sapphicandgraphic

[sapphicandgraphic]

HOLD ON! Not only Teacher's pet is a series of one-shots but you are also writing for Melissa as well??? OH I AM DOWN TO READ IT ALL! (Not tonight because I get up for work in less than 6 hours but very very soon)!

Ohhhh yes the library is open and all are welcome!! Melissa is my muse 💕

I need to update the master list to make sure everything is organized and properly linked for you, but please enjoy and may I recommend starting with The Girl Next Door?

[sapphicandgraphic]

Teacher’s Pet — I Can Be Good

Summary: In the aftermath of a lesson, you see something you’re not supposed to see. Will it bring you and Agatha closer, or will she push you away?

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst, aftercare, subspace, dom-drop if ya squint, Evanora is and always will be the worst

“Ya know,” you said, pushing yourself off the floor with a grimace. “You move pretty fast for a 300-year-old.”

Agatha didn’t laugh. She was standing across the room, arm still outstretched and shimmering with the afterglow of magic, expression unreadable. Her eyes lingered on your hand, watching the way it drifted to your midsection, massaging some tender spot hidden beneath your clothing.

“That’s enough for today.”

You opened your mouth to argue. “But—“

“No back talk,” she said sharply. “Upstairs, now.”

You decided not to press your luck.

Agatha was still getting used to the idea of teaching you combat magic. She remained overly cautious, afraid of pushing too far, of losing control.

“Yes, mistress.”

It had been several weeks since your admittedly disastrous first attempt at dueling. Agatha had been caught off guard by your style of attack, provoked and baited into a demonstration of dark magic that got out of hand. You pushed the envelope that day, stirring something dangerous to life—the covenless witch herself, coming out to play—and you nearly paid the ultimate price.

Instead of being scared, you hungered for more. It awed you, seeing such immense power in action. Agatha was a force to be reckoned with—elemental, ancient, sublime. The risk of the day’s events took a backseat to the rewards, and your fear quickly faded, becoming flat and defanged.

Agatha knew better. It was only by sheer dumb luck that you managed to regain the upper hand. She had barely slept through the night since then, awaking with her sleep-shirt drenched in sweat, blinking away the memory of you kneeling on the floor, your pretty face upturned, totally at her mercy. The things she could have done to you…

She had vowed that day never to put you in danger again. But inside a week, you were hounding her about more practical training sessions.

“Do you have a death wish?”

She affected a bored tone the first time you broached the subject, drawling the words, but her eyes contained something haunted and hollow.

“This would be different,” you insisted. “It would be teaching, not fighting. We could make it safe.”

And she was horrified to find herself softening, coming around to the idea. You could be very persuasive, making even the most reckless endeavors sound reasonable. Through a strategic mix of bargaining and begging and batting your eyelashes, you eventually wore her down. But Agatha was adamant about installing a few new protocols.

Which is how you found yourself here, hovering in the doorway while Agatha took her usual seat in the corner of the sofa, feet reclined on an ottoman.

“Come.”

You padded across the room and joined her.

“You did well today,” she murmured, threading her long fingers through your hair, scanning for injuries. “Your reflexes are improving. I see you anticipating, rather than just reacting.”

You knew these cooldown sessions were more than just a medical check-in. They helped you both decompress, reconnect, find one another again.

You nodded, encouraged by the praise. “It’s like I can feel your magic in the air before it strikes.”

“Very perceptive, pet.” Agatha dipped her head approvingly. “You’re developing nonverbal acuity, a way to access your magic without incantations or spoken spell-craft.”

You grinned, lolling against the arm of the sofa. Your mind was pleasantly foggy, your muscles tired and heavy. You couldn’t think of anything to say, except: “Cool.”

Agatha laughed, head tipping back from the force of it. The sound was deep and rich and real, and you had a sudden punch-drunk greed for that smile, for being the cause of it.

“Very cool,” she agreed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

It was pointless trying to teach you anything after a session. Your eyes had this giddy, glazed-over look.

She allowed you to drift, passing her magic over your neck and chest, making her way methodically down your body. It vibrated gently, like a cat’s purr. The bruising on your ribs ached, but you waited patiently for Agatha to finish her scan before requesting some pain relief.

“Can’t quite get the hang of hexes,” you mumbled offhand, remembering a poorly executed cast from the session.

Agatha hummed thoughtfully, playing with one of your curls as she continued her work. “You may always find them difficult. Pretty little witches like you aren’t exactly suited to dark magic.”

She moved her other hand down and splayed it across your sternum, listening to the steady thrum of your heartbeat, the rush of blood and magic in your veins.

“What’s with all this light and dark?” You grumbled the question sleepily, catching her eye. “Seems very puritanical if you ask me.”

Agatha smiled softly. Not for the first time, she was impressed by this capacity for insight, compassion, wisdom beyond your years. She paused and leaned back again, resting her head on the cushion as she considered a more nuanced way to explain her point.

“Your magic is empathic, intuitive. You have a healer’s touch. Because of that, hexing may feel…unnatural.”

You nodded, half-listening, distracted suddenly by the pale column of Agatha’s throat. Without thinking, you reached up, brushing your fingers along her exposed jawline. For a moment you thought she might shrug you off. But then her eyes fluttered shut and she sighed softly, abandoning the lesson altogether. It was rare to see the other woman like this, defenses totally down, sharp edges softened.

