboard, and a half-taped "Welcome!" banner that had already fallen twice from your classroom door. Melissa had been walking by at the exact moment you accidentally whacked yourself in the face with it.

You heard her grumble—low and smooth under her breath: "Siamo fregati se questa è la nuova insegnante."

We're screwed if this is the new teacher.

You blinked. Smiled. And didn't say a word.

At first, you thought maybe you'd misheard. Maybe she was on the phone. Maybe she was just one of those teachers who hated change and hadn't warmed up to you yet.

But then it happened again. And again. And again.

The next time was in the lounge when you asked if anyone had a stapler. Janine had one. Barbara offered hers too. Melissa? Melissa sipped her coffee and mumbled without looking up:

"Dio mio, ha bisogno di un manuale per stare in piedi."

My God, she needs a manual just to stand upright.

You knew better than to take it personally. Or at least you tried to. Melissa didn't seem outright cruel—just guarded. Sardonic. Brick-walled with enough sarcasm to keep you three hallways away emotionally. She was nice to Barbara. Teased Janine with something resembling affection. But with you?

You were the rookie. The outsider. The glitter-slinging, fresh-pressed-button-up-wearing stranger who still called the copier "the printer thing."

You were just supposed to be the new 1st grade teacher.

But apparently, to Melissa Schemmenti, you were a walking punchline in need of a translator.

You lasted a week before you started keeping mental tallies. Not out of spite—okay, maybe a little. But mostly out of the same stubborn instinct that made you label everything in your classroom bins and master the Philly public transit map in a weekend. If Melissa was going to sling snark in Italian, the least you could do was start ranking them.

The best so far had been:

"Troppa energia, troppo profumo, troppa speranza. Deve essere nuova."

Too much energy, too much perfume, too much hope. She has to be new.

And your personal favorite:

"Guarda come ride. Beata ingenuità."

Look at her smile. Blessed naïveté.

That one had almost made you laugh out loud.

It was strange—how quickly the comments turned from irritating to... interesting. They still stung, yes. But they also challenged you. Poked at something in you that didn't want to be underestimated. That almost liked having something to push back against. And God help you, it was kind of exhilarating knowing Melissa had no idea you understood every word.

By the third week, you started to look forward to the little barbs. Her voice was husky and clipped when she mumbled, always smooth on the vowels, pointed on the consonants. The rhythm of it curled at the edges of your spine.

You weren't supposed to like her voice. Or the way she looked in those pinstripe pants. Or how her arms folded tightly over her chest like she was daring you to try and be her friend.

But maybe, deep down, you wanted to win her over. Or at least surprise her. Just once.

Maybe you were getting a little reckless.

Maybe you were waiting for the perfect moment.

It came on a Thursday morning. The copier was down again, Janine was talking to herself while reorganizing the supply closet, and you were elbow-deep in a broken hole punch when Melissa strolled into the lounge.

You clocked her instantly—red hair pulled back today, a little more curled at the ends, her black blazer fitted a little too well.

You didn't look directly at her. You didn't have to.

Because when she saw you, she stopped in the doorway, glanced at the mess of paper and desk clutter around you, and sighed—loudly.

Then came the mutter:

"Sembra una studentessa travestita da insegnante. Cristo, non può nemmeno tenere in ordine un buco."

She looks like a student playing dress-up as a teacher. Christ, she can't even handle a hole punch.

You smiled.

That was it.

Three weeks. Eighteen comments. Six hallway glares. One hole punch insult too far.

You turned, slow and sweet, facing her fully for the first time since you'd arrived.

"E tu sembri una donna che ha paura che qualcun'altra possa farlo altrettanto bene."

And you look like a woman who's afraid someone else might be just as good at this.

Melissa stopped mid-sip.

Her eyes flicked up. Met yours.

Froze.

The silence that followed was nothing short of delicious.

You didn't smirk. You didn't gloat. You just tilted your head slightly and added, with a sugar-sweetness she couldn't possibly miss:

"Have a lovely morning, Melissa."

