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schemmentigfs · 14 days ago

Note

one of the best writers out there. 💛

Can you please write a cute lil Melissa Schemmenti x reader fic where Melissa wants to propose to reader and gets the Abbot family involved in the proposal.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐥

melissa schemmenti x f!reader

cw: flufffff, pet names (hon, tesoro), meddling by the abbott crew, use of y/n

word count: 1k

author's note: this was so cute to write, tysm for the request anon!

“Melissa, when are you going to marry that girl?”

The redhead lets out a mock-exasperated sigh, trying but failing to suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t know, Barb. What if it’s too soon?”

Janine chooses that moment to walk into the teacher’s lounge, Gregory trailing close behind her. She pauses in her movements, seeming to sense the seriousness of the conversation between the two older women. “Good morning you guys! Uh, what’s it too soon for?”

“None of your business,” Melissa grunts, her pink cheeks betraying her.

“Oh my god, this is about (Y/n), isn’t it? Please tell me you’re planning on proposing to her, that would be so cute!”

Jacob bursts through the door next. “Did I hear something about a proposal?”

Melissa sighs and looks over to the camera crew, a deadpan expression on her face. “Youse better keep quiet about all of this. Besides, after Joe, I don’t know…”

“Girl, if you don’t marry her first, then I will,” Ava appears in the doorway wearing a smirk. “She’s hot.”

You scoot past her and glance around at your coworkers, eyebrows furrowed. “Hey, what’re you guys talking about?” you ask, setting your coffee down on the table before sitting down next to Melissa, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Jacob’s eyes widen. “Nothing! We definitely weren’t talking about you, that’s for sure.”

Your girlfriend glares at him, making you laugh softly. “You okay?” you ask quietly enough so that only she can hear.

She nods. “Yeah, hon. I’m okay.”

For the rest of the week, you can’t help but notice the way Melissa acts so unlike herself. It almost feels like she’s avoiding you at all costs, but you chalk it up to her being tired. Each night she’s come to join you in bed way past your bedtime, barely getting any sleep. On Friday morning you decide to confront her in the kitchen, your hands on your hips as you watch her make her coffee.

“Mel.” She tenses in front of the coffee machine. “What’s been going on with you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You frown. “You just… haven’t been acting like yourself. I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Melissa snaps.

Your stomach drops. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” you say, hating the way your voice trembles. “I’ll see you at school.”

She turns around and reaches for you. “Hon—”

You sidestep her touch and try to ignore the twist in your chest at the way her face falls. “Bye, love you.”

It’s been ages since you’ve taken public transportation to Abbott, as you’ve now grown used to driving over with Melissa. This morning the train is completely packed, and you’re jostled against the people standing next to you for the whole ride. The rest of the day isn’t much better. You do your best to avoid your girlfriend and the rest of the crew, instead deciding to wallow in your misery alone. Yes, you are possibly being overdramatic, but do you care? No. It feels like your students are trying to drive you crazy, and you’re grateful when the final bell rings at the end of the day.

With the classroom finally empty, you slump forward in your chair and lay your head in your hands. Your throat feels tight, tears burning your eyes. Before you can let out a sob, gentle fingers wrap themselves around your wrists, tugging them down. Your eyes flicker up to meet Melissa’s.

“Tesoro…”

“I’m fine.” Your voice cracks. “Mel, I—”

She steps around the desk to stand next to you and pulls you up out of your chair. “C’mere.”

You pout. “Where…”

“Just follow me, hon.”

Her fingers intertwine with yours as she pulls you gently out of the classroom and down the hall, towards… the gym? “Mel, where are—”

You freeze, mouth hanging open as you stare into what used to be an ordinary school gym. Now it’s been decorated with twinkling fairy lights and bouquets of the prettiest flowers that you’ve ever seen. Your coworkers turned best friends are standing off in the corner with big grins on their faces. They all send a thumbs up before they leave you two alone, making you laugh. When you turn to Melissa, she’s gazing at you with such unadulterated fondness that it makes your heart flutter like the wings of a hummingbird. You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat.