You extended your arm, delighted by the idea that you might be able to reciprocate some of the comfort you were receiving. After all, you reasoned, these sessions were just as much for Agatha’s benefit as yours.

You skated your fingers along her cheek, tracing simple patterns. You wondered what she was thinking about as you touched her temple with your fingertips, the delicate skin there so soft and beckoning...

There was a flash of purple. You felt a strange pull at the base of your skull, a heaviness in your eye sockets as the world tilted sideways.

Suddenly you were no longer sprawled on the sofa. You turned, finding yourself in a clearing full of women with torches. A chill wind whipped through your hair, and a dark ominous pressure gathered in your chest.

The crowd faced a pyre. A slender figure was restrained there, her face a picture of anguish.

“Please, mother,” she cried, and your heart stuttered because you recognized that voice. “I can be good.”

Agatha. But not quite as you knew her. She was younger…and all alone.

You broke into an icy sweat and began shouldering your way ahead, shoving onlookers aside, driven by a singular need to close the distance between you. It was like trying to run through quicksand, your limbs aching with resistance. You shouted her name.

A few faces turned, twisted by suspicion and hate. You ignored them, crying out for her again. Louder this time. She didn’t seem to hear you. The entire scene was dreamlike, surreal. But you fought like your life depended on it, like Agatha’s did.

With tremendous effort, you broke free of the crowd, stumbling up onto the platform where she was being held.

“I’m here,” you panted, reaching for her. “I’m right here.”

Finally, she lifted her head, blue eyes finding yours. For a moment there was a spark of recognition in young Agatha’s eyes. Her lips quirked up in a bemused smile as your fingertips brushed her cheek. Then a shadow fell over the platform and a hand closed firmly on your bicep.

Turning, you came face-to-face with present-day Agatha. Relief surged through you at the sight of her, alive and unharmed. The familiar worry lines in her forehead, the disapproving frown playing around her mouth.

“Get out of my head.”

Her voice was like thunder, echoing strangely. Just as quickly as the vision had descended, it evaporated. You felt yourself being roughly evicted from the scene, and you tumbled out of Agatha’s mind, out of her lap, landing with a grunt on the hard floor of the house.

All the sleepy warmth in your muscles disappeared. You shivered violently. The dull ache in your midsection seemed to double, and your head was pounding. You blinked several times, fighting a horrible wave of dizziness.

“What the hell?” You rasped.

Slowly, the living room came back into focus. Agatha had leapt up from the sofa and now she towered over you, all traces of softness gone.

“What a fool I’ve been,” she whispered.

“I - wait, what?” You were confused, disoriented. “Agatha, I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“You expect me to believe that?” She exhaled sharply, a sound of doubt and fury mingled with something wounded, something like betrayal. “You’ve just been biding your time, waiting to get me back.”

“No,” you growled, trying to push yourself upright. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

But Agatha placed her boot squarely in the center of your chest, pinning you to the ground.

“Did you enjoy the show?” she sneered, digging her heel against you roughly so that you hissed in pain. “Not many people have seen Evanora Harkness in action and lived to tell the tale.”

You looked up at her, comprehension dawning. So that had been a memory.

“Agatha,” you grunted, struggling beneath the pressure on your chest. “I can’t - just let me up so we can talk about this -“

Her eyes were flinty, uncaring in a way you weren’t accustomed to.

“We’re done here.”

“Wait!” And you didn’t care how pathetic you sounded in that moment. “I’m sorry-“

But she waved her hands and disappeared in a cloud of smoke before you could finish your sentence. You listened, straining to hear movement in the basement or upstairs in her bedroom. But there was only silence. Wherever she had gone, she wasn’t in the house.

You collapsed back against the floor and stared at the ceiling, trying to sort through the events that had just taken place.

All your life, you’d been able to read energy. The more time you spent with someone, the more perceptive you became. But diving into full-on memories? That had never happened before.

You felt a flicker of disgust with yourself. It had been an accident, yes. But you knew firsthand how invasive it was, having someone else in your head. Especially for a person as guarded as Agatha.

Across the room, a window shutter caught in a sudden breeze and banged against the house. You jumped, wincing at the sudden movement.

“Fuck,” you muttered, pain lancing through chest. You wrapped an arm around your midsection, trying to calm your jittery nerves. With Agatha gone and your magic depleted from sparring, you felt a sudden wave of vulnerability.

On top of that, your emotions were running haywire. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You clambered up onto the sofa, reaching for a blanket, and trying to forget the look on Agatha’s face, the words she had said: we’re done. She would come back soon. Then you’d sort it out together, like you always did…

——————

You woke with a gasp, realizing you must have drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Night had fallen. The moon was fat and bright in the sky. You pushed yourself upright, pain ricocheting through your head and midsection.

“Agatha?” Your voice sounded small and wobbly. There was no response.

You made your way toward the kitchen on unsteady legs. Your magic still felt too weak to rely on for any healing spells, so you retrieved some ingredients from the pantry and got to work. The process was soothing, and your mind wandered.

