fisherld3

[fisherld3]

Quiet Confession

Prompt: Barbara finds out you’ve been staying late to help students and working too hard. One afternoon, she brings you tea and sits beside you, gently encouraging you to take care of yourself — and admits she’s been worrying about you more than she should.

Word Count: 900

It’s well past five when you finally notice how quiet the halls have become.

You glance at the clock. Another long day. Another set of papers to grade, lessons to prep, emails to answer. You rub the back of your neck, willing yourself to finish at least this one last stack before heading home.

You’re so focused you almost don’t hear the soft knock at your door.

When you look up, Barbara stands there — coat draped over her arm, purse slung on her shoulder, a cup of tea carefully balanced in her hand.

“May I come in?” she asks gently.

You blink, surprised. “Of course.”

She steps in, closes the door behind her. “I noticed you’re here late. Again.”

You offer a sheepish smile. “Just trying to catch up.”

Barbara hums knowingly. “You young teachers are all the same. Overworking yourselves to the bone.” She crosses the room and sets the tea down in front of you. “Here. Chamomile.”

The cup is warm between your fingers. “Thank you, Mrs. Howard.”

Her brow arches, her tone lightly teasing. “Barbara. I believe we’ve been over this.”

You can’t help but smile. “Barbara.”

She sits beside you, folding her hands neatly in her lap. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The soft hum of the building’s old heating system fills the space between you.

Finally, Barbara speaks. “You know… it is commendable. How dedicated you are to these children.”

You glance at her, heart fluttering just a little at the warmth in her voice. “They deserve it.”

“They do.” She pauses, her gaze steady. “But you deserve rest.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she shakes her head. “Now, don’t argue. I can see it in your eyes — you’re tired. Stretched too thin.”

You sigh, shoulders slumping. “There’s just always so much to do.”

Barbara’s expression softens. “Yes. There always will be.” She reaches out, her hand brushing yours lightly. “But you will not do them any good if you run yourself ragged.”

The simple touch, the care in her voice — it unravels something in you. For a second, your throat tightens.

Barbara notices, of course. Of course she does.

“I—” you begin, voice catching. “I guess… I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that.”

She smiles softly. “That is why I came.”

You look at her then — really look. There’s a tenderness in her eyes, something deeper than polite concern.

Almost as if she realizes it too quickly, Barbara draws her hand back, smoothing her skirt. “I— I have been worrying about you.” A faint blush colors her cheeks. “Perhaps… more than I should.”

Your heart skips. “I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

Her gaze meets yours, steady now. “No… I suppose it isn’t.”

Another quiet moment passes, full of words unspoken. The warmth of the tea seeps into your fingers. The warmth of her lingers far longer.

Finally, Barbara stands, smoothing her coat. “Promise me you’ll finish soon and go home.”

“I promise.”

“And… if you need anything,” she adds softly, “you’ll let me know?”

You nod, unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips. “I will.”

She offers one last, fond look — one that stays with you long after she leaves the room.

[fisherld3]

Detention Hearts — Part VII: “Snowed In”

Word Count: ~2,300

Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Snow Day Fluff, Cozy Domestic, Soft Melissa, Teasing & Banter

⸻

It starts with a text at 5:48 AM.

You groggily fumble for your phone as it buzzes on the nightstand:

Ava Coleman: School’s closed. Snowpocalypse 2025. Don’t come in unless you wanna freeze. XO

You blink at the screen.

Snow day.

You roll over—only to find Melissa, hair mussed, still half-asleep beside you. One arm thrown lazily across your waist.

The sight sends a warm little pulse through your chest.

You smile. Brush her hair back.

“Hey, snow day.”

She grumbles. “M’not awake.”

“We don’t have to be. School’s closed.”

That earns a sleepy blink, then a smirk.

“Good. You’re stayin’ here.”

⸻

You hadn’t planned to stay at Melissa’s last night.

Just a late dinner. Some wine. The usual bickering-that-turns-into-kisses.

But then the roads iced over, and she’d looked at you with that mix of stubbornness and quiet worry.

“You’re not driving in that, Rookie. Keys down. You’re stayin’.”

You hadn’t argued.

⸻

By 8 AM, the city is blanketed—thick white drifts on every surface.

You find Melissa in the kitchen, barefoot, hair in a messy bun, scooping coffee into the pot.

She glances up. Smirks.

“Look who’s finally up.”

“Technically I’ve been up since your snoring woke me at five.”

She gasps, mock offense.

“Snoring?! Please. I’m graceful even in sleep.”

You grin. Steal a kiss as you pass.

“Sure you are.”

⸻

Coffee turns into pancakes—messy, delicious. The two of you shoulder to shoulder at the tiny counter, arguing over the right amount of cinnamon.

“It’s too much, Rookie.”

“It’s not enough. Trust me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Stubborn.”

You grin. “You love it.”

A beat.

Then, soft:

“Yeah. I do.”

Your heart flips, simple as that.

⸻

Midmorning, the snow’s still falling heavy.

Melissa peers out the window, frowning.

“We’re not going anywhere today.”

You smile. “Good. I like being stuck with you.”

She raises a brow. “You sure? Could be hours. Could be days.”

You step closer, looping your arms around her waist.

“You threatening me with a good time?”

She smirks. “You’re ridiculous.”

But she’s leaning in, lips brushing yours.

“Lucky for you… I’m feelin’ ridiculous too.”

⸻

By noon, you’ve exhausted all the usual distractions.

You try watching a movie—Melissa gripes about the plot within five minutes. You try a puzzle—lasts ten minutes before turning into a competition.

Finally, sprawled across her couch, you sigh dramatically.

“We’re gonna die of boredom.”

Melissa snorts, curled against your side.

“Speak for yourself. I’m cozy.”

And she is—warm, soft sweater, cheek resting against your chest.

You can’t stop running your fingers through her hair.

“This is nice,” you murmur.

She hums. “Yeah. Real nice.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“I could get used to this.”

You blink.

Melissa Schemmenti—the woman who fought this thing tooth and nail for months—just said she could get used to you like this.

Your heart nearly bursts.

⸻

By late afternoon, the storm’s still going strong.

You venture out long enough to shovel her steps—Melissa protests but lets you, standing at the window with a cup of coffee, scowling like a worried mom.

When you come back in, half-frozen, she meets you with a towel and a hot cup of cocoa.

“Told you,” she mutters, fussing. “Coulda slipped. You never listen.”

You grin.

“But then you wouldn’t get to play nurse.”

She swats your arm, but her cheeks flush pink.

⸻

Evening settles in.

Outside, the city’s silent—snow muffling every sound.

Inside, Melissa lights a few candles. The heater hums. Her little rowhouse is warm, safe, yours for now.

You’re curled together on the couch, blankets piled high, her head on your shoulder.

No school tomorrow. No plans. Just the two of you, snowed in.

And for once—you’re both okay with slowing down.

⸻

Melissa breaks the quiet first.

“Hey.”

You glance down. “Yeah?”

She shifts to face you, expression soft.

“You know… I like this. Us.”

You smile. “Me too.”

“And you—bein’ here? Feels right.”

Your chest tightens—so full of her, of this.

“I love you.”

A breath. Then her smirk returns, teasing.

“Took you long enough to say it today.”

You laugh, pulling her closer.

“I’ll say it as many times as you want.”

She leans in, kiss slow and sweet.

“Good. ‘Cause I love you too, Rookie. Snow or no snow.”

⸻

Outside, the storm rages on.

Inside, wrapped in her arms—you’ve never felt warmer.

⸻

END PART 7

[fisherld3]

Hard to Love You — After Hours

Prompt: Continuation of Request.

Word Count: 2,350 words

Genre List:

• Romance

• NSFW / Smut

• Emotional Intimacy

• First Time

• Flirty Banter

• Soft Dom Melissa

⸻

It surprised you how easy it felt after the first date.

Dinner turned into drinks. Drinks turned into lingering conversation on her couch. And that, somehow, had turned into the two of you sitting closer, touching more—until the tension that had been buzzing between you for months was finally too thick to ignore.

Now here you were—back at her apartment again, only this time… things had shifted.

Melissa’s fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt as you kissed her—slow, deep, insistent. You could feel the way her body leaned into yours, her usual composed control giving way to something softer, hungrier.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against her lips, “Still think I’m an idiot?”

Melissa huffed, her voice low and amused. “Oh, absolutely.”

You opened your mouth for a comeback, but she kissed you again—harder this time—and suddenly words didn’t seem important anymore.

⸻

You weren’t sure how you ended up straddling her lap on the couch, hands tangled in her hair, but you weren’t complaining.

Melissa’s hands traced up your thighs, squeezing softly before sliding under your shirt, callused palms warm against your skin. You gasped when her thumbs brushed under your bra, arching into her touch.

“You drive me crazy, y’know that?” she murmured against your neck.

“Pretty sure that’s mutual,” you managed, tugging at her shirt in return.

She grinned. “Then maybe we should do somethin’ about it.”

Her mouth trailed down your throat, slow and deliberate, while her fingers expertly unclipped your bra. You let it fall aside, breath hitching when her lips closed over one nipple, tongue flicking teasingly.

“Fuck, Mel—” You tangled your fingers in her hair, pulling her closer. The sensation sent sparks shooting through you, thighs tightening around her hips.

Melissa chuckled low in her throat. “Such a mouth on you.” She bit softly, then soothed the spot with her tongue. “I like that.”

By the time she eased you back onto the couch cushions, you were trembling with want. Her hands slid down your sides, hooking into your waistband.

“Can I?” she asked, voice rough with restraint.

“Yes,” you breathed, lifting your hips so she could peel everything away—leaving you bare beneath her.

Melissa just looked at you for a moment, eyes dark with hunger. “Christ. You’re gorgeous.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, but before you could get shy about it, her mouth was on you again—kissing, tasting, dragging slow, sinful licks down your stomach until you were gasping.