“Mel…” you croak. She gets down on one knee, and it’s a wonder that your legs don’t buckle out from underneath you. “Oh my god,” you breathe out.

She lets out a watery laugh as she digs into her pocket and pulls out a velvet box. “Y’know, I didn’t think I wanted to get married again. Thought that kinda life wasn’t in the cards for me anymore. But then… I met you.”

Tears trail down your cheeks as you gaze down at her, warmth blooming in your chest. “Melissa—”

“You made me realize that I still deserved to be loved, even in my decrepit old age.”

You playfully glare at her. “You’re not old.”

“Yeah, try tellin’ that to my back, hon,” she jokes, and you laugh. “So… whaddya say? Marry me?”

You nod, vision blurry from your tears. “Yes, of course—Of course I’ll marry you,” you sob.

Melissa grins and takes the ring from the box, slipping it onto your ring finger. You help pull her up and smash your lips against hers, tasting the salt from both of your tears. The two of you pull back when you hear cheers, causing you to giggle.

“This is why you were being so weird this week, wasn’t it?” you ask, leaning your forehead against hers.

“Caught me,” she shrugs, smirking. “Had some help, too.”

A smile tugs at your lips. “You, Melissa Schemmenti, are one sneaky woman. Got any other tricks up your sleeve?”

Her eyes sparkle. “Gotta wait and see.”

This woman is going to be the death of you.

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schemmentigfs · 20 days ago

Note

melissa being queer is something we all cheered SO oomf asked if can you make a story about melissa cheating on cap robinson with r being a fem obviously PLEASE PLEASE

Cheating Doesn’t Start in Bed. (part 1.)

Summary: cheating has been always part of Melissa Schemmenti’s life. Now that she is dating the firefighter captain things couldn’t be different, especially with her doubts about her “mostly straight” self.

WC: 2.9k

tags: @lifeismomentsyoucannotunderstand @lisaannwaltersbra @italianaidiota @kukikatt @m6niacs @dopenightmaretyphoon @pitstopsapphic @jeridandridge @aliensuperst4rr

Warnings: insinuations of sex, cheating, captain rob hate club and barlissa / avamel justice.

Cheating or cheat. Five syllables that, when spoken, seem to shatter something inside. A short word, but one that carries the weight of an emotional earthquake. When people talk about betrayal, most immediately think of sex or secret kisses, but the truth is that betrayal begins long before physical contact — it begins with intention and absence. It is born in a gaze that lingers a second too long, in a message that didn’t need to be sent, in the thought that insists on comparing, desiring, or idealizing someone who isn’t the person you’re committed to. It lies in imagining all the possible outcomes of what could have been, if the desired relationship weren’t with the one who is blind to the raw and naked truth.

What? Why?

Why did you do this to me?

To cheat on someone you’re seriously committed to — and supposedly in love with — is to break an agreement, even if that agreement was never spoken aloud. It is to disrespect the trust that was built, brick by brick, often over the years. It is to look someone in the eyes, someone who loves you, and still hide parts of your truth. It is to split yourself into two versions: one for the “official,”and the other for the “absolutely forbidden.” To stab someone in the back and live a double life.

Did you think of me?

Did you think of how I would feel?

Or was it only about you? It was always about you, wasn’t it...

There are many types of cheating, and not all of them involve the body. Emotional affairs can be just as intense as physical ones. Conversations that become too intimate, confessions that should have been shared with your partner but end up being whispered to someone else. And when that line is crossed — often an invisible one — something breaks. Even if the betrayed never finds out, the betrayer knows. Deep down, they know they’re no longer the same.

Did you think I’d never notice?

Did you think I was stupid? Naive?

Can you really look me in the eye and still lie to me? Do you sleep peacefully?

This kind of betrayal also brings guilt, though not always right away. Sometimes, adrenaline comes first. The thrill of the forbidden. The feeling of power, of control, of being desired by someone new. But afterward — and there is always an afterward — reality returns. And guilt is a silent poison. It corrodes slowly. It makes the betrayer’s gaze heavy, their interactions bitter, their affection mechanical.

Do you ever feel ashamed?

Do you regret it?

Or would you do it all over again if you had the chance?