And you walked right past her.

You could feel the heat of her stare all the way down the hallway.

Melissa didn't say a word to you for the rest of that day.

But she also didn't stop hovering.

She lingered in doorways longer than usual. Passed your classroom more than once during recess duty. You even caught her pretending to look at the lunch schedule outside the lounge while clearly side-eying you from the corner of her eye.

You said nothing. You didn't need to.

She was flustered.

It was subtle—she was Melissa, after all—but you knew what to look for now. The way her lips tightened when she saw you laughing with Janine. How she rolled her shoulder like she was brushing something off whenever you walked past.

You were halfway through a stack of spelling tests in your room after dismissal when there was a knock on your doorframe.

You looked up. There she was.

Melissa Schemmenti. Looking like she'd rather chew glass than do what she was about to do.

"Hey," she said, voice gruff.

You blinked. "Hey."

She stepped in, crossing her arms over her chest like armor.

"I just... I gotta ask." She hesitated. "How much Italian do you actually speak?"

You leaned back in your chair and tilted your head. "Fluently."

Melissa's eyebrows shot up.

"Fluently," she repeated, like the word tasted funny in her mouth.

"Mmhmm. My nonna practically raised me. Naples-born. Very opinionated. Taught me everything she knew—language included."

Melissa blinked. "You let me talk shit about you for weeks."

"I did."

"Why?"

You grinned. "Honestly? At first I wasn't sure it was intentional. Then it got kind of entertaining. Then I started wondering how long you'd keep going."

She stared at you. "You were entertained."

You shrugged. "You're creative."

That earned you a snort—sharp and involuntary. She covered it with a cough.

"I wasn't trying to be—okay, maybe I was—but it's not like you made it easy. You come in all shiny and chipper, with your color-coded seating charts and... laminated desk labels."

"I like being organized."

"It was threatening."

You bit your lip. "Are you saying I intimidated you?"

Melissa narrowed her eyes. "Watch it."

But there was no heat behind it. In fact... she was smiling. Just barely. You caught the corner of it before she dropped her gaze to the floor.

"...I didn't know you were that sharp," she muttered.

You raised a brow. "Is that a compliment?"

She huffed. "Don't get used to it."

After that, something shifted.

The insults stopped. At least, the mean ones.

Instead, Melissa started tossing out muttered phrases that—while still sarcastic—were suddenly more flirt than fight.

When you passed her in the hallway wearing your bright green sweater, she muttered, "Sembra un evidenziatore carino, però."

Looks like a highlighter... a cute one, though.

When you dropped your pen and it skittered under the table, she handed it back with a deadpan, "Sei sempre così disordinata, o solo quando io guardo?"

Are you always this messy, or just when I'm watching?

You choked on a laugh that time. And she winked.

You started eating lunch in the lounge more often.

Melissa sat near you. Not next to you. But near.

Sometimes she'd lean over and say something in Italian under her breath, and Janine or Gregory or Jacob would blink in confusion while you tried not to grin.

You didn't know when she'd stopped being an obstacle and started being the highlight of your day.

But you caught yourself watching her more. How her smile curled differently when it was real. How she adjusted her rings when she was thinking. How, when Ava was annoying her, she'd mutter "Signore, dammi la forza" like a prayer she didn't mean to say out loud.

You caught her watching you, too.

It was a Thursday—again—when she finally said something that knocked the wind out of you.

You were both in the copy room, the printer miraculously functioning. You'd been fiddling with a jammed tray when Melissa walked in with a ream of paper tucked under her arm and a smirk already loaded.

You didn't look at her.

You heard the rustle of the paper. Her low sigh.

Then—

"Sei proprio una sorpresa, lo sai?"

You paused. Turned.

"What was that?" you asked, already knowing.

Melissa looked at you, mouth twitching. "I said you're full of surprises."

You raised a brow. "Good ones?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "I haven't decided."