You were standing at the counter, grinding a few flowers into a fragrant paste when you heard the front door snick open.

You paused, listening. Her footsteps were soft, slow, achingly familiar. She finally appeared in the hallway, lingering in the shadows as if she might bypass you altogether. When she finally entered the room, her arms were crossed over her chest. She reminded you of a sullen teenager.

She looked down at the cutting board, the mortar and pestle, the fresh-cut stems from the garden. “What’s all this?”

“Nothing important,” you said. “I was just finishing up.”

You turned to the sink. Agatha watched you, hawkish and mistrusting. Her eyes narrowed. Your movements were stilted, stiff. She raised the mixing bowl to her nose and gave it a cursory sniff.

“Camphor,” she said. “Mint, dandelion, aloe.”

A simple anti-inflammatory lotion. She realized with a sharp pang of guilt that she had never finished scanning you for injuries.

“You’re in pain.”

You paused, lowering a few dishes into the sink.

“A little sore,” you admitted, and Agatha could tell you were lying by the way you refused to meet her eyes. She watched you tidying up for a few more moments, deliberating. When she spoke again, her tone had softened at the edges.

“Why not just heal yourself?”

You exhaled slowly.

“Tired,” you said, and for the first time she noticed the shadows under your eyes. “Wasn’t sure I could…manage it.”

You leaned against the counter, watching the other woman. She didn’t look angry. You felt a little bolstered by that, emboldened to ask the one question that had been banging around in your head for the last few hours.

“Are you alright?”

And you saw how it caught her off guard. Her eyes widened slightly, lips parting in surprise. You wondered suddenly how long it had been since someone asked her that, had truly cared about the answer.

“I’m always alright,” she sniffed, regaining some composure.

“You don’t have to be,” you said, holding her gaze for a moment. “I crossed a line, got in your head.”

Agatha swallowed. “It was an accident.”

You nodded. “Doesn’t make it right.”

Agatha wasn’t sure how to respond to such bare-faced compassion and accountability. She looked away, blinking a few times. You wanted to say more, but you kept your mouth shut. It seemed important to let Agatha draw the boundary on this conversation, to follow her lead.

The silence stretched. You reached for the small ceramic bowl, intending to take your leave. Agatha caught your arm. You flinched, startled, and she felt her heart twist.

“Let me?”

She slipped her hand into yours. You allowed the other woman to guide you forward, through the hall and into the living room. You leaned against her, instinctively seeking her warmth.

“You’re freezing,” she murmured.

With a wave of her hand, a fire sprang up in the hearth. Then she pulled you down into her lap, arranging you carefully against her body. You winced as your ribs brushed against her knee. Agatha stilled immediately.

“What hurts? Let me see.”

Her hands were gentle as she lifted the hem of your shirt up and over your head, trying not to admire the soft plane of your stomach, or the way your sports bra accentuated your broad shoulders...

Then Agatha saw the bruising along your ribs, the small purplish mark in the center of your chest, and she froze.

“It’s alright -“ you started to say, worrying this was a bad idea.

“Don’t,” she said, cutting you off. “Please.”

Agatha hovered her hands over your skin, scanning for broken bones. Finding none, she dipped her fingertips into the lotion and began massaging the edge of the purplish skin. You sighed at the almost-instant relief, cool and soothing. Agatha glanced up and saw the tension in your face disappear, your muscles relaxing.

“Better?”

The corners of your mouth quirked upward and you hummed in affirmation. Rather than feeling relief, Agatha’s thoughts darkened. She had left you like this for hours and hours, injured and unable to heal yourself. She had broken the very promise she had made just a few weeks ago.

You cracked one eye open, noticing that Agatha’s mouth was set in a firm little line of self-recrimination.

“Hey,” you said. “Talk to me.”

She regarded you with something like exasperation.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she said. “It’s not worth it.”

“Agatha,” you sighed, trying to be patient. But you were so tired, and you barely suppressed a shiver at the feeling of her hand brushing against your tender skin. “We’ve been over this. You’re teaching me to protect myself.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened. “What kind of teacher hurts her students?”

Maybe it was a rhetorical question. And yet her tone was loaded with so much self-loathing, you couldn’t help but answer.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” you said firmly. “It’s my choice, remember? I asked for this. I want to learn.”

Agatha didn’t say anything. Then:

“Have you considered what I want?”

The question was quiet, almost a whisper. And it gutted you. Because, in all honesty, you hadn’t. You all but demanded that Agatha teach you to fight, unwilling to take no for an answer. Sure, she seemed reluctant. But you chalked that up to her being overprotective. You hadn’t considered there might be some other reason.

“No,” you said, guilt flooding your chest. “I- I didn’t.”

She dabbed more ointment onto your ribs, then turned her attention to your chest. And here her eyes clouded over again. She stared and stared, seemingly lost in thought.

“People close to me always get hurt,” she said finally, voice hitching on the words. “Always.”

And the memory flashed through your mind again, of Agatha bound and helpless and condemned by people who believed the worst about her…and somewhere along the line, Agatha herself had started to agree with them.

That ends today, you decided. Right here, right now.

“Agatha.” You spoke her name with nothing but warmth, trust, certainty. “Look at me.”