When she finally slid between your thighs, you barely had time to register the wicked glint in her eyes before her mouth was on you—hot, wet, devastatingly good.

You cried out, hips bucking, but her hands gripped your thighs firmly, keeping you in place.

“That’s it,” she murmured against you. “Just let me take care of you.”

And fuck—she did. Every slow lick, every gentle suck built you higher, until your whole body was straining toward her. Melissa moved with maddening skill, reading every little gasp and shiver, her pace perfectly in tune with your need.

When her fingers joined her mouth—sliding deep, curling just right—you shattered, crying her name as you came apart beneath her.

⸻

Later, wrapped in her arms beneath the covers, you finally found your voice again.

“So,” you teased breathlessly, “still think I’m hard to love?”

Melissa pressed a kiss to your shoulder, smiling softly. “Not hard. Just… hardheaded.”

You laughed, turning to kiss her properly this time—slow, tender, everything unspoken between you.

And from the way she held you afterward, arms wrapped tight around your waist, you knew without a doubt: whatever this was between you, it was only just beginning.

[fisherld3]

What you broke, what you keep 💔- “The Silence You Left Behind”

(Miranda’s inner monologue)

Prompt: Companion to the slow burn fic. This is her guilt, her longing, her awareness of what she broke — her side of the ache, in her own head.

Word Count: 1.2k

You knew.

Of course you knew.

The first day she walked into your office — clumsy, eager, heartbreakingly earnest — you knew.

You saw the way her gaze followed you. The way her breath caught when your voice softened. The way her pulse quickened when you so much as looked in her direction.

It had been a long time since anyone had looked at you like that — with something unjaded, uncalculated, untouched.

And you used it.

You won’t pretend otherwise now, sitting here in this too-empty townhouse, glass of scotch untouched on the table.

You used it. Her.

Because it was easy. Because it was power. Because it felt… good to be wanted that way again.

And because deep down — though you’d never have admitted it even to yourself — some part of you wanted her too.

Wanted her warmth, her youth, her heart.

But instead of taking the risk, instead of giving back, you took what was offered and gave nothing in return.

You kept her near with scraps of approval, tiny, calculated kindnesses. Enough to keep her hoping. Enough to keep her tethered.

And you told yourself it wasn’t cruel. It was practical. Necessary.

You told yourself she would leave eventually — they all did.

You hadn’t counted on what it would feel like when she did.

⸻

When she walked away in Paris, something cracked.

You told yourself it was anger. Disappointment. Professional irritation.

But it wasn’t.

It was loss.

A sharp, hollow ache you didn’t dare name.

And when the weeks turned to months, and her absence lingered — louder, somehow, than her presence had ever been — that ache only grew.

⸻

You told yourself you didn’t care when she wouldn’t answer your messages. When the flowers you sent were returned.

You told yourself you were above chasing after some girl — even if she wasn’t just any girl.

But when her bylines began appearing in the Times, in the New Yorker — when you heard her name spoken with admiration, with respect — you found yourself saving the articles, reading them again and again.

And when you saw her again — across that glittering ballroom — and she greeted you with nothing more than a polite, distant nod…

You felt it then.

The regret.

Bone-deep, undeniable.

⸻

You tried, after that.

You told yourself you weren’t trying. But you were.

An invitation here, a note there. Nothing so overt as to bruise your pride — but enough to offer an opening.

She gave you nothing.

And somehow… you admired her for it. Even as it drove you mad.

⸻

When you finally forced yourself to say the words — I owe you an apology — you felt stripped bare.

And when she looked at you with those clear, steady eyes, and said: You took something from me — you wanted, absurdly, to beg.

To tell her you knew. That you saw it now. That you would give anything to take it back, to do it differently.

But Miranda Priestly did not beg.

So you stood there, your throat tight, and let her walk away again.

⸻

It would have been easier if she’d hated you.

But when she said: I wish I did — that was the sharpest cut of all.

Because it meant there was still something there. Still some ember, buried beneath the wreckage.

And you wanted, desperately, to earn the right to fan it back to life.

⸻

So you began again. Slowly. Quietly.

No pressure. No demands.

Just steady effort.

A kind word. A thoughtful gesture. A space held open, with no expectation.

And when she finally — finally — met you for coffee, and you sat across from her in that tiny café, watching her fingers curl around her cup…

You dared to hope.

⸻

It took more than a year. God, you’d never worked so hard for anything in your life.

But it wasn’t work.

It was… something else. Something deeper.

Because somewhere along the way, this had stopped being about guilt. About penance.

You didn’t want to be forgiven so you could walk away clean.

You wanted her.

You wanted her laughter in your house. Her mind beside yours. Her warmth in your bed.

But most of all, you wanted to be worthy of her this time.

⸻

When she stopped you that night — her hand at your wrist, her whisper: Not yet —

You wanted to fall to your knees.

Because it meant she was thinking about it.

Thinking about letting you in.

And that was more than you deserved.

⸻

Now, lying here in the dark, side by side in her bed, your fingers barely brushing hers — you scarcely dare to breathe.

You feel her warmth, hear the quiet rhythm of her breath, and it terrifies you more than any boardroom ever has.

Because this — this fragile new thing between you — could still shatter with a single wrong move.

And for the first time in your life, you have no plan, no strategy.

Only this:

You will wait.

You will prove it.

You will give her everything she never let herself ask for.

As long as it takes.

⸻

[END]

⸻

[fisherld3]

“Back at Work”

Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

Continuation of “First Date” — 2,102 words

Genre: romance, fluff, tension, humor, secret relationship beginnings

⸻

You woke Saturday morning grinning into your pillow.

That kiss.

That date.

Melissa’s crooked smile when she’d called you “sweetheart.”

It all felt too good to be real. For a minute, you worried that Monday at work might be… awkward. That Melissa would pull away again, or that somehow things would snap back to that cold distance from the fall.

But then your phone buzzed:

Melissa: You free for lunch today?

If I wait til Monday to see you again I’m gonna lose my mind.

You laughed, heart fluttering.

You: I’d like that. Pick me up?

⸻

You spent most of the weekend with her after that—lazy lunch, slow walk through the park, long conversation at her place that lasted late into the night. The walls she usually kept up were softer now, her touches gentler, voice rough when she said your name.

You didn’t sleep over yet—but the way she kissed you goodnight at your door left no doubt about how badly she wanted to.

When Monday rolled around, you walked into Abbott feeling… lighter. Warm, even with the chill outside. But also a little nervous.

Because while the two of you knew where this was going, the rest of the staff had no idea.

And you weren’t quite ready to hand your private happiness over to the gossip mill just yet.

⸻

Melissa seemed to get it.

You spotted her at her classroom door first thing, talking with a student’s parent. When your eyes met, her mouth quirked in a private little smile—nothing obvious, nothing that would draw attention. But it made your heart race anyway.

⸻

In the lounge at lunch, you took your usual seat across the table. Melissa strolled in late, grabbed her coffee, leaned against the counter—eyes flicking to yours, the barest lift of her brow.

It was ridiculous how giddy it made you.

Jacob, oblivious, launched into a story about his weekend volunteering with the community garden. Janine chimed in about an art project she wanted to try with her kids.

You nodded, half-listening—until you noticed Barbara giving you a Look across the table. Subtle. Knowing.

Your stomach flipped.

Barbara was too sharp not to notice things. You could feel it—her eyes drifting from you to Melissa, to the little glances that probably weren’t as subtle as you thought.

⸻

After lunch, you escaped to your classroom. Five minutes later, there was a light knock on your door.

Melissa peeked in. “Hey.”

You smiled, setting down your mug. “Hey.”

She closed the door behind her, leaning back against it.

“Everything okay?” you asked.

“Yeah.” Her voice was low. “Just… missed you.”

You bit your lip. “We just had lunch.”

“Didn’t get to talk to you.” She crossed the room in a few strides, stopping close. “You looked real cute in there, tryin’ to act all normal.”

Your cheeks warmed. “You didn’t exactly help.”

Her grin turned wicked. “I wasn’t trying to.”

Before you could answer, she brushed a kiss to your cheek—quick, light.

You blinked. “Melissa! What if someone walks in?”

She smirked. “Door’s locked. I checked.”

Still, you shook your head, laughing softly. “We’re terrible at this.”

“Maybe.” She tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, her thumb grazing your cheek. “You worried what they’ll think?”

You hesitated—honest. “A little.”

Her expression softened. “That’s fine. We’ll go slow. Far as they know, we’re still sworn enemies.”

You huffed a laugh. “Worked so well for us before.”

Melissa leaned in, voice rough. “Worked fine the minute you kissed me back.”

You flushed, pulse racing—but just then, the bell rang in the hall, making you both jump.

Melissa sighed, stepping back. “Later,” she murmured.

And with one last wink, she slipped out.

⸻

By Thursday, it was getting harder to hide.

The little glances. The way you lingered by her classroom door between periods. The way she’d started calling you “hon” in the lounge without even noticing.

Even Jacob—sweet, clueless Jacob—seemed to pick up on it.

During lunch, as you passed Melissa refilling her coffee, Jacob suddenly asked:

“So… did you two finally make peace? Been months of tension.”

You nearly choked on your water.

Melissa arched a brow, calm as anything. “Maybe we did.”

Jacob blinked. “Wow. That’s… progress!” He beamed, oblivious.

Janine, across the table, wasn’t so easily fooled. Her eyes narrowed—bouncing between you and Melissa. “Huh.”

You avoided her gaze, busying yourself with your sandwich. But Barbara, sitting nearby, just sipped her tea—looking very, very smug.

⸻

That afternoon, as dismissal chaos quieted the halls, Melissa cornered you by the copy machine.

“Think the jig’s up,” she murmured, voice low in your ear.

You shivered. “You think?”