Was I not enough?

What did they have that I didn’t?

Why didn’t you choose me?

And when the cheating comes to light? Becomes public knowledge within a social circle? The pain it causes the poor betrayed can only be compared to grief. The grief for a relationship as it was imagined. The grief for trust, for intimacy, for the idea of exclusivity. Often, the betrayed feels like they are no longer enough, like they failed, like they were discarded. But in truth, the fault is never theirs. Because the one who cheats chooses. They choose to break a pact, even when they could have talked, asked for space, admitted doubts.

And it’s not just the betrayed who feels it. Those around them sense it too. Some drift away, uncomfortable. Others take sides. Some say, “You deserve better.” And some just look at you with pity, not knowing what to say. Friends whisper. Family pretends they didn’t see. Some even blame you.

“Maybe you weren’t giving enough attention?”

Cheating, in any form, is a deep selfish act. It may come with a thousand justifications, but it always leaves someone wounded. And the wounds caused by cheating... they ache in silence. They wake you up in the middle of the night. And they don’t heal easily. It makes you doubt others — but worse: it makes you doubt yourself. Your worth, your judgment, your ability to be loved.

And when you finally try to move on, you realize you’re not just rebuilding a relationship with the world.

You’re trying to rebuild yourself from the inside out. Because after being cheated, even the mirror feels like a stranger.

Barbara Howard once mentioned to Janine Teagues on a work day at school that her work wife and close friend does cheat from time to time.

The thing was that Melissa Schemmenti had never wanted to be a cheater.

She told herself that, over and over, gripping the steering wheel so tight her fingers ached. The car engine hummed beneath her, a low, steady thing, but inside her chest, her heart pounded like a war drum. The street outside your apartment complex was quiet, save for the occasional car rolling by, headlights cutting through the dark.

The first time she ever cheated, she was seventeen. A high school boyfriend whose name she barely remembered—Tony, maybe? Tommy?—sweet in that dumb, teenage-boy kind of way. She had kissed another boy behind the bleachers after a game, a fleeting, breathless thing, tasting like cheap beer and peppermint gum. The guilt had set in almost instantly, but back then, it had been simple. She had apologized, cried, promised it wouldn’t happen again.

And it hadn’t.

Not with Joseph, even after the lies started. Not when she’d find strands of blonde hair on his firefighter uniform or coat or when he came home smelling of someone else’s perfume, floral and sharp, making her stomach twist. Not when he looked her in the eye and told her he loved her while his phone lit up with another woman’s name. She had held on for too long, clinging to the version of him that had once been hers, hoping love could outweigh betrayal. But love had limits. And when she had finally reached hers, she had left.

She had sworn she’d never be like him.

Like her ma, Teresa Schemmenti, either. Her mother was the kind of woman people in South Philly whispered about but never confronted. Voluptuous, always in tight blouses that hugged her too hard and heels that clicked like a metronome of danger. She was beautiful in a brutal way—like a stained-glass window thrown through someone’s windshield.

The redheaded second grade teacher grew up in a home where infidelity wasn’t just a possibility — it was a shadow cast across every dinner table conversation, every late night her father didn’t ask questions, every moment her mother came home with too much lipstick on and a laugh that didn’t belong to family.

Melissa was eleven or twelve the first time she saw it—her mother leaning against the kitchen counter, a cigarette burning low between her fingers, laughing at something a man who wasn’t her father had whispered in her ear. She had stood frozen in the doorway, watching the way the older woman’s hand lingered on his chest, the way he touched her wrist like it was familiar, like it was allowed.

“You think men don’t cheat on us every day? This is just getting even.”

“You tell your father, I’ll make sure he leaves. And when he does, I’m takin’ your sisters and brothers and leavin’ you behind. See how you like that.”

The fight that night had been loud. Her pa screaming, Teresa calling him crazy, like she hadn’t been caught red-handed. And Melissa had stood at the top of the stairs, gripping the railing so tight she thought it might snap, listening to them tear each other apart while her young siblings were locked in their shared bedrooms asleep. Or pretending to be.

She had promised herself she’d never be like that.