You leaned against the table, a smile playing at your lips. "You sure seem to be spending a lot of time near them, then."

She huffed. "Don't flatter yourself."

You took one step closer. "Don't mumble sweet nothings if you don't want me to hear them."

Melissa's eyes flicked to your mouth. Then back up.

Her voice was lower this time. Rougher.

"Non è un problema se ti piacciono."

It's not a problem if you like them.

Your pulse kicked.

So did hers. You saw it in the way her throat moved when she swallowed, in the way her fingers tightened around the ream of paper.

You wanted to say something clever. Something biting and fun.

But instead, you just stared at her. Smiled.

"Maybe I do," you murmured.

It started with her standing outside the staff lounge, coat slung over one shoulder, watching you wrestle with your overstuffed bag and a broken umbrella.

It was raining hard—hard enough that the parking lot looked like a small lake.

"Need a walk buddy?" Melissa asked, casual. Too casual.

You blinked. "You offering?"

She shrugged. "It's dark. And wet. And you look like you're about to lose a shoe."

You laughed, a soft breath of warmth in the chill. "Chivalrous."

"Don't get used to it."

You didn't. But you also didn't say no.

So you walked together. She held the umbrella, close enough that her arm brushed yours. Close enough that you could smell the faint scent of espresso and her perfume—something woodsy and warm and utterly unfair. You tried not to lean in. She didn't seem to mind when you did.

At your car, you hesitated.

"Thanks," you said.

Melissa nodded. "Anytime."

She didn't move.

Neither did you.

The rain pattered above you in a quiet rhythm, broken only by the low hum of far-off traffic and your racing pulse. Melissa glanced at you once, then again. Then finally stepped back.

"Don't make me regret being nice," she muttered.

You smiled. "Wouldn't dream of it."

The next invitation came via Janine, who bounded into your classroom with a grin.

"Melissa's making dinner at her place Saturday. Italian, obviously. You're coming."

"I am?"

"Oh yeah. She said to tell you." Janine paused. "I think she's starting to like you."

That made something flutter in your chest. Dangerous. Delighted.

You'd barely stopped smiling by the time Saturday rolled around.

Melissa's house was exactly what you'd expect—cozy, full of deep colors, family photos, and furniture that looked like it had stories. It smelled like garlic and tomato and slow-cooked perfection.

The table was full: Janine, Jacob, Barbara (who brought wine), and even Gregory, who Melissa claimed to "barely tolerate" but served a second helping anyway.

You offered to help with dishes, and for once, she didn't brush you off.

Instead, you found yourself beside her in the warm, bustling kitchen, drying plates while she rinsed.

Her voice was lower now, private, as if the language itself created a little cocoon just for the two of you.

"Ti sei ambientata bene," she said.

You've settled in well.

You smiled, soft. "Non è difficile quando ci sei tu."

It's not hard with you around.

She turned to you at that. Briefly. Her hands paused in the water.

"Attenta con quelle parole."

Careful with those words.

You tilted your head. "Perché?"

Why?

Her eyes met yours, and the air felt like it stopped moving.

"Perché potrei crederti."

Because I might believe you.

You didn't answer. Not out loud.

Not when her gaze lingered like that.

By the time the others left, your heart was already doing laps behind your ribs. Melissa closed the door, locked it, leaned against it with a sigh.

Then she turned to find you still standing in the kitchen, wineglass in hand, nerves sparking in your fingertips.

She didn't ask why you hadn't left yet.

You didn't offer.

Instead, you stepped closer.

Her expression didn't change, but something in her shifted. Tension crackled between you like static.

"Good dinner," you said quietly.

She shrugged. "It was alright."

You smiled. "You're a terrible liar."

She stepped closer. One inch. Maybe two.

"Am I?"

Her voice was lower now. Unsteady in a way she tried to hide.

Your chest rose. Fell. You looked at her mouth. She looked at yours.

And then—just to test the waters—you leaned in close enough for your lips to brush her ear.