She smirked. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

You nudged her with your elbow, trying to keep it light. “I just didn’t want the whole school speculating yet.”

Her gaze softened. “Hey. We’ll go at your pace.”

You exhaled, warmth spreading through your chest. “Thank you.”

Melissa tilted her head. “Of course. You think I’d risk losin’ this already?”

She brushed her fingers lightly down your arm before stepping away—leaving you blushing, heart pounding.

⸻

Friday afternoon, just before dismissal, you found a folded note slipped into your desk drawer.

Your breath caught when you opened it:

Dinner tonight? My place. You pick the movie. Bring a toothbrush this time. — M.

You bit your lip, smiling so wide it hurt.

You didn’t answer right away—just caught her eye across the hall as you walked past her door, flashing a little grin. She winked, knowing.

Maybe next week the staff would know. Maybe soon the whispers would start.

But for now, it was yours—this secret warmth, this soft thing growing between you.

And God, it was good.

[fisherld3]

Sanctuary in the Dark 💀– Part V

Theme: Soft, awkward, protective Miranda after the council; first truly quiet night together

Pairing: Mother Miranda x Reader

⸻

The door to Miranda’s chambers closed with a heavy thud behind you.

You exhaled shakily—your heart still racing from the tension of the council meeting.

Miranda had kept hold of your hand the entire time, her wings subtly spread, a quiet but unmistakable warning to the Lords. None of them had dared speak against her—not even Alcina.

But their gazes had lingered. Watching you. Measuring.

And now that you were finally alone, the weight of it hit you all at once—exhaustion, nerves, the sheer wrongness of how this had all begun… and the deeper part of you that, despite everything, wanted her.

Miranda crossed the room in a slow, graceful stride. Without her ceremonial robes, dressed simply in soft black silk, she looked almost human—almost… approachable.

Her golden eyes met yours.

“You are trembling,” she said softly.

You hadn’t realized you were.

“It was… a lot,” you whispered, sinking down on the edge of the bed. “They all looked at me like—like I didn’t belong.”

Miranda moved closer, crouching before you. She took your hands in hers—warm, steady.

“You belong here,” she said firmly. “They will see that soon enough. But for now…”

Her gaze flickered—uncertain, almost awkward.

“You need rest.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “That’s… one word for it.”

Miranda’s brows drew together—concerned. A rare softness touched her voice:

“You are not… used to such attention. Nor such power.”

You blinked. “Power?”

“You have it now,” Miranda said simply. “Through me. You will be protected, feared. Envied. It is… a great burden for one unprepared.”

She rose gracefully, her wings folding behind her.

“I should have eased you into this life,” she added, quieter. “But my own hunger… made me impatient.”

That last admission—so honest, so vulnerable—made your chest tighten.

“Miranda…”

Before you could finish, she sat beside you—close, not touching yet.

“You were afraid today,” she said. “And still you stayed.”

Her golden eyes searched yours—intense, searching, but not cruel.

“I do not understand this,” she said softly, almost to herself. “How you… undo me.”

It hit you then—she truly didn’t know how to handle these feelings. Power, yes. Obsession, yes. But this slow-burning affection, this raw longing to protect and keep—this was new even to her.

You swallowed. “I don’t understand it either.”

A long silence stretched between you.

Then—hesitantly—you reached for her hand.

Miranda stilled. Her breath caught faintly. But she didn’t pull away.

“Stay with me tonight,” she whispered, so soft you barely heard it.

“I wasn’t going to leave,” you answered honestly.

A faint, almost relieved smile touched her lips.

⸻

Later—after the heavy robes had been set aside, the lights dimmed—you lay together beneath thick velvet covers.

Miranda was quiet now—her arms around you, wings half-spread behind her in a protective arc.

Her fingers traced slow, idle patterns along your back—tentative, as though unsure what comfort should look like.

“I will not let them harm you,” she said quietly into your hair. “Any of them.”

“I know,” you murmured.

Another long pause. Then—softly—“I have not… cared for another in so long.”

You turned your face toward her throat, voice barely above a whisper: “You’re doing fine.”

She exhaled slowly, tension easing from her frame.

“It is… strange,” she admitted. “I have ruled so long with cold hands. Now I find myself wanting to… keep you close. To protect. To comfort. I do not know how.”

Your heart clenched.

“You’re doing better than you think,” you whispered.

Another silence—softer, this time. Warmer.

Then you felt her lips press against your temple, her arms tightening around you.

“Mine,” she murmured softly. “And I… yours.”

You should have been terrified. You should have run.

But instead, you leaned closer.

“Yours,” you echoed quietly.

⸻

Somewhere, deep in the night, you drifted to sleep in her arms.

And for the first time since this all began—you did not dream of running.

⸻

[fisherld3]

I’ve got you

Prompt: “Thena having a Mahd Wy’ry episode and you being the only one who can calm her down”

Word count: 4k

Genre: Hurt/comfort, angst, love confession, established relationship (slow-burn vibes), fluff, soft smut implied toward the end.

The old temple groaned under the wind, stone and sand hissing through cracked columns. You pressed your back against one of the sturdier walls, rubbing tired fingers over your eyes.

It had been a long week. Too long.

The Deviant nest they’d tracked through half of Central Asia had been deeper and more sprawling than they’d feared. Everyone was exhausted — even Gilgamesh looked spent. Druig was pacing. Makkari hadn’t stopped scouting the perimeter.

And Thena —

You opened your eyes again, gaze settling on her.

She knelt by one of the broad flagstones, sketching in the dust with the point of her blade. Pale hair spilled over her shoulder, catching the faint light. Her face was calm. Distant, but calm.

You’d been watching her for days — the little signs that no one else seemed to notice. The distracted silences. The faint tremor in her hand after a fight. The way her eyes sometimes darted to shadows that weren’t there.

Mahd Wy’ry. You knew it before she’d even said a word.

The others thought it had passed after Gil’s death, after they’d rallied to fight the Celestial. But you knew better. It came and went.

And tonight—

Snap.

The sound rang sharp in the quiet. You jerked upright.

Thena’s hand had frozen mid-sketch, her blade tip snapped clean in two. Her breath hitched, shoulders tense. Her whole body had gone still in that too-familiar way.

You were moving before the others even noticed.

“Thena?” you called softly, crossing the floor.

No answer.

Her other hand twitched — a flash of gold light burst to life, forming a long, curved blade in her palm. Her breath came faster, eyes wide and glassy.

Gil’s voice echoed in your mind: She won’t mean it. Don’t fight her. Just reach her.

“Thena.” You stopped a few paces away, palms up, voice steady. “It’s me. You’re safe.”

The others were stirring now — Ajak stepping forward, Druig cursing under his breath.

“No,” you said sharply, not looking away from Thena. “Stay back.”

She would only retreat further if they all crowded her. She needed calm. A single voice.

You took another step closer.

Her blade swung — not at you, but wide, wild, striking at shadows only she could see.

You didn’t flinch.

“It’s okay,” you said gently. “You’re not alone. I’m right here.”

A flash of gold — her gaze snapped to you. Glowing, unfocused, full of panic.

Your heart twisted.

“Just look at me, Thena. Stay with me.”

Another step. Close enough now to see her hands trembling, her whole body taut like a drawn bow.

Slowly, slowly, you reached out — hands brushing her shoulders, light as a breath.

“It’s me,” you whispered. “You know me. You’re safe.”

For a long, agonizing moment, the blade remained, shimmering between you.

Then—

Her breathing hitched. Shallow at first, then deeper. Her shoulders sagged, blade flickering.

“I—” her voice cracked. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” you whispered, leaning your forehead gently against hers. “You’re not lost. I’ve got you.”

The blade faded.

With a soft, broken sound, Thena slumped forward, her weight folding into you. You caught her easily, arms wrapping around her as she trembled in your hold.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered again, voice steady, soft. “I’m here. Always.”

⸻

It took almost an hour to settle her.

The others watched from a distance, silent, eyes full of worry. Even Druig didn’t make a snide remark — he just paced, glancing at you now and then.

You kept Thena close, seated now against the temple wall, her head tucked against your shoulder. Her breathing was slow but uneven, lashes damp, fingers clinging tightly to your shirt.

Every few minutes she’d shudder — caught in some half-memory you couldn��t see. You’d only tighten your arms, murmur soft reassurances until she stilled again.

You didn’t know how long you sat there. Time blurred.

When at last her grip eased and her body stopped trembling, you leaned your cheek against her hair.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

A soft, tired voice answered: “I’m sorry.”

You closed your eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I—” Her voice broke again. “I could have… I almost—”

You shifted just enough to meet her gaze, cupping her face gently in your hands.

“But you didn’t,” you said firmly. “You came back. You always do.”

She looked at you then, eyes wide, vulnerable in a way few had ever seen.

And something in you ached at the sight — fierce and protective. You would hold her through a thousand nights if it meant keeping her safe from this.

⸻

Much later, after the others had finally drifted to sleep or watch shifts, you coaxed her to her feet.

“Come with me,” you murmured.

She didn’t resist.

You led her to a quieter corner of the ruins, a small alcove half-sheltered from the wind. Laid out your cloak for her to sit, then gathered a second to drape over her shoulders.

“Are you cold?” you asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

You sat beside her anyway, close enough that your arms touched.

For a long time neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the distant wind and the slow beat of her breathing.

Finally—

“You shouldn’t have come so close,” Thena whispered, voice thin. “I could have—”

“You didn’t,” you said again.

Her hands tightened in her lap. “It’s getting worse.”

You didn’t deny it.

“I can see them,” she whispered. “The others. The old ones. Places I don’t remember being, people I never met — but I know them. And sometimes—” Her voice cracked. “Sometimes I can’t tell what’s real.”

You reached out, threading your fingers gently through hers. “You’re here. Right now. With me. This is real.”