She wouldn’t be the one crying at the kitchen table over lipstick stains that weren’t hers. She wouldn’t be the one sneaking around, spinning stories, making someone doubt their own gut.

She had kept that promise her whole life.

Until now. The affair with you was not supposed to happen more than once.

But it did.

Again.

And again.

And now your situationship couldn’t even say for sure where the mistake ended and the addiction began.

She told herself it was just a weakness. A moment. A beautiful body. A curiosity. You — young, bold, with that carefree way of looking directly into her eyes and asking, without hesitation:

“Have you ever wanted a real woman, Lis?”

And Melissa had laughed at the time. Called you conceited. Said she wasn’t that type of woman.

But that Friday night, in the parking lot behind the school, with the cigarette still between her fingers and the lipstick smeared on the corner of her mouth, she kissed you as if she were trying to rip something out of herself.

And you let her.

You pulled her by the waist, whispered against her plump lips. “You can lie to everyone. Just don't lie to me.”

She should have stopped right there.

But her hand was already between your legs, touching you like she was relearning how to pray.

It happened on your living room couch. Then in the car. Then, in a cheap motel with orange curtains and a mirror she refused to face. She kept saying it was just sex. That it meant nothing. That she wasn't cheating on anyone because she didn't love you.

But she kept coming back. Always coming back.

And it wasn't just because of the way you moaned softly, embarrassed, biting her shoulder to keep quiet. It wasn't just because you let her be in control, calling her mine with a choked voice. It was because, with you, Melissa felt something that had no name.

And that terrified her. Now, she was thinking about the way your fingers had brushed against hers earlier that night, lingering, testing. How she hadn’t pulled away. How, when you smiled at her, that knowing, patient thing, she had felt something she wasn’t supposed to feel.

She had been telling herself it wasn’t real for weeks. That she wasn’t thinking about you when her boyfriend kissed her.

That she didn’t dream about your voice, your laugh, the way your lips would feel if she let you close that distance between you.

That she didn’t want this.

But she did.

And now, Melissa Schemmenti was about to do something she could never take back. Because she had spent her whole life running from cheaters. And maybe she had just become one.

After rubbing her face, the green eyed woman gripped the steering wheel once more like it was the only thing anchoring her to the earth. Her manicured white nails dug crescents into the cheap leather, her knuckles stark white, wrists stiff, tendons burning from how tightly she held herself in place. She felt a dull vibration in her thighs. Somewhere, a dog barked.

She hadn’t meant to drive here. At least, that’s what she told herself. She was just out. Just needed some air. Needed to think.

And yet here Melissa was. Five minutes. Ten. Now twenty-three.

Just sitting there.

Phone face-down in the passenger seat. Screen lighting up every few minutes with the same message.

Capitan Robinson: u okay babe? gonna pick up beer—want anything? miss you. come home soon, meatloaf night??

Meatloaf.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Her green eyes burned. Not with tears—no, she was too angry for tears—but with the sheer heat of it. The frustration. The bile in her throat. She hated herself more every second she sat here.

She had told herself Robinson was the smart choice. Good guy. Clean. Strong. Handsome (on her eyes.) Firefighter. The kind of man you could bring home to your mother’s grave and not feel her bones turning in protest. The kind of man who didn’t raise his voice. Who folded her laundry. Who kissed her forehead. Who bought tampons without blinking.

Who loved her.

And God, she hated him for it.

She hated that he did everything right and yet she still couldn’t look at him without wanting to scream.

She hated that she’d begged him to be with her.

Begged, like some pathetic, stupid broken animal. Like a annoying woman who needs a man next to her.

It was the unfortunate day Gary, the vending machine guy who proposed to her and was told no, called and came to Willard R. Abbott before her second graders arrived. The morning he said he was getting married to a woman—a nurse, of course. Lucy or Stefhany? She doesn't even remember her name. When she got the invitation, Melissa could hear the smug little smile in his voice, that polished brand of condescension only ex-boyfriends can achieve.

“She’s kind,” he said. “You’d like her.”

Like hell she would. She had brushed off and stared at the wall for a long time, the silence crawling down her spine like mildew.

