raspberryfingers

[raspberryfingers]

Sunday Sauce and Secrets • Melissa Schemmenti x F!Reader • After your grandfather’s death, Sunday dinners get messy when your secret with Nonna’s best friend, Melissa, threatens to come out.• Inspired by this short film starring Lisa Ann Walter.

18+ MDNI

The scent of simmering tomatoes and garlic filled your grandmother’s rowhome like it did every Sunday. The house had that soft hum of life again: TV murmuring in the den, pots clattering in the kitchen, and nonnas yelling over each other like it was a sport.

You were elbow deep in the sink, washing romaine with way more force than necessary, when you heard her voice float through the hallway.

“Is this tomato paste or tinted water?”

You froze. That gravelly, unmistakable South Philly drawl.

Melissa Schemmenti.

You turned slowly, heart hammering despite the thousand times you’d told yourself to be cool. There she was, sauntering into the kitchen in a leather jacket, red hair framed her face, and gold hoops caught the light every time she moved her head, which was often because Melissa never said anything without a little attitude.

She winked at you.

Your stomach did a complicated flip.

“Hey, doll.”

“Melissa,” you said, trying not to choke on your own tongue. “Didn’t expect you today.”

“You serious? I haven’t missed a Sunday dinner here in thirty years.” She grabbed the wooden spoon, gave the sauce a stir, then tasted it with a skeptical grunt. “You need more salt. Don’t be shy. This ain’t hospital food.”

Your grandmother, seated in her armchair, chimed in from the living room.

“She made your grandfather’s eulogy sound like a Sinatra song. ’Course she’s welcome.”

Melissa’s smile softened at that, genuine, a little sad, and she set the spoon down. “He deserved it,” she said quietly, before turning briskly back to the sauce. “Now hand me that basil before you bruise it to death.”

You hadn’t seen her since the funeral. You thought she might back off, give you time to grieve. Or maybe she didn’t want to keep sneaking around, now that your grandmother was leaning on her more than ever. But here she was.

As the afternoon passed, you tried to focus on the food, the chatter, the clatter of plates, but Melissa was always within arm’s reach, brushing by you too casually, topping off your wine without asking.

“Drink up,” she whispered. “Helps you tolerate the company.”

Every brush of her hand against yours felt like a siren.

Your cousin Gia, ever the sleuth, narrowed her eyes at the two of you over cannoli.

“You two are acting weird,” she said, wiping cream from her mouth. “What, you in cahoots or something?”

You laughed too hard.

Melissa raised a brow, unimpressed.

“Sweetheart, if I was in cahoots, you’d never catch me.”

Gia didn’t drop it. She watched the way Melissa refilled your glass again, how your eyes lingered too long. You felt it brewing: questions, whispers, a potential explosion.

After dinner, you stepped outside to catch your breath. The July air was thick, heavy with heat and the scent of basil from the backyard. You wiped sweat from your brow and tried to will your heart to slow down.

You could still hear the laughter inside: your grandmother cackling at something on TV, Gia rummaging in the fridge, Melissa’s voice low and teasing as she let the screen door creak shut behind her.

“Gonna stand out here all night?” she drawled.

You glared. “I needed…air.”

She raised a brow. “Air. Sure. Not like you’re trying to avoid me or anything.”

Your glare softened. She saw right through you.

“You’re making this impossible,” you hissed.

Melissa snorted. “What, dinner? Or this little performance you’re doing pretending we’re just friends?” She stepped closer, so close you could feel the warmth rolling off her. “C’mon. We’re not foolin’ anyone.”

Your chest squeezed.

“Please. Not now.”

Melissa’s jaw tightened. She exhaled, fighting the urge to argue. Then, gruffly, she brushed your hair back. “Hey. I know. I’ll behave. For now.”

“Melissa—”

She let out a long sigh and wrapped her arms around your waist, pressing her forehead to yours. “I know it’s messy,” she muttered. “But I’m not gonna stop wanting you.”

Your eyes burned. “Melissa—”

She kissed you, hard and unsteady, like she’d been holding her breath for weeks. You whimpered against her mouth.

You didn’t even hear the door swing open again until Gia’s voice rang out.

“Y/N? You out here? Grandma wants you.”

Melissa jerked away like she’d been burned.