She did. Her eyes were glassy, lost. She seemed so much like that girl in the memory, all alone, abandoned by the people who should have loved her. Your breath caught in your throat for a moment. Then the words came.

“You are good.”

You half-expected to end up on the floor again, tossed aside by a woman who had survived hundreds of years by protecting her soft underbelly, never being vulnerable. But she didn’t withdraw, didn’t laugh or sneer or argue. Instead, she went entirely still, looking at you with those big eyes. Almost imperceptibly, her grip tightened, fingertips kneading into the soft flesh of your hip.

“In the memory,” she said, broaching the subject for the first time. “You tried to…get to me.”

Her eyebrows furrowed together in confusion, as if even the thought of someone helping her was foreign. “Why?”

“Because you looked like you needed a friend,” you said.

“Friends?” Agatha’s lips quirked up. “Is that what we are?”

You considered the other woman for a moment, trying to decide how much you wanted to share. How much you trusted her.

“I know what it’s like to stand on your own,” you said evenly. “To be cast out by the people who are supposed to love you.”

It was a story for another day. But at Agatha’s curious glance, you added: “Let’s just say, my mother would have given your mother a run for her money.”

You exchanged a dark look of understanding, and she clutched you a little tighter. The fire crackled in the hearth, popping and hissing as she regarded the bruise in the center of your chest. Very carefully, she leaned forward and brushed her lips against it.

“Tell me again, pet.”

The request was soft yet urgent, full of unspoken longing. You obliged.

“You are good.”

You said it like an incantation, like a spell that could begin reversing centuries of malignant rumor and half-truth and harm.

“You are so good.”

Agatha smiled, shy and sweet. Outside the sun was rising, the first rays of pre-dawn light cresting the horizon. She settled back against the sofa, still holding you close. Her eyes fluttered shut, and when she spoke her voice was so soft that you nearly missed what she said next.

“You make me feel like I can be.”

[sapphicandgraphic]

Hi,

I just wanted to say I really enjoy your Agatha fics. I actually recently subscribed to your Patreon and just read the latest chapter of the apprentice fic which was so cute and soft. I really love their dynamic and can't wait to read more and see how their relationship develops. I am excited for the Mary Celeste fic as well which is also great!

I also recently read your Layover fic and thought it was a very original idea. I was wondering if you have ever considered writing a sequel to that story since you left it kind of open ended saying Agatha visits London for work. I am big fan of some angst and longing in my fics, and thought it would be interesting to see how Reader's relationship with Agatha could evolve if they continued seeing each other, given the long distance of it all and their age difference. Would love to read more of that if you were ever interested in continuing it.

Either way I am here for all of your Agatha stories. I might give a shot at reading some of your other fics as well since I enjoy your writing a lot, it's just I am not in any other fandoms as of now.

Take care ☺️

Hi anon 🥰

First, thanks for saying hello! Writing can be a lonely endeavor sometimes, and it’s so awesome to hear from readers.

Second, I love the idea of revisiting the Layover-verse! I did try to tee it up and leave things open-ended in case inspiration ever struck…

Third, the Mary Celeste story is very near and dear to my heart which is making it hard to pull the trigger on the next chapter….but maybe I’m being overly precious in trying to make it so so perfect…this could be the push I need to dive back in and not let it languish!

And there’s more to come in the Teacher’s Pet series of one-shots, so stay tuned! And thanks for subscribing to my Patreon 💕 that community means a lot to me.

[sapphicandgraphic]

Heyy! ✨

I recently came upon your blog because of your newest fic “Body of Work” and I have to say I am absolutely obsessed with your writing!

I started reading your other fics and my goodness i love them so much!! 🥹 The ideas and storylines you come up with are amazing!

(Btw are you gonna update your other multi chapter fics as well? 🙈 Just curious because they’re really great!)

I hope you have a lovely day 💖

Gah! ☺️ I’m blushing!

Thank you so much, anon 💕 such a nice note to read at the end of a long day! And yes, I fully intend to finish all my in-progress multi-chap fics, nothing has been or will be abandoned, this is my SOLEMN VOW to you.

I’m just going a little slower at the moment due to a recent move and other ongoing professional projects. But I’m getting back into the swing of things, so check back soon 🥰

[sapphicandgraphic]

Loving your Body of Work series!! Can't wait to read mooooore!!! ❤❤🔥🔥

Thank you soooo much for the note, anon! And not to toot my own horny horn 😏 but chapter 5 is about to deliver.

[sapphicandgraphic]

Hear ye, hear ye!

A brand new, super-soft, hurt/comfort Agatha x apprentice!reader one-shot is hitting my Patreon tomorrow! If you want to get notified when “I Can Be Good” goes live and read right away, please subscribe. Otherwise it will be added to these hallowed shelves at the end of the month.

[sapphicandgraphic]

New chapter is up!

Body Of Work — Chapter 4

Synopsis: Melissa runs into an ex at Abbott. Sparks fly! Wounds heal! But will it be enough to bring you back together?

Chapter: 4/?

Warnings: Descriptions of blood, slight injury, just two sweet babies who never wanted to hurt each other!

You felt Melissa’s fingers twist into the fabric of your shirt, trembling slightly with emotion, with determination as her words echoed in the hall: the only person I saw hurting anyone was you.