She looked at your joined hands, then at you. Her gaze shimmered, weary and soft.

“Why?” she whispered. “Why do you stay?”

Your heart squeezed. You drew in a slow breath, steadying your voice.

“Because I love you,” you said simply.

She went still.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” you went on. “Long before tonight. Long before Mahd Wy’ry. Nothing will change that.”

Her throat worked silently, lips parted.

For a moment, you thought she’d pull away — that the weight of everything would crush whatever fragile hope had stirred between you.

But then—

She leaned in, resting her forehead softly against yours.

A whisper, barely audible: “…I love you too.”

You exhaled, breath shaky with relief and tenderness.

“I know,” you murmured. “I know.”

⸻

The hours stretched on. Neither of you moved.

Finally, near dawn, you shifted slightly, brushing a kiss to her temple. “You should rest.”

“I can’t.” Her voice was hoarse. “If I sleep… the memories come back.”

“Then I’ll stay awake with you,” you said. “As long as it takes.”

Her fingers curled tighter around yours.

“…I don’t deserve you,” she whispered.

You turned her gently toward you, cupping her cheek.

“Don’t say that.”

“But I—”

You silenced her with a soft kiss — light, reverent, full of everything words couldn’t hold.

When you drew back, her eyes shimmered again — but not with fear.

With love.

⸻

Much later still, when the first pale light touched the horizon, you coaxed her down to lie against your chest.

“Just close your eyes,” you murmured, stroking her hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

This time, slowly, she did.

You stayed awake long after, holding her close as the new day rose, vowing silently:

Whatever comes — whatever this is — I will never leave you.

[fisherld3]

“First Date”

Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

Continuation of “Mean” —

1,726 words

Genre: romance, fluff, a little humor, soft but very much in character

Things didn’t magically change overnight.

But after that kiss—after Melissa finally said the words—you both stopped pretending.

You still danced around each other a little at school, neither of you eager to give the lounge gossips fresh material. But the tension had shifted. Softer. Anticipating.

She texted more now. Stopped by your room for no reason other than to talk. Sometimes brought coffee, sometimes just a smirk and a “Hey.”

You caught yourself smiling more.

And you caught her looking, often.

⸻

It was a Tuesday when she asked.

Late in the afternoon, after the kids were gone and most of the building had emptied out, you were cleaning up your classroom when Melissa knocked on the open door.

“Hey,” she said, a little awkward. “You got a minute?”

You straightened, heart giving a familiar little jump. “Of course.”

She stepped in, hands shoved in her jacket pockets. For once, she wasn’t all swagger—there was something almost… shy in the way she shifted her weight.

“So listen,” she said, glancing at the floor, then back at you. “I know we’ve been… whatever this is.” She gave a vague gesture between you, lips twitching. “But if you’re up for it, I was thinkin’ maybe I could take you out. Like a real date.”

Your heart skipped.

“I mean—no pressure,” she added quickly. “If you’re not ready, that’s fine. I can wait. Just figured… it’s time I did this the right way.”

You smiled—warm and a little breathless. “I’d like that.”

Her relief was visible. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” She grinned, finally loosening up. “I got a place in mind. Friday, seven?”

“Perfect.”

⸻

Friday came, and you were nervous.

Not that you hadn’t spent time alone with Melissa before—plenty of late-night chats, plenty of lingering moments—but this was different. This was a date. And you couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss.

You settled on a simple dress and boots—polished, but not trying too hard. When Melissa texted “Outside when you’re ready” you took a deep breath and headed down.

She was waiting by her car—dark jeans, leather jacket, hair loose around her shoulders. When she looked up and saw you, her mouth actually parted a little, eyes sweeping over you.

“Damn,” she said softly. “You look good.”

Your cheeks flushed. “So do you.”

She grinned and opened the passenger door for you. “Come on.”

⸻

She drove you to a little Italian place—off the beaten path, not too fancy, not too loud. The kind of spot where the waiters knew her by name.

“Thought this might be better than one of those pretentious places downtown,” she said as you slid into the booth. “Food’s better, anyway.”

You smiled. “It’s perfect.”

She looked almost… nervous. Like she actually cared what you thought. It tugged at your heart.

Over wine and pasta, conversation flowed easier than you expected.

She asked about your family. Listened when you talked about why you’d become a teacher. Told you stories about Abbott from before you’d arrived—some hilarious, some unexpectedly sweet.

More than once, you caught her watching you mid-laugh, a softness in her gaze that made your stomach flip.

⸻

By the time dessert came, you were leaning in closer, voices dropping. The rest of the room faded.

Melissa toyed with her fork, then glanced up.

“You know,” she said softly, “when you first showed up, I didn’t know what to do with you.”

You tilted your head. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” She huffed a little laugh. “You were smart. Good with the kids. Funny. You made me nervous. So naturally, I acted like an asshole.”

You reached across, fingers brushing hers. “You’re not an asshole. Not anymore.”

Her lips curved. “Only for people who deserve it.”

A pause.

“Glad you didn’t give up on me,” she added quietly.

Your chest tightened. “Me too.”

⸻

After dinner, you drove back in comfortable silence. She walked you to your door.

You lingered there, key in hand, nerves buzzing.

Melissa rocked back on her heels, looking at you with that unreadable gaze. “So…”

“So,” you echoed, heart racing.

She smiled faintly. “Can I kiss you again?”

You didn’t answer—just leaned in.

This kiss was slower than the first. Deeper. Her hands settled at your waist, yours curling behind her neck.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, Melissa rested her forehead against yours.

“Next time,” she murmured, voice low, “I’m keepin’ you out longer.”

You laughed softly. “Looking forward to it.”

“Good.” One more quick kiss. “Sleep tight, sweetheart.”

And with a wink, she was gone—leaving you grinning like a fool against your front door.

⸻

[fisherld3]

Sanctuary in the Dark 💀– Part lV

Theme: The Lords find out; Miranda’s possessiveness; tension and awkward court politics

Pairing: Mother Miranda x Reader

⸻

You didn’t know why you agreed to come.

No—you did know.

Because when Miranda asked—soft, almost uncertain—you couldn’t bring yourself to refuse her.

“Come to the council today,” she’d said that morning, brushing your cheek. “Let them see you beside me. It will end any questions.”

And when she looked at you like that—golden eyes softer than you’d ever thought possible—you’d found yourself nodding.

Now here you stood.

In her private audience chamber—grand and cold, high-vaulted ceilings, a great stone throne rising at the far end.

Miranda sat there now, regal and commanding, but with one clear difference:

you sat beside her.

At her right hand, on a smaller chair brought in just for you. Dressed in black velvet, your hair combed, a pendant she’d given you resting against your throat.

A clear statement to the Lords: you belonged to her now.

You swallowed, heart racing as footsteps echoed in the hall.

The heavy doors opened.

The Four Lords entered one by one.

First Alcina Dimitrescu—towering, elegant, face carefully neutral but eyes sharp as blades.

Then Heisenberg—swaggering, smirking faintly, metal clinking at his belt.

Donna Beneviento drifted silently in behind them, Angie giggling on her arm.

And last, Salvatore Moreau, scuttling and muttering to himself.

The room seemed to still as their eyes fell on you—seated beside Miranda, her hand resting possessively atop yours.

You tensed instinctively—but Miranda’s fingers tightened, a silent reassurance.

“Welcome,” she said coolly. “I see you are all prompt today.”

Alcina’s gaze flickered back to you.

“So the whispers were true,” she said at last, voice calm but cool. “You have… chosen a consort.”

Miranda’s wings flared slightly—a subtle warning.

“Yes.”

Her tone left no room for debate.

Alcina inclined her head—graceful, polite—but her eyes lingered on you with thinly veiled curiosity.

“An… unusual choice,” she said lightly. “The village will talk.”

“Let them,” Miranda replied coldly. “None shall touch what is mine.”

Heisenberg chuckled softly.

“Didn’t think you had it in you, old bird,” he drawled. His gaze raked over you—not lewd, but sharp. Measuring. “Poor little thing. You sure about this gig?”

Before you could answer, Miranda’s voice cut the air—low and dangerous:

“Careful, Heisenberg.”

The temperature seemed to drop.

Heisenberg raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, no offense. Just surprised, that’s all.”

Donna, quiet as ever, only gave you a faint nod—acknowledging, but unreadable. Angie, however, giggled wickedly.

“Miranda’s got herself a pet! Hope you don’t break them, Mother!”

Miranda’s eyes narrowed—but she said nothing.

Moreau only gawked, muttering: “So beautiful… so lucky…” before ducking his head.

The meeting proceeded—but you barely heard a word. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut. The Lords stole glances your way—curious, wary, calculating.

And through it all, Miranda never once released your hand.

⸻

After the council dispersed, the doors closed behind them.

You let out a shaky breath.

“That was… something,” you murmured.

Miranda turned to you, brushing her thumb over your knuckles.

“You were perfect,” she said softly. Then—more quietly—“They will not dare touch you now.”

Her gaze softened, something protective and almost tender rising beneath the usual steel.

“You are mine,” she repeated, voice low. “And I will not lose you.”

Despite everything—the danger, the power, the strange new life laid out before you—you found yourself leaning into her touch.

Because gods help you… you didn’t want her to let you go.

⸻

[fisherld3]

What You Broke, What you Keep 💔- “The Cost of Wanting You” (Andrea’s POV)

Prompt: focusing on her pain, her longing, her walls, and why she finally lets Miranda back in.

Word count: 1.1k

⸻

It wasn’t that Andrea hadn’t known.

Even back then — running on too little sleep, buried under impossible demands — some part of her had known.

Miranda Priestly wasn’t a woman who loved. Not the way Andrea wanted, not the way she dreamed of when Miranda’s glance lingered a beat too long, when her voice dipped lower just for her.