“She’s right here!” she called back, voice far too bright.

You exhaled shakily, fixing your hair before following her back inside.

A Week Earlier

It had started in Melissa’s kitchen, like it always did.

You’d gone over under the flimsy excuse of fixing her printer.

“Gimme that,” she said, snatching the manual. “Neither of us is fixing shit tonight.”

You smirked. “Oh yeah? What are we fixing?”

Melissa’s eyes gleamed. “You. Don’t even pretend you came here for the printer.”

Before you could even blink, she had you lifted, strong arms hoisting you onto the cool kitchen counter like you weighed nothing. Her mouth crashed into yours, a pure, urgent need. She always kissed like a woman who knew what she wanted and had zero time for dilly-dallying. Her hands, rough from a lifetime of cooking and, well, living, were greedy. They didn’t just slide up your shirt; they bunched the fabric, tugging it up, fingers splayed wide against your bare ribs, tracing every sensitive curve. When her thumbs brushed your nipples through your bra, you gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound.

"You love playin' games, don't ya? Sneakin' around like we're in some damn soap opera," she growled against your lips, her voice a low rumble that vibrated through your bones.

You whimpered, "Melissa—"

She pulled back just enough to nip at your throat, a sharp, exhilarating little bite that had a shiver running straight down your spine. Her grin, a flash of pure devilment, was right against your skin. "Keep mouthing off, sweetheart. It's real cute. But we both know what you came here for."

Your legs, almost on their own, locked around her hips. She didn't just rock; she ground into you, a slow, deliberate pressure that had your core tightening, the friction a maddening promise. One hand, calloused and confident, slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers already hooking into your panties, teasing the very edge of your slickness. Slow, agonizingly slow, but so damn sure.

"Jesus, you're soaked," she muttered, her voice a rough murmur of satisfaction against your ear. "You're fuckin' killing me here, Y/N."

You cried out, a broken sound of pure pleasure, when she pushed two fingers inside you. Not just deep and steady, but seeking, exploring, finding that sweet spot with an unerring aim that made your vision blur. Her thumb wasn’t just circling your clit; it was applying precise, deliberate pressure, coaxing a moan that was already clawing its way up your throat.

"Melissa—oh my god—" you gasped, unable to hold back.

"Shh," she whispered, but it wasn't a demand for silence, it was a low, possessive murmur. She kissed you again, deep, silencing your moans with her own mouth, swallowing your cries as you started to unravel. "There it is. Don't you dare hold back on me, Y/N. Give it to me."

You finally broke apart in her arms, not just clenching, but spasming around her fingers, your body arching, raw and exposed. You didn't just cry her name; you sobbed it, a litany of pure release. She held you there on the counter, your legs still locked around her, her mouth never leaving yours, kissing you through every shuddering wave. She praised you softly, guttural little murmurs of "Good girl," and "That's it, doll," until you shivered with the delicious aftershocks, utterly breathless in her grasp.

When you finally caught your breath, she was smirking like the devil.

“Look at you. Christ, you’re trouble,” she said.

She raised her phone.

“Melissa, don’t—”

“Relax, doll. Not like I’m posting it on Facebook.”

She snapped the photo anyway, blurry, intimate, your shirt half-open, hair mussed, eyes hazy with pleasure.

You scowled, even as your heart raced.

“Delete that.”

“Not a chance.”

Back to the Present

Inside, your grandmother was waving her phone around.

“Melissa, how the hell do I make this bigger?”

Melissa frowned, leaning over. “What is it?”

You turned to stone when you saw the screen.

That photo. That photo.

You, on her lap. Shirt half-off. Face blissed out.

“Oh my god,” you croaked.

Melissa went white. She snatched the phone. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, give me that.”

Your grandmother blinked, squinting. “What’s that? Is that you?”

“NOTHING!” Melissa barked. “Forget you even saw it. I’m nuking the damn internet.”

Gia shrieked with laughter.

“WAIT. OH MY GOD. I KNEW YOU TWO WERE FUCKING!”

“Gia, shut UP,” you hissed.

Your grandmother was looking increasingly horrified and confused. “What are you yelling about? What photo?”

“NOTHING,” Melissa snapped. “It’s gone. It never existed. Capisce?”