Gary seemed to realize he had miscalculated, moving beyond the scope of Melissa’s forgiveness. Rather than driving a wedge, he had only succeeded in bringing you closer together.

He looked at the possessive way Mel cradled you against her chest, and it occurred to him in some distant part of his brain that she had never held him like that—like her life depended on it—and now she never would. Fury and humiliation warred within his chest.

“Fine,” he spat, angry splotches of red coloring his cheeks. “But don’t expect me to pick up the pieces this time.”

Melissa flinched, just slightly, at this parting jab. It made you wonder what had transpired in the year you’d been away, and for the first time you allowed yourself to believe that Melissa had been hurting just as much as you had.

As the other man finally stormed away, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Melissa wasted no time, turning her attention to your brother.

“You,” Melissa barked. “Go downstairs to the infirmary and see if the nurse is in today.”

“I don’t need —“ you started, but Mel’s eyes flashed in warning and you stopped talking.

“Bring her to my classroom,” she instructed, and when Hank didn’t move she added, “On the double!”

Hank sprang into action, taking off in the same direction as Gary. When he disappeared and it was just the two of you, Melissa finally loosened her grip on your waist. The tension eased out of her spine ever so slightly, and she bent forward, scanning you for other injuries. Her eyes were downcast, long dark lashes brushing the tops of her pale cheeks. And you were reminded suddenly of the day last spring when you had visited the Pieta, of Mary holding everything broken and holy in her lap.

“Did he—“

She inhaled sharply, unable to forget the sight of Gary towering over you, throwing you against the wall. Something acidic and sharp hit the back of her throat, and she thought she might be sick. Melissa swallowed, not trusting herself to speak.

”Hey,” you said, giving her a lopsided smile, desperate to soothe the worried look on her face. “I’m fine.”

The redhead hummed, a doubtful noise, but she didn’t argue. There were more pressing matters at hand.

“Can ya stand?”

She carefully slipped out from under you, somehow never quite letting go. Her hands guided you into a sitting position, then she placed your right arm around her shoulder.

“Go slow,” she said, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

You leaned against her as she helped you off the ground. A ripple of dizziness hit just as you stood upright.

“Whoa,” you said, blinking through the uncomfortable sensation.

Melissa set a steady hand at your back.

“I’ve got ya,” she murmured, pressing you against her side. Her every touch was impossibly gentle, every word—take your time, that’s it, one more step—soft and patient as she guided you down the stairs.

Holding you like this, Melissa could feel the contour of your body. She skated her fingertips over once-familiar landmarks, and was dismayed to find they had changed. The pillow-soft curve of your stomach had all but disappeared, hardened by new muscles. Your hips were more angular, almost sinewy. A fresh pang of concern lanced through her as she catalogued every new detail. She tried to be surreptitious, but you noticed her slightly wandering hand, the adorable frown hooking the edges of her mouth.

“You feeling me up, Schemmenti?”

She stilled, eyes glassy like a deer in the headlights. You gave her another sideways smile and waggled your eyebrows. “Not that I’m complaining.”

You were trying to coax her out from beneath the storm cloud that seemed to have settled on her shoulders. Finally she shook her head, huffed out a laugh. Leaning so close that her breath tickled your ear, she whispered, “If I was coppin’ a feel, you’d know it.”

Melissa felt the shiver that her words elicited, and allowed a triumphant little smile to tug at the corners of her mouth. You were rendered temporarily speechless by the sensation of her so close, the saffron and cedar smell of her perfume, the confident rasp of her voice. A familiar tug low in your stomach confirmed you were still very much attracted to Melissa Schemmenti.

“I was just thinkin’,” she continued, as if she hadn’t just triggered a full-body implosion. “You gotta be the only person who could live in Italy for a year and lose weight.”

You neatly sidestepped the real question beneath her observation. “What can I say? The cooking didn’t compare to yours.”

“Brown-noser!” Melissa swatted your arm, but you could see the way she preened at the compliment. “My nonna woulda liked you.”

She guided you into her classroom, depositing you in the chair behind her desk just as Hank appeared breathlessly.

“No nurse,” he said, looking like a foot soldier reporting into a general. “But I found a first aid kit.”

Melissa swiped it from his hands, suddenly all business again as she rifled through the contents, searching for bandages.

“Hey.” Your brother glanced at you, checking in. “How many fingers am I holdin’ up?”

“Ha ha,” you intoned. “Very funny.”

Hank smiled, but you could tell her was worried by the way he kept fidgeting, pressing his big calloused palms together in a gesture that was almost prayerful. He stepped forward, tilting your face up to the light and examining the cut near your temple.

“Not as bad as the time you fell out the treehouse,” he said. “Remember that? Ma was convinced you were dead.”

“Fell,” you repeated, arching one disbelieving eyebrow. “I remember it a little differently.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Hank scrunched his face up. “You lost your balance and fell.”

“Only because I was trying to get my paintbrushes back from one of your punk-ass friends!”

Your brother shifted guiltily for a moment.

“Well ya shouldn’t have even been in the treehouse to begin with,” he said, crossing his arms like it settled the matter. “No girls allowed, there was a sign and everything.”