Miranda offered crumbs. And God, Andrea had chased them — hungry for every smile, every rare “Good job, Andrea”, every fleeting kindness.

And Miranda knew. Of course she knew.

That was the part that hurt the most.

⸻

The fall after Paris, Andrea lay awake most nights, the words spinning in her head:

She used me. She knew.

She had told herself to move on. Told herself it wasn’t personal, that Miranda was the same with everyone.

But it had been personal. Because Andrea had handed Miranda something fragile — hope, affection, longing — and Miranda had taken, and taken, and never looked back.

Until Andrea had nothing left to give. Until walking away was the only choice left.

⸻

She rebuilt herself slowly. Brick by brick.

A new job, new bylines, a career she could finally call her own.

And she told herself she was over it. Over her.

Until the first benefit gala. Until Miranda’s eyes — still cool, still devastating — found her across the room.

And her heart stuttered, traitorous.

⸻

When Miranda’s first note arrived — Beautifully written. M. — Andrea nearly tore it in half.

But she didn’t.

Because the wanting had never really gone away. It had just been buried — raw and aching, beneath scar tissue.

And Miranda had no right to unearth it now. Not after everything.

⸻

Still, Andrea watched.

Saw the way Miranda lingered near her at events. The carefully casual invitations. The way her gaze softened, now, when it landed on Andrea — not predatory, but… regretful.

She didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust her.

⸻

It took months before Andrea agreed to coffee.

And sitting across from Miranda — so poised, so careful — Andrea could feel the old wounds shifting beneath her ribs.

When Miranda finally said the words — “I owe you an apology.” — Andrea almost laughed.

Because it was too late for apologies. Because apologies couldn’t unmake what had been done.

“You took something from me,” she told her. You made me believe—

And when Miranda flinched, silent, Andrea knew: she wasn’t the only one still bleeding.

⸻

It would’ve been easier to hate her.

But Andrea couldn’t.

Because beneath all the hurt, all the anger — some part of her still wanted.

⸻

She watched Miranda change, slowly.

No more grand gestures. No more charm offensives. Just steady, patient effort — quiet support, thoughtful words, space when Andrea needed it.

For once, Miranda wasn’t taking. She was offering.

And the more Andrea saw, the harder it became to hold the wall up.

⸻

A year later, sitting across from Miranda in a quiet café, Andrea finally admitted to herself:

She wasn’t over her.

Not even close.

⸻

That night outside her apartment, Andrea saw the question in Miranda’s eyes — the unspoken longing, still held back by guilt, by caution.

When Miranda brushed a curl from her face, Andrea caught her wrist — not in anger, but because if she let her, if she let her… she might fall all over again.

“Not yet,” Andrea whispered. Not until I can trust you. Not until you’ve earned it.

And Miranda had nodded. Had waited.

⸻

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet.

But slowly — painfully — Andrea allowed herself to believe it might be possible.

That this time, Miranda wanted her, not just her devotion.

And maybe — just maybe — they could build something real.

⸻

The night she invited Miranda up, Andrea’s hands shook as she unlocked the door.

Not because she feared Miranda would hurt her again.

But because the wanting had never stopped — and now, for the first time, it might actually be safe to want her back.

When they lay side by side in the dark — fingers entwined, breath soft and warm — Andrea finally whispered what had burned in her for so long:

“I loved you. And you crushed that.”

Miranda’s answer — so quiet, so broken — was not an excuse. Not a plea.

“Let me prove it. As long as it takes.”

And for the first time in three long years, Andrea allowed herself to hope.

⸻

[END]

⸻

If you’d like, I can also write:

✨ The first real kiss scene — when Andrea finally lets herself have it

✨ A later “first time” scene — after the rebuild, after true trust

✨ A version from Miranda’s inner monologue — her regret, her longing, her guilt

Just tell me — I love this kind of slow-burn emotional angst! 🖤

[fisherld3]

“Mean”

Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

Enemies to Lovers |

6,137 words

Warnings: language, some angst, slow-burn tension, teacher workplace setting, eventual happy ending

Authors Note: I really enjoyed writing this one.❤️

You’d been at Abbott Elementary for all of three weeks when you realized Melissa Schemmenti hated you.

She didn’t even try to hide it—sharp looks over her shoulder in the teacher’s lounge, a sarcastic curl of her lip when you asked a question during meetings, muttered commentary under her breath when you spoke up with ideas for classroom projects.

You’d arrived with an eager smile and a shiny new Master’s in education, ready to throw yourself into this job. A fresh start after burning out at your last school. You knew it would take time to build relationships here. What you hadn’t expected was open hostility from one of the veteran teachers.

It stung—more than you wanted to admit. You weren’t trying to replace anyone. You weren’t trying to act superior. But no matter how careful you were, how polite, Melissa seemed to have made up her mind about you. And the worst part was that she was good. Respected. The kind of teacher you wanted to learn from—if she’d give you half a chance.

At first, you told yourself it didn’t matter. You’d win her over eventually. That was week one.

By week three, you’d stopped trying.

⸻

It all came to a head one rainy Thursday in October.

You were late getting to the lounge for lunch, arms full of papers and your barely-warm soup in a thermos. The room was unusually crowded—Melissa sat in her usual corner with Barbara, and Jacob and Janine were mid-discussion at the table.

You kept your head down, setting your things on the counter, trying to stay out of the way. The conversation around you blurred until—

“I mean, honestly, some people come in here like they’ve got all the answers,” Melissa’s voice rang out suddenly, dry as gin. “Little Miss Know-It-All with her brand-new degree and zero idea how things really work.”

Your stomach dropped. The words weren’t subtle. The pause in the room wasn’t subtle, either.

“Melissa…” Barbara said quietly.

But Melissa just shrugged. “Just saying. You don’t walk into my school acting like you’re the second coming of Mr. Rogers.”

Heat rose to your cheeks. You could feel everyone’s eyes flick toward you.

You swallowed hard, fighting the lump in your throat. “Excuse me,” you managed tightly, grabbing your bag. “I’ve got copies to make.”

And you fled—your soup forgotten, pulse hammering in your ears.

⸻

After that, something in you shut off.

You stopped lingering in the lounge. Stopped trying to join the others for happy hour. If you saw Melissa in the hall, you nodded politely and moved on without speaking.

You poured yourself into your work—your kids deserved that much. But the ache in your chest wouldn’t go away. It wasn’t just that she didn’t like you. It was that she’d humiliated you. In front of everyone. And she hadn’t even cared.

⸻

At first, Melissa didn’t notice the change.

If anything, she seemed pleased that you’d stopped pestering her. Let her have her space. But slowly, it started to bother her.

Because you didn’t glare or snap back. You didn’t gossip about her to the other teachers. You just… withdrew.

And when you weren’t around, things felt a little off. The lounge was quieter. There was no one asking clever questions or bringing up new ideas. She caught herself looking for you in the hallways.

By November, it was driving her crazy.

⸻

It finally came to a head one Friday afternoon, after dismissal.

You stayed late grading papers in your classroom. The halls were nearly empty when Melissa stormed in, red hair damp from the rain.

“You avoiding me?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

You looked up from your desk, heart skipping. “I’m working,” you said evenly.

She huffed. “You been dodging me for weeks.”

“Maybe because you made it very clear how you feel,” you said, voice cool.

She blinked. “I—” Melissa faltered, some of her bluster fading. “Look, maybe I was outta line. But you’re actin’ like I committed murder.”

Your stomach twisted. “You humiliated me in front of the entire lounge.”

“That was—” She stopped, running a hand through her hair. “Alright. Maybe I didn’t handle it great. But you could’ve said something.”

You laughed bitterly. “Why would I? You’ve hated me since the day I walked in.”

There was a beat of silence. Melissa’s face shifted—something vulnerable flickering beneath the tough exterior.

“I don’t hate you,” she muttered.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you said quietly.

You stood, grabbing your bag. The weight of the conversation pressed on your chest. “I need to lock up.”

Melissa didn’t stop you. Just stood there, watching as you left—jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

⸻

That night, Melissa lay awake, tossing in bed.

Because you were right.

She had been a bitch. And not because you’d done anything wrong.

She’d hated how you made her feel. Young. Out of her depth. Hopeful, in ways she hadn’t been in years. She hadn’t wanted to admit that you impressed her. That she liked your ideas, your passion. That maybe she liked you more than she should.

So she’d gone on the attack. And now, you wouldn’t even look at her.

“Goddammit,” she muttered into the dark.

⸻

The next week, you found a coffee cup on your desk—your favorite order, from the local place down the block. No note.

You ignored it.

The day after, a stack of old teaching guides appeared, sticky-note labeled Thought these might help with your reading unit.

You returned them unopened.

Melissa started showing up early, leaving her classroom door cracked. Pausing near your room with questions. Little openings. You refused to bite.

You couldn’t. Not yet. The wounds were too fresh.

⸻

By December, the tension was unbearable.

You were doing your best, but the holidays were hard on the kids—and your heart wasn’t in it. You felt raw, brittle. Like if Melissa so much as looked at you wrong, you’d break.

She could see it, too. The stubborn set of your shoulders. The tired circles under your eyes. It gnawed at her.

One icy Tuesday afternoon, she found you after dismissal, sitting alone in your classroom.

She hovered awkwardly at the door. “Hey.”

You glanced up, wary.

“I—” She swallowed hard. “Look. I owe you a real apology. Not just a lame half-assed one.”

You closed your laptop. “Melissa—”

“No, listen.” She stepped inside. “I was mean. Worse than mean. And not because you deserved it. I was a jerk. Because I was… I dunno. Jealous, maybe. Stupid.”

You stared, stunned. You’d never heard her sound so unguarded.

“I know you’ve got every reason to hate my guts. But I miss talkin’ to you,” she said, voice rough. “I miss seein’ you smile.”

That last part slipped out before she could stop it. Her cheeks flushed.