Gia was howling. “Your face! Y/N’s FACE! I’m never gonna recover—”

You buried your face in your hands.

Later, when it finally calmed down (if you could call it that), you cornered Melissa in the hallway.

You were bright red. Furious. Mortified.

“You sent it to my grandmother?” you whisper-screamed.

Melissa winced.

“I meant to send it to you, okay? Don’t yell at me, I’m old.”

You let out a strangled laugh that was half a sob.

“Oh my god, Melissa.”

She dropped her head to your shoulder, mumbling against your neck. “I’m sorry, doll.”

You swallowed. “What the fuck do we do now?”

She lifted her head and met your eyes, brow raised in challenge. “Well. That secret’s shot to hell.”

You groaned.

Melissa’s smirk was slow, a little wicked, as her thumbs gently wiped away your frustrated tears. "Look on the bright side, doll," she rumbled, her voice low and confident. "Might not have to sneak around anymore, huh?"

Your chest tightened with a mix of dread and something else entirely. "We’re gonna have to explain this to my grandmother," you managed, the implication of everything hanging in the air.

Melissa gave a casual shrug, but her eyes held yours, a challenge in their depths. Her mouth twitched. "Yeah, well. Good thing I’m good with speeches. And your Nonna? She knows a thing or two about life. She'll get it."

And despite everything, despite your heart still pounding a frantic rhythm, your face on fire with mortification, your whole family probably still reeling in chaos, she leaned in. Not a quick peck, but a deliberate, slow advance. Her eyes dropped to your lips, then back to yours, asking permission without actually asking.

When her mouth finally met yours, it wasn't just soft or slow. It was a promise. A deep, deliberate press that tasted of Sunday sauce and a future she was absolutely claiming. Her hand came up to cup your cheek, calloused thumb stroking your skin, anchoring you. This wasn't just a kiss to soothe; it was a kiss that said, We're in this now. Together. And I'm not going anywhere, understand? You could feel the unspoken "Capisce?" in the way she held you, solid and unyielding.

[raspberryfingers]

You know the Minthara lovers are DEDICATED. Especially if they absolutely refuse to attack the Tieflings and Druids. Which means that they won't be able to romance her for at least... a few hours? A lot of hours? Like you have to go on a whole ass journey just to get to her.

[raspberryfingers]

We need more art of Minthara as buff and muscular cmon she’s a paladin her main stat is STRENGTH

[raspberryfingers]

It makes me so upset that this dialogue is broken because it’s SO BEAUTIFUL and she just doesn’t move her mouth💔💔

And just like that I have finally finished my Shadowheart origin run. Safe to say Minthy was a bad influence: we took the tadpole, kept the stones, but decided to go to the Underdark to reclaim her house. so sad Minthara is still so bugged but i really enjoyed this pairing!

[raspberryfingers]

The Way You Show Up

𝙈𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙖 𝙎𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞 𝙭 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 —

Fluff | mild bullying, implied trauma, comforting!reader, emotional validation

Word count | 2.2k

You weren’t sure what exactly you expected when you were hired as a classroom assistant at Abbott Elementary—but it probably wasn’t being thrown into the organized chaos of Melissa Schemmenti’s mixed second-and-third grade class.

The first day, you stepped into the room and were greeted by the scent of dry-erase markers and graham crackers—and the sight of Melissa standing at the front of the classroom like she owned the entire school.

Red hair pinned up with a pencil, sleeves rolled to the elbow, voice just loud enough to command the room without ever raising it. The kids listened to her like she was both principal and president.

“New aide,” she’d said simply, glancing at you before turning back to the whiteboard. “Take a seat, sweetheart. These kids’ll eat you alive if they smell fear.”

You didn’t sit—but you did hover awkwardly near the reading corner, wondering if you’d already made a mistake.

A few kids waved at you. A second grader offered you a sticker shaped like a frog.

Melissa didn’t say much, but you caught her watching you out of the corner of her eye as she handed out math worksheets. Appraising. Curious.

You weren’t sure if she liked you yet—but you knew one thing:

You wanted her to.

And not just because she had an air of confident competence you’d never felt in yourself. Not even just because she was... really, really good looking.

But because you could tell—beneath the sarcasm, behind the tough love—Melissa cared.

She cared about these kids. She cared about this room. She was the kind of person who made things better, and you wanted to be someone she trusted to do the same.