Then she called Captain Robinson after a talk with Barb and Jacob at the teachers lounge.

She didn’t think. Didn’t pause. Just called and said. “I think I would like us to be exclusive.”

And when he said. “Exclusive sounds good to me.”

She lied to herself and whispered. “Good man.” Before kissing him and smiling like a dork.

At first, the green eyed woman convinced herself it was fine. Great, even. He was sweet in bed. Solid. The first few times, he fucked her like he meant it—held her down, gripped her thighs like he was scared she’d vanish, breathed hard into her ear while she clung to the mattress and pretended she wasn’t dying inside.

She liked it. Or thought she did. It was easy to moan at the right moments, to arch her back, to dig her nails into his shoulders and let him believe he was everything she needed. That she was normal. Straight enough. Stable enough. Woman enough.

But then things slowed. Settled.

And the sex turned dull. Rhythmic. Predictable. It was like being on a treadmill she couldn’t step off. He had a routine. A script. The firefighter always started with his hands. Always moved down. Always asked, “You like that?” in the same voice, at the same time, as if it were written on a checklist.

The redheaded woman faked her orgasms so often now it became muscle memory. Her hourglass shaped body knew when to shudder. When to gasp. When to murmur, “Yes, right there,” even when nothing was there. Nothing had been there in a long time.

And the worst part? He didn’t notice. He’d kiss her shoulder, fall asleep sweaty and smiling, and she’d lie awake beside him, her thighs still sticky, her chest hollow, her fingers itching to reach for her phone.

Which she always did.

Lying there in the dark, pressed against a man who thought she was his, Melissa would open her photo app. Scroll through the pictures she should’ve deleted months ago.

There you were. Laughing, your hand in her hair, your eyes half-lidded from the sun. Another photo of your arm wrapped around her waist, your lips on her cheek. She looked happy. She looked real.

She’d zoom in slowly. Her thumb hovering over your mouth, tracing the edges of your face like she was memorizing you from a distance. Sometimes she’d stare at one photo for fifteen minutes. In silence. Barely breathing.

It made her sick. How much she missed you. How her body responded to the idea of you more than it ever did to Robinson’s hands. How you made her feel something that didn’t feel like pretending.

But Melissa Ann couldn’t let herself want you.

Not really.

Because wanting you meant accepting something she had buried for years. Decades, even.

It meant admitting she wasn’t straight. Not even “a little bi.” Not even “experimented once at Temple.” No. It meant digging up all those things she’d crushed under layers of denial and fear and pride.

It meant admitting she had a crush on Barbara Howard once—Barbara fucking Howard—because her voice made Melissa go still in the knees. Meant admitting she’d stare at Ava Coleman’s ass when she walked by in those skin-tight skirts and then spend the whole afternoon hating herself for it.

It meant admitting that she had spent her whole life performing straightness like it was a punishment she deserved.

And Capitan Robinson? He was her reward for playing the part right. For folding herself into someone small and digestible. He was the prize for surviving her childhood. For shutting up. For picking men. For staying quiet when her cousin said dykes ruined everything. For not flinching when her brothers made jokes about “bull-daggers” and “girls who want to be men.”

He was proof that she wasn’t broken.

Except she was.

She was so broken it bled out of her.

And now here she was—sitting outside your apartment at 11:42PM, hands shaking, stomach in knots, phone buzzing like a fucking ghost in the backseat—and all she could think about was you.

About your breath on her neck. About how you touched her like you weren’t scared. About how you let her fall apart in your arms and didn’t try to fix her. Just held her. Just saw her.

Melissa exhaled hard, eyes stinging.

Then she picked up her phone and opened your photo again.

Just one more look.

Just a few seconds.

Her thumb traced the line of your cheek, your lips, that little scar near your brow she used to kiss without thinking.

The older woman whispered, “Fuck,” under her breath. And for the first time in weeks, the truth slipped out—soft, angry, ugly.

“I’m not straight,” she said to no one. “I’m not straight. I’m not straight.”

Her voice cracked. Her shoulders shook.

But she still didn’t get out of the car.

Because admitting it was one thing.

Doing something about it…

Was something else entirely.