You exhaled slowly, the anger in your chest crumbling, leaving only weariness behind.

“I don’t hate you,” you said softly. “I just… needed space.”

Melissa nodded. “I get that. And if that’s what you still want, I’ll back off.”

There was a beat of silence between you. Then, quietly:

“I don’t know what I want yet,” you admitted.

Her lips twitched—a ghost of a smile. “Fair enough.”

She turned to go—then paused.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “you’re one hell of a teacher.”

⸻

It wasn’t instant, after that. You were still guarded, still careful. But little by little, the walls softened.

Melissa stopped sniping. Stopped glaring. Sometimes, she brought you coffee again—this time with a Post-It saying peace offering?

Eventually, you smiled.

⸻

Winter break passed in a blink. When school resumed in January, you found yourself… missing her. Looking for her in the lounge. Catching her eye across the hallway.

One chilly Friday, she fell in step beside you after dismissal.

“Drinks?” she asked casually. “Some of us are headin’ over to Rocco’s.”

You hesitated—then nodded. “Sure.”

⸻

That night, in the dim corner of the bar, things shifted.

Maybe it was the warmth of the whiskey. The soft hum of conversation around you. But the tension between you finally eased, melting into something softer.

Melissa leaned closer, voice low. “You know I was an idiot about you, right?”

You laughed quietly. “I’m starting to think you were just scared.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Maybe a little.”

A beat.

“You scare me, too, sometimes,” you admitted.

Melissa’s smile faded, her gaze darkening. “Good,” she murmured. “Maybe that means we’re even.”

The air between you charged, humming with possibility.

⸻

Weeks passed. Little moments bloomed between you.

A teasing wink in the hallway. A slow grin over morning coffee. Her hand lingering on your back as you squeezed past in the lounge.

You stopped dreading seeing her. Started looking forward to it.

And Melissa… Melissa was falling hard. Every time you smiled, every time you laughed at one of her stupid jokes, it pulled her deeper.

⸻

By early spring, she couldn’t take it anymore.

One late evening, you stayed after to prep for conferences. Melissa showed up at your door, heart pounding.

“Can I talk to you?”

You blinked, surprised. “Sure.”

She shut the door behind her, leaning back against it. For once, her usual swagger was gone. Her voice was low, rough with nerves.

“I’m not good at this,” she began. “But I gotta say it.”

Your breath caught.

“I like you,” she said simply. “More than I should.”

You stared—heart racing.

“I know I screwed up. I know you deserve better than me bein’ a jackass for months. But if there’s any chance you could… maybe give me another shot, I’d like that.”

Silence stretched between you.

Melissa swallowed. “You don’t gotta say yes,” she added quickly. “I’ll still respect you. I just… had to tell you.”

Your throat was tight. The part of you that had been so hurt, so wary, trembled—but the part that had watched her change, that had felt this growing between you, wanted more.

Finally, softly:

“Okay.”

Her eyes widened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, heart full. “Yeah.”

And then you were moving—closing the space between you, her arms sliding around your waist, your hands in her hair.

When she kissed you, it wasn’t rough. It wasn’t mean. It was careful. Tender. Like a promise.

And for the first time in months, your heart felt light.

⸻

[fisherld3]

could you write melissa x reader where melissa struggles with her dyslexia and is insecure about it?

Between the Lines

Word Count: 3,150 words

Genre List: Romance, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship,Insecurity,Emotional Intimacy and Slice of Life

Between the Lines

It started with a pile of papers on the coffee table.

You walked into Melissa’s apartment after a long Friday, grocery bag in hand, only to find her hunched over a stack of worksheets and printouts. Her brow was furrowed, red pen clutched tightly in one hand, her knuckles white.

“Hey, Mel.” You set the bag down and leaned over to kiss her cheek, but she barely looked up, mumbling a distracted hello.

You gave her space, unpacking the groceries and putting water on for tea. After ten minutes, though, you noticed the tension in her shoulders wasn’t letting up. Her jaw clenched, her fingers tapping nervously against the table. Every few moments, she would rub her eyes or scowl down at the page as if it had personally offended her.

Curious, you wandered over and gently touched her shoulder.

“Everything okay?”

Melissa stiffened slightly, then forced a small smile. “Yeah. Just… grading.”

But when you glanced at the papers, your heart sank. Her red marks stopped midway through sentences, her handwriting uneven. Some words were circled, others underlined—then scratched out. The page next to it had a few entire sections crossed off.

“Want me to help?” you offered softly.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “No. I got it.”

But you could hear the edge in her voice.

You sat beside her anyway, resting a hand on her knee. “You’ve been at this for a while, huh?”

Melissa let out a breath. “Two hours. I keep… reading it wrong.” Her voice was tight, frustrated. “It’s like the words keep movin’ on me. I read one sentence three times and still couldn’t tell if it made sense.”

There it was.

She rarely talked about it, but you knew Melissa struggled with dyslexia. She’d learned tricks over the years—colored overlays, audiobooks, voice-to-text apps on her phone—but every now and then, it got to her. Nights like this left her spiraling into old insecurities she usually kept buried under layers of confidence and dry wit.

“I’m sorry, baby,” you said gently.

Melissa gave a bitter little laugh. “It’s ridiculous. I’ve been teaching for how long? And I still can’t grade a damn paragraph without messing it up.”

“That’s not true,” you said, rubbing her knee. “You’re one of the best teachers I know. You care more than half the staff combined.”

“That don’t matter if I can’t do the work,” she muttered. Her shoulders slumped. “What kinda example is that? Strugglin’ through basic sentences? It’s embarrassing.”

Your chest ached. You hated seeing her like this—so hard on herself over something out of her control.

You reached over, gently tugging the red pen from her hand. “Melissa. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, she turned, eyes dark with frustration and shame.

“You are not less of a teacher because you struggle with this. You are not less of a person.” You cupped her cheek. “And it’s not embarrassing. You work harder than anyone I know, and you still show up every day for those kids. That takes strength.”

She swallowed, her jaw working. “You don’t get it,” she whispered. “It makes me feel stupid. Like… every time I open a book, it’s this fight just to keep up. And some days, I just—” Her voice broke. “I hate it.”

Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around her, pulling her close. Melissa buried her face in your neck, the tension in her body slowly melting as you held her.

“It’s okay to hate it sometimes,” you murmured. “But it doesn’t define you. And you don’t have to fight alone, okay? We can do this together.”

She let out a shaky breath. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I can help you grade. We can find more tools, if you want. Whatever you need.”

For a long moment, Melissa stayed quiet, her fingers curling into your shirt.

Finally, she whispered, “I love you.”

You kissed her temple. “I love you too.”

Later that night, with her head resting on your shoulder, Melissa finally let you read through the stack of papers with her. Slowly, patiently, the two of you worked side by side, your hand resting over hers when her nerves flared.

And if she leaned into you a little more than usual, you didn’t say a word—just held her close between the lines.

⸻

[fisherld3]

Hey, I hope you’re good. I have a prompt for you: the reader is always giving Mel a hard time but in reality R is just in love with Mel

Hard to Love You

Word Count: 3,870 words

Genre List: Romance, Fluff, Enemies to Lovers (light), Mutual Pining, Banter, Emotional Realization, Slow Burn

It had started as harmless teasing.

At least that’s what you told yourself.

You liked riling Melissa up. You liked the way her eyes narrowed, the way her Brooklyn accent got thicker when she was irritated. The sharp little comebacks, the subtle smirks—it was addictive.

So yeah, maybe you gave her a hard time. A lot of the time.

But it wasn’t because you didn’t like her.

It was because you did.

So much, it scared you.

⸻

“Really, Schemm,” you said one morning in the teachers’ lounge, leaning casually against the counter while Melissa flipped through a folder. “Still hoarding the good markers for your class?”

She didn’t look up. “Maybe if you stopped stealin’ ‘em, I wouldn’t have to.”

“Accusations, accusations,” you tsked, grinning. “I’m wounded.”

Melissa finally met your eyes, unimpressed. “You’ll survive.”

You winked. “With you around? Always.”

She rolled her eyes and walked away—but not before you caught the faintest hint of pink at the tips of her ears.

God, you were hopeless.

⸻

It wasn’t like you didn’t try to stop. You really did.

You told yourself you’d quit with the teasing, that you’d start acting normal around her. Cool. Professional.

And then she’d walk into the room, hair up, glasses perched on her nose, red dress fitting in all the right ways—and poof. There went your resolve.

You were doomed.

⸻

The breaking point came on a Thursday afternoon.

The staff had been roped into staying late for a training meeting, and everyone was dragging. You slouched at your table, chin in hand, idly twirling a pen while the presenter droned on.

Across the room, Melissa was frowning at her notes, looking tired but as focused as ever.

You couldn’t help yourself.

You scribbled a quick note—“You takin’ notes for the rest of us, teach’s pet?”—and discreetly slid it onto her table as you passed to get more coffee.

You meant it as a joke. But when you glanced back, you caught something in her expression—her lips pressed tight, her shoulders stiff. Not amused.

Shit.

⸻

You barely caught her after the meeting ended. Melissa was already halfway to the door, moving fast.

“Mel! Wait up.”

She stopped, reluctantly, arms crossed as you approached.

“Look,” you said quickly. “About earlier—I was just messing around. Didn’t mean to… y’know…”

She let out a sharp breath. “Yeah, well. Sometimes it don’t feel like ‘just messin’ around.’” Her voice was quiet, but tight. “Feels like you’re always lookin’ to get a rise outta me.”

Your heart sank. “Melissa—”

She shook her head. “Forget it.”

And then she was gone.

⸻

You spent the rest of the night kicking yourself.

Why had you done that? Why always with the teasing? No wonder she thought you didn’t take her seriously. No wonder she kept you at arm’s length.

Because the truth was… you were in love with her.

Had been, for longer than you cared to admit.