Maybe that was why, when the first real challenge came a few weeks later, you didn’t hesitate to act.

You didn’t even realize she was watching you��until afterward.

But that part comes later.

For now, the bell rang, the chairs scraped, and Melissa gave you the briefest smirk from across the room.

“Welcome to the jungle, kid.”

It started quietly.

The kind of thing you only caught because you were looking. You’d taken to keeping close watch during independent activities—between the hum of markers and the soft clatter of math tiles, there was always a chance for something to slip under the radar.

That’s when you noticed it.

A second grader named Jayla—sweet, shy, fond of coloring the grass purple and always humming to herself—was sitting curled up in the reading nook with a storybook and a well-loved elephant stuffie. Her sneakers tapped a soft rhythm under the beanbag.

And then there was Cameron.

A third grader with a voice just a little too loud, a need to prove he was smarter than everyone, and a history of “joking” that wasn’t always funny. Today, he hovered by Jayla’s spot, arms crossed.

You couldn’t hear what he was saying at first, but you saw it—Jayla shrinking in on herself, fingers tightening around her book.

You straightened from where you’d been restocking glue sticks and started making your way over, slow and casual, ears tuned.

“…You color like a baby,” Cameron was muttering. “Why do you always carry that dumb stuffed animal anyway? You’re in second grade, not daycare.”

Jayla said nothing. She looked down at the page, blinking hard.

It was like something in your chest quietly clicked into place.

Melissa was at the front of the room, helping a student with spelling tiles—her back turned for the moment. She trusted you to handle things.

And in that second, you weren’t the nervous new hire anymore. You were the adult this kid needed.

So you stepped closer, crouched down to their level, and said gently—but firmly—

“Hey, Cam? I think Jayla needs some quiet reading time. Why don’t you go check out the blocks?”

Cameron scowled. “I’m not doing anything wrong—”

You didn’t raise your voice. Just met his gaze. “I know. But I need your help with something, okay? Just over there.”

It took a second, but he huffed and walked off.

Jayla didn’t say anything. She just sat there with her book open, her elephant clutched tight, lower lip wobbling.

You moved in beside her, lowering your voice.

“Hey, sweetheart. Can I sit with you for a minute?”

She nodded.

You did. Close but not crowding, your voice warm as summer. “You didn’t do anything wrong. He was being unkind. You didn’t deserve that.”

Her eyes shimmered, but she didn’t speak.

So you stayed beside her, soft and still, letting her lean toward you if she wanted to. She did—just a little. Enough to make your heart squeeze.

You didn’t notice Melissa watching from the front of the room.

But she was.

And something in her expression had changed.

The last bell rang, and the classroom slowly emptied in a wave of backpacks, goodbyes, and forgotten pencil cases. You helped a few kids zip up jackets, waved to a parent or two, and finally let yourself breathe.

Jayla had hugged her elephant tight as she left, but she'd given you a small smile on her way out—and that was enough to make your whole day feel worth it.

You didn’t notice Melissa watching you again until the room had gone quiet.

She was leaning against the edge of her desk, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“You handle yourself pretty well,” she said finally, breaking the silence.

You blinked. “Oh—thanks. I wasn’t sure if I overstepped.”

Melissa shook her head. “Nah. You did the right thing.”

There was something about her tone. Not casual, but not clipped either. Almost… curious.

You rubbed the back of your neck, feeling a little awkward under her gaze. “I’ve worked with kids like Jayla before. Sometimes they need someone to just... show up, y’know?”

Melissa raised an eyebrow, but her mouth quirked like she was fighting a smile. “You say that like most people actually do.”

You shrugged. “Maybe they don’t. But I want to.”

For a long beat, she just looked at you—really looked at you. Her sharp edges softened, like the afternoon sun had finally reached her.

Then she gave a low hum and pushed off her desk.

“You’re alright,” she said, grabbing her coat from the back of her chair. “You ever want to lead a read-aloud or something, let me know.”

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest like tea in hot water. “Thanks, Melissa.”

She glanced back over her shoulder as she headed toward the door.

“Call me Mel.”

And then she was gone, red hair catching the light as the door swung closed behind her.

The following week, it happened again.

It was math time—kids paired off, markers squeaking on whiteboards, voices bouncing back and forth with addition facts and silly side conversations.