Melissa cleared her throat.

“As charming as this little trip down memory lane is,” she said, resting one hand on her hip in an obvious display of impatience. “Can ya clear out before your sister bleeds all over my sticker sheets?”

Maybe it was the bump on the head, but Hank’s facial expression—a mix of awe and fear of Melissa Schemmenti—struck you as wildly comical. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as he looked at you, wide-eyed and uncertain.

“It’s okay,” you said, giving him permission to leave. “She doesn’t bite.”

“Much,” Melissa added with a dangerous smile.

Hank glanced uncertainly between you. “I—I’m gonna be upstairs. Holler if you need me.”

And then it was just the two of you again. Melissa cast an appraising eye over your face, over the jut of your cheekbone where the flesh was beginning to swell. She brought her fingers up, soft as petals, and brushed your hair back to reveal the darkening bruise, the split skin.

“See?” You said, breath hitching slightly. “Barely a scratch.”

Melissa shook her head.

“What were ya thinkin’,” she asked. “Gettin’ into it with a guy twice your size?”

You scoffed. “He started it.”

“You sound like my second graders,” she muttered, carefully cleaning up the blood around your hairline and dabbing on antiseptic ointment onto the cut.

“Well it’s true,” you muttered. “He got in my face about…about us.”

Melissa blinked.

“How would he know…” she trailed off. “I didn’t say nothin’, I swear.”

You gave her a careful smile. “You’re kidding, right?”

“What?” Melissa demanded. And she seemed so sincerely befuddled that you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Melissa,” you said. “I love you, but you have a terrible poker face. And the way you looked at me yesterday….I mean, the guy may not be a brain surgeon but he’s not blind.”

She gave you a funny look. At first you thought it was because you had insulted Gary. It wasn’t until the silence stretched for a few seconds that you realized what had slipped out. Three traitorous little words.

“Sorry,” you groaned, scrubbing a hand over your face. “I don’t know why…I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s alright,” she said, voice softening at the edges. She stepped even closer, nudging your thighs apart with her knee so that she could stand in the cradle of your hips. “It’s the truth, ain’t it?”

You glanced up at her, breath catching as she leaned in and placed a small bandage over your wound. Her movements were neat, precise.

“He ain’t exactly a brain surgeon,” she smirked.

And you deflated just a little. Melissa noticed, gripping your chin before you could withdraw.

“Me, on the other hand,” she continued, staring at you with undisguised interest. “I’m pretty smart. And my bullshit radar is going off every time we talk.”

You swallowed. Melissa’s eyes flickered, watching the fine muscles and tendons in your throat bob up and down.

“Uh-huh,” she muttered, as if this textbook guilty tic somehow proved her theory. “Knew it.”

You scoffed, glancing up at the ceiling. But you didn’t pull away from the comforting grip of her hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her words sharpened, but her touch remained featherlight as she pressed the edges of the adhesive down again, needlessly fussing at this point, but she couldn’t help herself.

“Something’s off with you,” she said, tilting your face back toward hers. You became acutely aware of her body. Her hips touching the inside of your thighs, her fingertips brushing the delicate skin at your temple. You had the mad desire for her to lean forward and press her lips to your forehead, to kiss it all better in the way that only she could.

Melissa mistook your silence for confirmation of her worst fears. The color drained from her face.

“God, I hate being right,” she rasped, a fact that was patently untrue and which you would have teased her about if she didn’t suddenly look so upset. “You’re not eating, you look like you haven’t slept in weeks…”

“Melissa—”

“You’re sick.” Her voice was hushed, barely a whisper. “Aren’t you?”

What? Now you were really confused. And Melissa’s eyes were so wide, almost childlike in their fearfulness. She whispered your name, and her voice cracked on the familiar syllables.

“Just tell me,” she begged. “Please.”

The redhead gripped your hand, running her thumb back and forth across your knuckles. You opened your mouth to answer, but then she leaned in and your brain went staticky at her next words, the way her lips brushed against the crown of your head.

“Let me in.”

You trembled. Every molecule of your body swayed forward, desperate to surrender, to tell Melissa everything. Somehow you managed to come back to earth, to find your voice.

“Mel,” you said evenly. “I’m not sick.”

She drew back slightly, fixing you with a classic Melissa Schemmenti look. Skeptical and stubborn, like she could intimidate the truth out of you.

“You swear?”

You nodded. “I swear.”

She held your gaze for another beat, scanning your face for any trace of a lie.

“Well then…” She wiped furtively at her eye makeup, concern shifting to frustration. “Why do you look like you’re wastin’ away?”

You tried to laugh it off. “So I lost some baby fat,” you said. “Big deal.”

“Don’t avoid the question,” she said sharply. “What are you doing home early?”

You squirmed.

“It’s hard to explain.” You looked down at your hands, choosing your next words carefully. “My body of work just…wasn’t what they were expecting.”

Melissa frowned, feeling more confused than ever.

“Body of work?” She repeated the word slowly, like a riddle she was sounding out.

Before she could ask more questions, the classroom door suddenly banged open. Melissa stepped back, snatching her hands away from your face as if burned.

“Jesus Christ, Janine,” she spat. “You ever heard of knocking?”