And if you didn’t stop being a coward, you were gonna lose her completely.

⸻

The next day, you caught her after school.

“Melissa. Please—can we talk?”

She hesitated, but didn’t walk away.

You took a breath. “Look… I owe you an apology. I’ve been giving you shit for months now, and the truth is… it wasn’t fair.”

Her brow arched, skeptical.

You laughed nervously. “The truth is… I do it ‘cause I like you. Like, really like you. And I’m an idiot who didn’t know how else to deal with it.”

For a second, there was silence. Then her lips twitched. “You’re tellin’ me… all this time… you were flirtin’?”

You rubbed the back of your neck. “Terribly, apparently.”

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “You really are an idiot.”

“Guilty.”

Finally, Melissa looked up at you, her expression softening. “Took you long enough.”

Your heart skipped. “Wait… you knew?”

She smirked. “I had a guess.”

“Well then.” You stepped a little closer. “Can I make it up to you? Maybe… take you to dinner?”

Melissa’s smile turned real then—warm, a little shy.

“Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

⸻

If you want, I can absolutely write a NSFW continuation, or an alternate version where Melissa makes the first move! Just tell me. 🌶️✨

[fisherld3]

I saw you mention your requests were open so hear me out......a melissa schemmenti x reader fic inspired by the song "Ride" by Sir Mix-A-Lot 👀 (my tik tok fyp is full of edits to this song and I can't stop thinking about the potential)

You Wanna Ride or What? 🥵

Word count: 1.1k

Genres:

• Smut / NSFW

• Fluff (light in tone)

• Humor / Crack vibes

• Modern AU / Canon Divergent

• Established tension / First time

Authors note: Working on request all night! Thank you and Enjoy 😈

You weren’t exactly sure when the after-hours happy hours with Melissa and the rest of the Abbott crew had turned into something… like this.

Maybe it was the third round of shots at Gino’s. Maybe it was that heavy bass beat that got her hips moving in ways you couldn’t not watch. Maybe it was Melissa’s mouth — her smirk, the way she tipped her head when she looked at you like she already knew what you wanted.

Or maybe it was the song that came on next — low and dirty, that unmistakable “Ride” track shaking the bar speakers and getting a few knowing looks from the crowd.

Melissa caught your eye across the table, one eyebrow arching. She tipped her chin toward the dance floor.

“You wanna ride or what?” she asked, voice low, rough from whiskey and something else entirely.

You swallowed hard. Because you knew damn well she wasn’t talking about the dance floor. But you stood anyway, blood buzzing, following her out of the booth like you didn’t have a choice.

Melissa didn’t wait. She grabbed your hand — warm, calloused, familiar — and tugged you out onto the floor. The beat thumped through your chest as her hands landed on your hips, pulling you close until there wasn’t an inch between you.

“Didn’t peg you for a Sir Mix-A-Lot kinda girl,” you teased, voice thinner than you wanted.

“Baby,” Melissa purred, leaning in so her lips brushed your ear, “I’m a whatever-I-feel-like kinda girl.”

You gasped, your hands flying instinctively to her shoulders to steady yourself — which only made her grin wider. Her grip on your hips tightened, her body starting to sway, slow and filthy, perfectly in sync with the beat.

“You gonna keep starin’,” Melissa murmured, “or you gonna keep up?”

That was a challenge if you ever heard one.

And you were never one to back down from Melissa Schemmenti.

You rolled your hips into hers, letting her feel exactly how ready you were to play this game. Her eyes darkened, mouth parting just slightly.

“That’s more like it,” she rasped.

For the next three minutes, you and Melissa might as well have been the only two people in the bar. Her thigh sliding between yours, your fingers threading into her hair. Her hands wandering places they absolutely should not in public — not that you minded.

By the time the song faded out, your heart was racing, your skin burning, and Melissa’s breath was hot against your neck.

She pulled back just enough to look at you, lips quirking.

“C’mon,” she said, voice wrecked with intent. “Let’s get outta here.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

You barely made it to her car before she had you pressed up against the door, her mouth finally crashing into yours, teeth and tongue and a low groan rumbling from her chest.

“Been thinkin’ about this all night,” she muttered against your lips.

You grinned breathlessly. “Since the second that song came on?”

Melissa’s eyes gleamed as she opened the passenger door for you, leaning in close one more time.

“No,” she whispered, voice thick with heat. “Since the second you walked in the damn bar.”

And as she slid behind the wheel and started the car with a wicked grin — yeah.

You were more than ready to ride.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

The ride to Melissa’s place wasn’t long, but it felt like forever — the tension in the car thick enough to choke on. Melissa drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting high on your thigh, her thumb stroking slow, lazy circles that had you squirming in your seat.

“You’re quiet over there,” she teased, glancing at you with that devilish smirk. “Changed your mind?”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Not a chance.”

“Good,” she murmured. “Because once I get you inside, I ain’t lettin’ you outta my bed till you can’t walk straight.”

Your breath caught — and from the smug look on her face, she knew exactly what she was doing to you.

By the time she parked, your legs were trembling.

Melissa barely got the front door shut before she had you pinned against it, her mouth hot and insistent on yours. Her hands roamed your body with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs — palming your breasts, sliding down to your ass, pulling you hard against her.

“Been thinkin’ about you,” she growled against your throat, her teeth grazing your skin. “All that attitude you give me at work, the way you look at me like you don’t want me…”

Her thigh pressed between your legs — and the involuntary whimper that escaped your mouth made her groan.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” she rasped. “Knew you’d be sweet for me.”

With a rough tug, she dragged you toward her bedroom — tossing you onto the bed like you weighed nothing. You barely had a second to catch your breath before she was crawling over you, straddling your hips, her hands working fast to strip you down.

“Fuck, look at you,” Melissa whispered, eyes raking over your body. “Goddamn beautiful.”

Then her mouth was on your skin — biting, sucking, marking you like she wanted to make damn sure everyone knew who you belonged to.

Her hand slipped between your legs, fingers sliding through your slick heat with an approving hum.

“So wet already,” she purred. “You have been thinkin’ about this, huh?”

“Melissa,” you gasped, hips bucking into her touch.

She chuckled low, teasing you with slow strokes, keeping you right on the edge.

“Say it,” she ordered. “You want me to ride you?”

“Yes,” you breathed, voice shaking. “Please.”

That was all it took.

Melissa shed her own clothes in record time, and then she was back on top of you — hot skin on skin, her thigh pressed snug between yours. She rocked her hips slow at first, dragging her slick folds against your thigh, building a rhythm that had you both gasping.

“Look at you,” she groaned, watching your face as you writhed beneath her. “So fuckin’ pretty when you fall apart.”

You clutched at her hips, urging her faster, harder — and Melissa gave in with a wicked grin, riding you with deep, grinding rolls of her hips. The filthy sounds of skin on skin, wet and desperate, filled the room.

“Not gonna last,” you gasped. “Fuck, Melissa—”

“That’s it, baby,” she growled, leaning down to kiss you hard, her hips moving even faster. “Come for me. Wanna feel you fall apart.”

And when you did — stars bursting behind your eyes, body arching up into hers — Melissa followed right after with a strangled moan, her body trembling as she ground against you through her own release.

The room spun, your chest heaving, the sheets twisted beneath you.

Melissa finally collapsed on top of you, breath hot against your neck, one arm slung possessively around your waist.

“Told you,” she muttered, voice rough but satisfied. “Ain’t lettin’ you go. Not tonight.”

You laughed breathlessly, threading your fingers through her hair.

“Good,” you whispered. “I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

Melissa lifted her head, grinning wickedly.

“Good. ‘Cause I’m just gettin’ started.”

✨Ta Ta for now✨

Smooches 😘

[fisherld3]

What you broke,What you kept 💔

Prompt: Miranda ruthlessly abused Andy’s affections — knowingly — and now has to face the consequences as Andy pulls away. A long, painful, slow-burn road to redemption.

Word Count: 3k

⸻

Miranda had always known — from the very beginning — that Andrea Sachs adored her.

Not just respected. Not merely idolized. Adored.

It had been obvious in the bright-eyed devotion, the flushed cheeks when Miranda offered the smallest praise, the ridiculous hours Andrea kept, hoping — always hoping — for one more approving glance.

Miranda had known. And she’d used it.

Because it was easy. Convenient. Because wanting something, someone, gave a person power — and Miranda had learned long ago how to wield power with surgical precision.

A tilt of the head. A lingering glance. A murmured “Good work, Andrea.” And the girl would light up, practically vibrating with desperate hope.

Miranda had not slept with her — of course not. That would have been too messy, too blatant. But the implication was always there, in the air between them, thick as perfume.

And when Andrea offered — in all the little ways she didn’t say out loud — Miranda took. Took her time, her effort, her loyalty, her affection. Her heart.

Until Paris.

Until the moment Andrea’s bright, beautiful eyes dimmed — not with exhaustion, but with something colder: understanding.

And then Andrea left.

⸻

Two years later, Miranda still wasn’t sure when the ache had begun.

Not at first. Not when Andrea stopped returning messages. Not when Miranda saw her name rising in journalistic circles. Not when the occasional attempt at contact — flowers, a note, an invitation — was met with polite silence.

No, the ache came later. Subtle. Slow.

It came the first time Miranda heard Andrea’s laugh at a charity event — across the room, warm and bright, not directed at her.

It came again when Miranda read an interview where Andrea was asked about her time at Runway, and simply replied, “It was… educational.”

No bitterness. No warmth. Nothing left.

That was when Miranda began to realize what she had done. What she had broken.

And how badly she wanted it back.

⸻

The first real attempt had been an invitation — to a benefit Miranda knew Andrea would attend.

She’d arranged, subtly, for them to be seated near each other. Had even thought through what she’d say.

But when Andrea arrived — stunning in deep green silk, hair swept up — she barely glanced Miranda’s way.