You were by the window, helping two third graders untangle a glue-stick mishap, when you noticed it—Jayla, again alone, and Cameron approaching her table.

You moved instinctively. Not running, not rushing—just there.

By the time you crossed the room, Cameron was already leaning close, muttering something low and cutting. You couldn’t hear the words, but you saw the way Jayla’s face crumpled, her shoulders hunching up like she was trying to fold herself away.

She was crying silently.

It was like the air got punched out of your lungs.

“Cam,” you said, firmer now. “Let’s take a walk.”

“But—”

“Nope. Walk. Now.”

You guided him away, handed him off to the teacher across the hall with a calm explanation, and returned to Jayla as fast as your legs would carry you.

She was still crying, book clutched to her chest like armor. And it broke you. Gently, you knelt beside her table, lowering your voice.

“Hey, Jayla-bug… I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

She didn’t speak, but her small hand reached out for yours—trembling, unsure—and you caught it immediately, wrapping her fingers up in your warmth.

“He doesn’t get to talk to you like that,” you said softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay? Not one thing.”

She wiped her face on her sleeve, barely looking up. “He said I’m a baby ‘cause I still like coloring books…”

You gave a small, sad smile. “I still like coloring books too. And I’m a grown-up. So what does that make me?”

That got a small laugh from her—just a breath—but it was there. Real. She leaned into you a little, and you gently rubbed her back, letting her cry out the rest of it.

Across the room, Melissa had stood from her desk.

She didn’t say anything. Just watched—fierce and quiet. Her gaze on you was different now.

Not just surprised.

Impressed.

And maybe... something deeper.

That day’s dismissal felt heavier somehow.

You stayed behind again, tidying up the crayon bins and re-shelving books while the kids filed out, their laughter trailing into the hallway like wind chimes.

Jayla had given you a little drawing before she left. It was simple—just a stick figure you with a big smile, holding hands with her and her elephant stuffie. A big, shaky heart framed the three of you.

You kept looking at it even as you stacked math blocks back into their bins.

“You got a fan club now, huh?”

You turned—Melissa was behind her desk again, jacket still off, sleeves still rolled up. Her voice had that usual dry edge, but her eyes didn’t match it.

You smiled a little, holding up the picture. “I mean, I do look pretty good with stick-figure hair.”

Melissa stepped around her desk, slower than usual. There was something quieter about her tonight. Measured. Less guarded.

“She trusts you,” she said, eyes not leaving yours. “Not many people get that far with kids like her.”

You felt your chest warm. “I’m just trying to be who I needed at that age.”

Melissa stopped near the bookshelf, close enough to speak softer now.

“That thing you said… about showing up?” She tilted her head. “You do more than that. You notice things. You see ‘em. That matters.”

You weren’t used to compliments from her—especially not ones that stuck like honey.

“I see you too, you know,” you said gently. “The way you protect them. The way you remember everything—like who hates raisins and who only writes with blue markers.”

Melissa blinked.

Then she gave the smallest, most real smile you’d seen from her yet. Not the smirk, not the dry amusement—just a flicker of warmth breaking through.

“You’re not bad,” she said, teasing just a bit to keep the softness from getting too obvious. “Kinda makes me mad how good you are with them.”

You laughed. “Guess I’m growing on you?”

“Like a weed,” she muttered.

But she didn’t move away.

And she didn’t stop looking at you.

The next morning, the classroom was quiet before the storm—sunlight spilling over the reading corner, crayons still scattered from yesterday’s free time.

You were in early. Always were now.

You liked the quiet, the calm before the kids came crashing in. You liked prepping the little things—the sharpened pencils, the tiny erasers, the notes with doodles you started leaving on Jayla’s desk every Monday.

You didn’t expect Melissa to walk in so early, coffee in hand and a look in her eyes that told you she’d been thinking.

“Morning,” you said softly, brushing a smudge of dust off the windowsill.

She leaned in the doorway for a moment, watching you the way someone watches something soft they aren’t sure they’re allowed to touch.

Then, without the usual sarcasm or smirk, she said:

“I meant what I said yesterday. You’re good at this.”

You turned to face her, surprised by how gentle her voice was. “Thank you.”