The younger woman’s eyes widened, flitting from you to Melissa and back again.

“Sorry,” she winced. “A few of us are ordering lunch, we didn’t know if you wanted…”

Janine trailed off, noticing the tension in the room. “I’ll just… take that as a no.”

The younger teacher ducked out of the room, practically fleeing Mel’s murderous look.

“I should get back up there,” you said wearily, pushing yourself out of the chair. Pain radiated through your skull, and you suddenly felt so tired. Melissa watched you, clasping her hands together to keep from reaching out.

“Let me drive ya home,” she said softly.

“No way,” you laughed. “I have work to do.”

You stopped in the doorway, turning back to look at Melissa. She had her arms crossed, leaning against the desk. Her face was angled down, her red hair hanging in a protective curtain, and she looked very small.

You felt an impossible swell of longing in your chest. The next words left your mouth without your permission.

“I know I’m not making sense…”

Melissa looked up, her eyes brimming with something like hope.

“But maybe…” you trailed off, worrying your bottom lip between your front teeth. “Maybe I can show you?”

[sapphicandgraphic]

Body Of Work — Chapter 4

Synopsis: Melissa runs into an ex at Abbott. Sparks fly! Wounds heal! But will it be enough to bring you back together?

Chapter: 4/?

Warnings: Descriptions of blood, slight injury, just two sweet babies who never wanted to hurt each other!

You felt Melissa’s fingers twist into the fabric of your shirt, trembling slightly with emotion, with determination as her words echoed in the hall: the only person I saw hurting anyone was you.

Gary seemed to realize he had miscalculated, moving beyond the scope of Melissa’s forgiveness. Rather than driving a wedge, he had only succeeded in bringing you closer together.

He looked at the possessive way Mel cradled you against her chest, and it occurred to him in some distant part of his brain that she had never held him like that—like her life depended on it—and now she never would. Fury and humiliation warred within his chest.

“Fine,” he spat, angry splotches of red coloring his cheeks. “But don’t expect me to pick up the pieces this time.”

Melissa flinched, just slightly, at this parting jab. It made you wonder what had transpired in the year you’d been away, and for the first time you allowed yourself to believe that Melissa had been hurting just as much as you had.

As the other man finally stormed away, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Melissa wasted no time, turning her attention to your brother.

“You,” Melissa barked. “Go downstairs to the infirmary and see if the nurse is in today.”

“I don’t need —“ you started, but Mel’s eyes flashed in warning and you stopped talking.

“Bring her to my classroom,” she instructed, and when Hank didn’t move she added, “On the double!”

Hank sprang into action, taking off in the same direction as Gary. When he disappeared and it was just the two of you, Melissa finally loosened her grip on your waist. The tension eased out of her spine ever so slightly, and she bent forward, scanning you for other injuries. Her eyes were downcast, long dark lashes brushing the tops of her pale cheeks. And you were reminded suddenly of the day last spring when you had visited the Pieta, of Mary holding everything broken and holy in her lap.

“Did he—“

She inhaled sharply, unable to forget the sight of Gary towering over you, throwing you against the wall. Something acidic and sharp hit the back of her throat, and she thought she might be sick. Melissa swallowed, not trusting herself to speak.

”Hey,” you said, giving her a lopsided smile, desperate to soothe the worried look on her face. “I’m fine.”

The redhead hummed, a doubtful noise, but she didn’t argue. There were more pressing matters at hand.

“Can ya stand?”

She carefully slipped out from under you, somehow never quite letting go. Her hands guided you into a sitting position, then she placed your right arm around her shoulder.

“Go slow,” she said, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

You leaned against her as she helped you off the ground. A ripple of dizziness hit just as you stood upright.

“Whoa,” you said, blinking through the uncomfortable sensation.

Melissa set a steady hand at your back.

“I’ve got ya,” she murmured, pressing you against her side. Her every touch was impossibly gentle, every word—take your time, that’s it, one more step—soft and patient as she guided you down the stairs.

Holding you like this, Melissa could feel the contour of your body. She skated her fingertips over once-familiar landmarks, and was dismayed to find they had changed. The pillow-soft curve of your stomach had all but disappeared, hardened by new muscles. Your hips were more angular, almost sinewy. A fresh pang of concern lanced through her as she catalogued every new detail. She tried to be surreptitious, but you noticed her slightly wandering hand, the adorable frown hooking the edges of her mouth.

“You feeling me up, Schemmenti?”

She stilled, eyes glassy like a deer in the headlights. You gave her another sideways smile and waggled your eyebrows. “Not that I’m complaining.”

You were trying to coax her out from beneath the storm cloud that seemed to have settled on her shoulders. Finally she shook her head, huffed out a laugh. Leaning so close that her breath tickled your ear, she whispered, “If I was coppin’ a feel, you’d know it.”

Melissa felt the shiver that her words elicited, and allowed a triumphant little smile to tug at the corners of her mouth. You were rendered temporarily speechless by the sensation of her so close, the saffron and cedar smell of her perfume, the confident rasp of her voice. A familiar tug low in your stomach confirmed you were still very much attracted to Melissa Schemmenti.

“I was just thinkin’,” she continued, as if she hadn’t just triggered a full-body implosion. “You gotta be the only person who could live in Italy for a year and lose weight.”