Your voice was barely above a whisper, "Mi piace quando sei cattiva con tutti ma gentile con me."

I like when you're mean to everyone but sweet to me.

Melissa froze.

You felt her breath catch. Her shoulders stiffen.

You didn't stop.

You let your next words fall softer, silkier, right into the shell of her ear:

"Mi piace pensare a quanto bene potresti farmi sentire se volessi davvero."

I like to think about how good you could make me feel... if you really wanted to.

A sharp inhale. Her jaw clenched.

You leaned back just enough to meet her eyes—those dark, wide, flickering eyes that had never looked so undone.

She stared at you like she didn't know what to do next.

And maybe she didn't.

Because this wasn't hallway jabs or playful mutters.

This was intention.

This was invitation.

And you had absolutely meant every word.

You didn't make it to the bedroom right away. Melissa's kitchen was suddenly very familiar—your back against the counter, her blazer pushed off her shoulders, blouse unbuttoned as you kissed a path down her neck, tasting her pulse as it fluttered.

"Tell me to stop," you murmured, even as your fingers popped open the last button over her stomach.

She didn't. She just grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you into another kiss, hips rocking forward against yours.

That was permission enough.

You finally led her back to the bedroom—her grip on your wrist tight, impatient. She kicked off her heels without looking and reached for your shirt like it had offended her.

"You're smug," she muttered, peeling it off. "You planned this."

"I hoped," you breathed against her collarbone. "I wanted."

"You're gonna make me lose my mind."

"You already have."

You shoved her gently onto the bed. She landed with a low grunt and a flushed smirk that screamed try me.

So you did.

You crawled over her slowly, mouth trailing heat along her chest, your hands pushing her bra aside to suck a mark right above her heart. She arched into you, breath catching, fingers tangling in your hair.

"Dio..." she hissed when your teeth grazed her nipple, hips jerking beneath you.

You grinned into her skin. "Thought you liked using that name in vain."

Melissa's only answer was a moan—soft and ragged and real.

You kissed your way down her body, tugging her skirt up around her hips. When you slid her panties off, you heard the catch in her throat. Saw the tension in her thighs as they tried not to shake.

She was soaked.

You looked up and found her already watching you, pupils blown wide, jaw slack.

"You want this?" you asked, thumb teasing along the inside of her thigh.

Melissa nodded fast. Too fast.

"No," you murmured. "Words."

"Sì," she gasped. "Ti voglio, ti voglio tanto—"

You cut her off with your mouth.

You licked a slow stripe up her center, tongue circling before plunging in deep—and Melissa choked on a cry, hand slapping over her own mouth before it could escape.

You reached up and pulled it away.

"No hiding," you said.

She shook her head, breathless. "Everyone's gone. Right?"

"They're long gone, baby."

That earned you a full-body shiver.

You took your time. Let her unravel under you, coaxing filthy, gorgeous sounds from her with your tongue and fingers, with a low stream of whispered Italian filth between kisses to her thighs.

"Guarda come tremi per me."

Look how you shake for me.

"Voglio sentirti gridare il mio nome."

I want to hear you scream my name.

Melissa whimpered—high and broken—when you added your fingers, curling them just right while your tongue kept flicking over her clit, relentless and sure.

Her thighs clamped around you and she came hard, gasping your name like a confession, hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping the sheets like she might fall through the bed.

You didn't stop until she begged.

And even then, you kissed her thighs again, slow and reverent, before crawling up to lie beside her, your body flush against hers.

She was breathing fast. Eyes still closed. Face flushed and hair wild.

"...Cristo Onnipotente," she whispered. "What the hell was that?"

You grinned and brushed your fingers along her cheek. "The beginning."

Melissa opened one eye, gave you a warning glare that melted instantly into a crooked, dazed smile.

"You keep talking like that in Italian," she muttered, "and I'm gonna fall in love with you."

You kissed her, sweet and slow this time.

"Then I guess I better keep going."

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