She walked further into the room, slowly. The heels of her boots made soft thuds on the tile. “I’ve been doing this a long time. Seen aides come and go. Some mean well. Some don’t last.”

Melissa stopped a few feet away from you, her arms crossed—not cold, just holding something close.

“You?” she said. “You stayed. You noticed. You made a kid feel safe.”

You smiled, eyes soft. “That’s kind of the job, isn’t it?”

“No,” she said. “That’s the kind of person you are.”

That landed in your chest like a warm stone.

Melissa looked at you like she was deciding something. Then, with uncharacteristic vulnerability, she added:

“Look… I don’t let people in easy. You probably figured that out.”

You didn’t interrupt. Just nodded once.

“But you’ve got something,” she said. “Something steady. Kind. You make this place better—them better.”

Her voice went a little quieter, eyes flicking to yours with something that looked a lot like trust.

“You make me better.”

For a long moment, neither of you said a word.

Then you crossed the space between you and touched her hand—lightly, not assuming, just offering.

Melissa didn’t pull away.

“I care about them,” you said, voice barely a whisper. “And I care about you, too.”

She didn’t smile, not quite. But her hand turned in yours and laced your fingers together.

Then, with a softness that only you got to see, she said:

“I know.”

And the bell rang.

But this time, you weren’t nervous about what came next.

Because you were exactly where you were meant to be.

[raspberryfingers]

there were so many moments i loved in the new crossover so im gonna list a few of my favorites in no particular order. SPOILERSSSS!!!!!!! YOUVE BEEN WARNED!!!!!!!!!!

- the beginning of epiosde janine and gregory interaction where janine cusses 😭😭😭 and gregory is just kind of like : 😨😥 then the whole "its good to know she didnt find gregory attractive" "😒" "WELL she shouldve. wait. no" omg. they have my heart.

- "are you pissing in that locker?"

- then the whole charlie thing abt how to avoid being called a white savior he shouldnt help black people??? im definitely not used to this type of humor in abbott but its a nice change imo 😭😭 its a little different than what im used to

- THE BASKETBALL RECRUITING SCENE WHERE JACOB WAS RIGHTFULLY FREAMING OUTTT DHSHSJZJS

- if anyone wants to remember coffee orders:

gregory: soy almond latte

janine: mocha grande half-caf with a splash kf vanilla

melissa: caramel machiato (idk if im spelling it right sorryyy 🥲)

- the odd outrage that came behind kids making 9/11 jokes? 😭😭😭

- "these people were passionate but they were dumb as shit" CLOCKED AVA 😭😭😭 omg shes actually such a diva

- then making their way to how the tiwn towers didnt exist then talking abt how their controlling the weather which i think was def referring to when they said (irl) the government was sending super storms to florida

- "i know it sounds crazy but i think at one point they were trying to start a boy band?" THE WAY. THESE PEOPLE TALK ABT THE ALWAYS SUNNY GROUP IS SO FUNNY TO ME.

- when dee attacked the cameras and it cuts to ava talking abt crazy white people 🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌

-JANINE PUNCHING THE LOCKER. THEN ICING HER FIST. OH SHE IS SO DEAR TO ME.

- melissa hating billy joel did hurt a little bc i am a bit of a billy joel warrior. but iove her just the same (janine being a billy joel warrior makes sense and i need headcanon and fanfiction makers to do something with that oml)

-barbara actually slayed so hard in the billy joel remake.

- the rant about fall out boy????? oh my god. this episode felt so frekaing random i loved every second of it. then barbara scorning them to the cameras. DIVAAAA

- i got really excited when they went to the bar. and got even more excited with the espresso machine forgetting that there is ill intent behind everything the always sunny people do.

my thoughts: it was definitely a change fro. abbott but i would say the superior half of the crossover. i knew it was gonna be more focused on the always suny crew but we baely saw melissa (im super biased) PUT MY QUEEN ON THE SCREEN OMFGGGGG I MISSED HER SO BAD. i do like the little amount of content we did see of her though.

[raspberryfingers]

Melissa Schemmenti at the Abbott Elementary and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia crossover s17e1: The Gang F***s Up Abbott Elementary

taglist: @morgana-larkin @milfjuulpod @winters-witch24 @schemmentigfs @schemmentisimpasours @m6niacs

[raspberryfingers]

the fact that melissa schemmenti didn't get to swear in the it's always sunny in philadelphia crossover episode is a tragedy

[raspberryfingers]

Smooth Like Whiskey pt 2

It's the next day after your incident. Melissa finds out, because of course she does.