“Ms. Priestly,” she greeted coolly, with the same polite distance she used for any other guest.

Miranda could hardly focus on the conversation at her own table. Every flicker of Andrea’s smile for someone else, every easy laugh not meant for her, scraped raw.

By the end of the night, Miranda barely trusted herself to speak. She simply watched, helpless, as Andrea disappeared into the glittering crowd.

⸻

The second attempt was less subtle.

A book launch — Andrea’s first. The event was packed. Miranda, uninvited, appeared anyway.

Andrea noticed her at once. Their eyes met across the room.

Miranda crossed the space between them with deliberate grace. “Congratulations, Andrea.”

Andrea’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you. I’m surprised to see you here.”

“I read your book,” Miranda said, letting her voice soften. “It was… exceptional.”

Andrea tilted her head, the old sharpness flickering behind her gaze. “That almost sounded sincere.”

Miranda swallowed. “It was.”

Another beat. Then Andrea’s voice — calm, cool:

“Enjoy the evening, Miranda.”

And just like that — dismissed.

⸻

Months passed.

Miranda told herself she was above this. Above chasing. Above caring.

But every article with Andrea’s byline made her breath catch. Every photo — laughing with someone younger, someone closer, someone else — sent a pang through her chest.

She wasn’t used to this: wanting, and being denied.

And more than that — she wasn’t used to regret.

⸻

It took nearly a year before she tried again.

A small dinner party, carefully curated. Miranda ensured their names were both on the guest list.

Andrea arrived late — in a sleek black dress that made Miranda ache.

When Miranda approached this time, she didn’t attempt small talk. She simply said, softly: “Andrea. May I… speak with you. Alone.”

Andrea studied her for a long moment. Then: “Five minutes. Nothing more.”

They stepped onto the terrace, the cool night air sharp against Miranda’s skin.

Miranda drew a breath. “I owe you an apology.”

Andrea’s brow arched. “For what, exactly?”

“For how I treated you,” Miranda said, voice low. “I used your feelings. I knew. And I…” she swallowed, forcing the words out. “I am sorry.”

Andrea’s eyes glittered — not with softness, but steel.

“You think this is about an apology?”

Miranda blinked.

Andrea’s voice remained calm, but beneath it was a quiver of buried hurt:

“You took something from me. Not just my time. Not just my career. You made me believe—” she broke off, breathing hard. Then steadied. “And when I finally saw what you were doing, it was already too late.”

Silence.

“I don’t hate you, Miranda,” Andrea continued quietly. “I wish I did. It would be easier.”

And with that, she turned and left.

⸻

Miranda barely slept that night.

For days after, the words rang in her head: I wish I did.

She began to realize: this was not something an apology could fix. This was not something charm or power could undo.

She had broken something precious. And if there was any hope of mending it, it would take time. Effort. And for once — patience.

⸻

Miranda began, slowly, carefully, to rebuild.

She sent no grand gestures. No gifts. No flowers. Just small, thoughtful things — a note on a particularly well-written article. An offer of help, when she heard through mutual contacts that Andrea was facing an uphill battle with her second book’s publisher.

Nothing presumptuous. No expectation of a reply.

Sometimes Andrea responded. Sometimes not.

But Miranda persisted. Slowly. Steadily.

⸻

It took another six months before Andrea invited her for coffee.

Just coffee — nothing more.

They met at a quiet café in the Village. Miranda arrived early, nerves taut.

When Andrea walked in, her expression was guarded — but not closed.

They talked for an hour. About writing, about the industry, about Paris, the past — though carefully, as though skirting the edges of an open wound.

When Andrea stood to leave, Miranda rose as well.

“Thank you,” Miranda said softly. “For this.”

Andrea hesitated. Then: “You’re trying. I see that.”

She didn’t promise anything more. But Miranda clung to those few words like air.

⸻

It was another year before the real thaw began.

Casual coffees turned into dinners. Dinners turned into long walks, long talks — late into the night.

Andrea’s gaze no longer held the same brittle edge. Her smile came more easily, though there were still shadows behind her eyes.

One night, as they parted outside Andrea’s apartment, Miranda hesitated. Then, on impulse, reached to tuck a stray curl behind Andrea’s ear.

Andrea caught her wrist, gaze sharp. “Not yet,” she whispered. “Not like this.”

Miranda nodded, throat tight.

She would wait.

⸻

It wasn’t until a spring evening, almost three years after that first, painful attempt, that things finally shifted.

They’d had dinner — easy, relaxed, laughter coming more naturally now.

As they stood outside Miranda’s car, the city humming softly around them, Andrea hesitated.

Then:

“Come up.”

Miranda’s breath caught. “Are you certain?”

Andrea’s gaze was steady. “I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t.”

⸻

Upstairs, the apartment was warm, lived-in.

They sat on the couch, close but not touching. The conversation faltered. The air between them thickened.

Finally, Miranda spoke, voice barely above a whisper:

“I have wanted you… for so long.”

Andrea’s breath hitched. “And I loved you,” she said softly. “And you crushed that.”

A beat.

“I’m still… not sure what this is. Or if I can trust you again.”

Miranda reached for her hand — tentative, gentle.

“Then let me prove it,” she said. “Slowly. As long as it takes.”

Andrea looked at their joined hands. At Miranda’s face — so unguarded, so unlike the woman she had once known.

Then, softly:

“Stay. Tonight. Just… stay.”

Miranda nodded. “Of course.”

⸻

That night, they did not make love. They lay side by side, fully clothed, fingers entwined. Miranda pressed the softest of kisses to Andrea’s temple.

And for the first time in years, hope bloomed quietly between them.

A long road still lay ahead — but this time, they would walk it together.

⸻

[END]

⸻

[fisherld3]

Heys guys my “Pre-written stash” is getting a bit low. Please send in request. They definitely open and would love to try to please the masses and also let out some creativity and share with you guys.✨👉🏾😙👈🏾✨

[fisherld3]

Detention Hearts ❤️— Part VI: “You Don’t Get to Push Me Away

Prompt: It starts stupid. Like most fights do.

Word Count: ~2,200

Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Angst & Fluff, First Fight, Stubborn Melissa, Soft Making Up

Title: Detention Hearts — Part VI: “You Don’t Get to Push Me Away”

Word Count: ~2,200

Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Angst & Fluff, First Fight, Stubborn Melissa, Soft Making Up

⸻

It starts stupid.

Like most fights do.

A bad day—no, a bad week.

The heat’s broken again. The copier’s jammed for the third time. The kids are wild because spring break’s too far away to look forward to but close enough that no one’s paying attention.

And you—tired, overstretched—volunteered to stay late for some PTA thing you barely had time for.

Melissa had told you not to.

Had told you, point blank, “Don’t overwork yourself, Rookie.”

You didn’t listen.

⸻

By the time you’re packing up at 6:30, your head’s pounding. You finally make it out to the lot, only to find Melissa leaning against your car, arms crossed.

She looks pissed.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light.

“What am I doing here?” she fires back. “What the hell are you doing here? You shoulda left hours ago.”

You sigh, unlocking the door. “I had stuff to do.”

She doesn’t move.

“No. You chose to stay. You do this every time. You run yourself ragged, and then—what? Expect me not to care?”

Your shoulders tense. “I didn’t ask you to.”

That’s the wrong thing to say.

Melissa’s jaw tightens. “Right. So I’m just supposed to stand around while you burn yourself out? That it?”

You glare. “I can take care of myself.”

“You’re not, though!” she snaps. “And I—”

She stops, biting it back.

“I worry about you, okay? Is that a crime?”

Your chest tightens. You know she means well—but something defensive claws up anyway.

“I didn’t ask for a babysitter.”

Melissa’s eyes flash—hurt, sharp, gone just as fast.

“You’re unbelievable.”

She turns, stalking toward her car.

“Melissa—”

“Forget it.”

And before you can stop her, she’s gone—taillights fading out of the lot.

⸻

That night, you don’t sleep.

Not really.

Her words circle your head. The look in her eyes.

You hadn’t meant to shut her out. Not like that.

But you’re both stubborn. Proud. And now—you don’t know how to fix it.

⸻

The next day at school, it’s… tense.

Melissa breezes in late. No usual smirk, no “Hey Rookie.”

She won’t meet your eyes.

Ava, of course, notices immediately.

“Y’all fighting?” she whispers gleefully in the lounge.

You shoot her a look. “Not now, Ava.”

Barbara pats your hand gently. “She’ll come around, dear. You both will.”

⸻

By 3:00, you can’t take it anymore.

You find her in the empty copy room, muttering curses at the jammed printer.

“Melissa—”

“Busy.”

You swallow. Step in anyway.

“I’m sorry.”

She freezes.

You take a breath.

“I was an ass. You were right. I push too hard sometimes and I—I shouldn’t have pushed you away.”

Still silence.

You step closer.

“It’s just—when people care about me, sometimes that feels… hard. And I panic. But that’s not on you. You didn’t deserve that.”

Slowly, she turns to face you.

Her eyes are soft, guarded.

“You scared me,” she says quietly. “Seeing you run yourself down like that. I don’t wanna lose you.”

Your throat tightens.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” you whisper. “I don’t want space from you. I want you. Even when I’m stubborn.”

A beat.

Then she sighs, shoulders relaxing.

“Damn rookie,” she mutters. “You know how hard it is to stay mad at you?”

Relief rushes through you.

“Then don’t.”

⸻

She huffs—smirk finally tugging at her lips again.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You grin.

“I know.”

⸻

That night, curled up on her couch with her head tucked under your chin, she murmurs:

“Next time you’re drowning like that… let me help. Yeah?”

You kiss the crown of her head.

“Yeah. I promise.”

And when she whispers “Love you, Rookie” against your chest, you know it’s true. Every word of it.

⸻

END PART 6