This was originally supposed to be longer, but with the way my weekend is planned out, I knew I wouldn't be able to write as much as I wanted to... but this is an important piece of the story, so def read her

WC: ~1.3k

Part 1

The next morning is… practically unbearable. Your skin burns all over, and you’re still not quite sure how you’re going to get to work, never mind teach, without feeling like you’re body is still being held to the open flame or scalding pan. 

But, you know that substitutes have been few and far between, and you’re already a bit behind Melissa in math lessons because you’re students struggled with subtraction with borrowing. So with a few tears pricking at your eyes, you manage to get out of bed and dressed- all without waking the monster of a woman next to you.

As you head out of the room, your gaze lingers on Nicole. You almost take your engagement ring off and set it on her side of the bed. 

But you know that come tonight, you would have to face that wrath. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’ll stay if it means that you don’t ever have to deal with that again. It was a one off. It won’t happen again. At least that’s what you attempt to convince yourself of.

Getting to work is pure torture. You opt to drive with your good hand. Silently, you thank God that your dominant hand is not the one that you burned. Having to step on the gas pedal hurts like a bitch, and you wince each time that you have to do so. But the real pain comes from your abdomen. The seat belt rubbing up against your stomach aches like you’ve never felt before. On more than one occasion you contemplate just parking your car and walking the rest of the way, only for you to remember that your feet burn too much to endure the two mile walk that you would have left.

Eventually though, you arrive at your destination. You heave a heavy sigh as you gather all of your things on one arm and begin the limp up the steps and into the school. It’s pure agony as you set your things down and attempt to prepare for the day, your morning coffee surrendered in favor of avoiding your coworkers. 

It seems like you’ve succeeded in hiding away from your colleagues up until the last few minutes before the bell rings with the children. That failure is all because of your grade level partner. Her knock on your door startles you slightly.

“You’re here,” that low voice states quietly.

“I am.” You give a halfhearted wave, not really turning to look at her, and by the time you remember the gigantic burn mark on your hand, it’s too late. Melissa’s face falls, and her brows knit in concern. As you hear her boots coming closer, you turn. “What-”

“I was coming to see if there was a sub, but now I’m more concerned with what happened to your hand,” the redhead tells you. She reaches for your hand gently and turns it over. “Oh my God, Y/N.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you lie through your teeth. “I just burnt myself making dinner.”

“What the hell did you do? Put your hand on the open flame?” Melissa huffs out as she inspects your hand. In lieu of a response, you turn the color of your coworker’s hair. “Jesus Christ, Y/N.”

“It’s fi-”

“This is not fine,” the second grade teacher says sternly. “I’ll be right back. Just stay here.”

“Where are you-?”

“To get you a cold compress to hold on that hand while the kids have breakfast,” Melissa tells you. “And to grab you some coffee.”

She’s back before you know it, a damp rag in one hand, and a mug of coffee in the other. “Drink up while you can.”

You take the mug gratefully and begin to sip it as she looks at your wound again. “Is your ring bothering it?” You nod. “Okay, this is going to hurt, but it will help the healing process.”

She pulls your engagement ring from your finger, and it’s then and only then that you are thankful your ring never quite fit right. She sets it down on your desk with a regretful smile and places the cool rag on your hand. You sigh softly in content. You wish you could do this for the rest of your injuries, but it’s embarrassing enough that Melissa knows about your hand now.

“Thank you,” you whisper softly. “I really-” The bell rings and cuts you off.

“Keep that on there while the kids eat breakfast, and we can do it again at lunch,” the redhead tells you as she makes her way out of the room and towards her own classroom.

You thank the lord above that your students are distracted with the excitement of cinnamon buns for breakfast, and you can quietly shift the rag on your hand to your abdomen. You blow out a breath and pull your sweater a bit closer to your body.

You leave the rag on your stomach through your students’ breakfast, and it feels so much better with the compress. But then in the middle of your morning lesson, you get a bit warm and a bit overstimulated by both your shirt and your sweater- so the sweater is shedded. Because you’re sitting behind your desk, you don’t much remember the wet spot on your shirt. But when the time for your lunch comes around, there is still a wet spot that you seem to forget about.

When you walk into the staff room with the now mostly dry compress, Melissa’s gaze immediately goes to the dark spot of your shirt.

“Why’s your shirt all wet?” the redhead asks you, clearly concerned.

And because she’s asked you without you being able to come up with some sort of lie in your head, you fumble. You stutter out a few syllables before shutting your mouth.

Silently, your coworker pulls you out of the room and down the hall just a bit.

“Please tell me you don’t also have burns on your stomach.”

You just shrug bashfully.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N,” Melissa mutters as she turns on her heel and heads back to the lounge. You follow her, expecting to be mad- but instead she’s gathering her lunch and your lunch. She spins some story about how you both have to clean up a mess in your room before taking you out of there. The two of you stop at Mr. Johnson’s closet before she sighs heavily.

“So, should I be grabbing just one more rag, or…?”

“Two more,” you whisper.

She does as asked before taking you back to your classroom.

“I know you’re clumsy,” Melissa starts as she makes her way back to the sink in your classroom. The water starts running. “But not this clumsy. So tell me what happened- the truth.”

You know you have to lie at this point. “I’m just a klutz.”

“Mhmm, and I don’t make a good ziti.”

She returns back to where you’re awkwardly shifting from side to side at your desk before practically forcing you down. A cool compress is placed in your burnt hand before she looks to your stomach and then back to you. It’s as if she’s asking for permission to lift your shirt. You nod slightly, and you hate the gasp that Melissa can’t conceal in that moment.

“Hun,” Melissa tuts softly. She holds the cool rag to your skin as you hiss out in pain for a few seconds, but then your attention is in the direction of your classroom door at the clearing of a throat.

“”What the fuck?” Nicole. Your fiancee just caught you with another woman. Not only did she just catch you with another woman, but she’s caught you with another woman who has your shirt lifted up to the edge of your bra, and Melissa’s hand is still on your stomach.

Your heart drops. How the fuck are you going to explain this one?

TAGS: @schemmentis @thesapphictimelady @marvel210 @itisdoctortoyousir @morgana-larkin @doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou @sweetcheeksschemmenti @megamultifandomtrashposts @lemz378 @http-sam @melissaschemmentisbranzino @imaginesmultifandoms @sexysapphicshopowner @lilfartbox1 @maybe-a-humanbean @imlike-so-gaydude @a-queen-and-her-throne @notinmyvocab @melanielaufeyson @dvrkhcld @cosmichymns @sasheemo @m1lflov3rrr @ricejucie @temilyrights @emilynissangtr @squinnchy @emeraldoceansstuff @shinyfaerielights  @blkmxrvel @marvelwomenrule @casualfoxwitch @babytakeittothehead @schemmentits @eliscannotdance @m6niacs @fragile-angell @infernumlilith @milfjuulpod

[raspberryfingers]

Yeah yeah, Minthara has a bunch of red flags, but in my defense, she waves them so gracefully. it's mesmerizing.

[raspberryfingers]

Aleriia_V

[raspberryfingers]

Geralt describing Regis to Yen in Lady of the Lake.

[raspberryfingers]

cersei fitss

guys, i broke a leg

[raspberryfingers]

i havent gotten to watch the new always sunny abbott episode but the streets say that melissa is barely in it. the gun is to my head and im pulling the trigger.

[raspberryfingers]

request where reader is a new teacher and melissa doesn't like newbies and keeps saying or mumbling shit in italian but reader secretly understands everything bc she's fluent and after however many times when she insults her or something reader says something back to her in italian and she's all shocked haha

Sottovoce (under her breath)

(fluff/tension, pining, eventual smut at the end🥰)

Word Count: 2.8k

taglist <3: @writerspirit @schemmentigfs @myownworriedshoes

~

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. 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 fourth week, you started to look forward to the little chides. 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 leather 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.

Inevitably, 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.

Four 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, and there she was. 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. ⸻

The following week started with Melissa 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 tried not to. 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.

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 pants down and off at her ankles. 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."

[raspberryfingers]

Minthara, my dear friend...💅🧚‍♀️🗡

[raspberryfingers]

post cancelled im too homosexual for this