You neatly sidestepped the real question beneath her observation. “What can I say? The cooking didn’t compare to yours.”

“Brown-noser!” Melissa swatted your arm, but you could see the way she preened at the compliment. “My nonna woulda liked you.”

She guided you into her classroom, depositing you in the chair behind her desk just as Hank appeared breathlessly.

“No nurse,” he said, looking like a foot soldier reporting into a general. “But I found a first aid kit.”

Melissa swiped it from his hands, suddenly all business again as she rifled through the contents, searching for bandages.

“Hey.” Your brother glanced at you, checking in. “How many fingers am I holdin’ up?”

“Ha ha,” you intoned. “Very funny.”

Hank smiled, but you could tell her was worried by the way he kept fidgeting, pressing his big calloused palms together in a gesture that was almost prayerful. He stepped forward, tilting your face up to the light and examining the cut near your temple.

“Not as bad as the time you fell out the treehouse,” he said. “Remember that? Ma was convinced you were dead.”

“Fell,” you repeated, arching one disbelieving eyebrow. “Is that what happened?”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Hank scrunched his face up. “Yeah, you lost your balance and fell.”

“Only because I was trying to get my paintbrushes back from one of your punk-ass friends!”

Your brother shifted guiltily for a moment.

“Well ya shouldn’t have even been in the treehouse to begin with,” he said, crossing his arms like it settled the matter. “No girls allowed, there was a sign and everything.”

Melissa cleared her throat.

“As charming as this little trip down memory lane is,” she said, resting one hand on her hip in an obvious display of impatience. “Can ya clear out before your sister bleeds all over my sticker sheets?”

Maybe it was the bump on the head, but Hank’s facial expression—a mix of awe and fear of Melissa Schemmenti—struck you as wildly comical. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as he looked at you, wide-eyed and uncertain.

“It’s okay,” you said, giving him permission to leave. “She doesn’t bite.”

“Much,” Melissa added with a dangerous smile.

Hank glanced uncertainly between you. “I—I’m gonna be upstairs. Holler if you need me.”

And then it was just the two of you again. Melissa cast an appraising eye over your face, over the jut of your cheekbone where the flesh was beginning to swell. She brought her fingers up, soft as petals, and brushed your hair back to reveal the darkening bruise, the split skin.

“See?” You said, breath hitching slightly. “Barely a scratch.”

Melissa shook her head.

“What were ya thinkin’,” she asked. “Gettin’ into it with a guy twice your size?”

You scoffed. “He started it.”

“You sound like my second graders,” she muttered, carefully cleaning up the blood around your hairline and dabbing on antiseptic ointment onto the cut.

“Well it’s true,” you muttered. “He got in my face about…about us.”

Melissa blinked.

“How would he know…” she trailed off. “I didn’t say nothin’, I swear.”

You gave her a careful smile. “You’re kidding, right?”

“What?” Melissa demanded. And she seemed so sincerely befuddled that you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Melissa,” you said. “I love you, but you have a terrible poker face. And the way you looked at me yesterday….I mean, the guy may not be a brain surgeon but he’s not blind.”

She gave you a funny look. At first you thought it was because you had insulted Gary. It wasn’t until the silence stretched for a few seconds that you realized what had slipped out. Three traitorous little words.

“Sorry,” you groaned, scrubbing a hand over your face. “I don’t know why…I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s alright,” she said, voice softening at the edges. She stepped even closer, nudging your thighs apart with her knee so that she could stand in the cradle of your hips. “It’s the truth, ain’t it?”

You glanced up at her, breath catching as she leaned in and placed a small bandage over your wound. Her movements were neat, precise.

“He ain’t exactly a brain surgeon,” she smirked.

And you deflated just a little. Melissa noticed, gripping your chin before you could withdraw.

“Me, on the other hand,” she continued, staring at you with undisguised interest. “I’m pretty smart. And my bullshit radar is going off every time we talk.”

You swallowed. Melissa’s eyes flickered, watching the fine muscles and tendons in your throat bob up and down.

“Uh-huh,” she muttered, as if this textbook guilty tic somehow proved her theory. “Knew it.”

You scoffed, glancing up at the ceiling. But you didn’t pull away from the comforting grip of her hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her words sharpened, but her touch remained featherlight as she pressed the edges of the adhesive down again, needlessly fussing at this point, but she couldn’t help herself.

“Something’s off with you,” she said, tilting your face back toward hers. You became acutely aware of her body. Her hips touching the inside of your thighs, her fingertips brushing the delicate skin at your temple. You had the mad desire for her to lean forward and press her lips to your forehead, to kiss it all better in the way that only she could.

Melissa mistook your silence for confirmation of her worst fears. The color drained from her face.

“God, I hate being right,” she rasped, a fact that was patently untrue and which you would have teased her about if she didn’t suddenly look so upset. “You’re not eating, you look like you haven’t slept in weeks…”

“Melissa—”

“You’re sick.” Her voice was hushed, barely a whisper. “Aren’t you?”

What? Now you were really confused. And Melissa’s eyes were so wide, almost childlike in their fearfulness. She whispered your name, and her voice cracked on the familiar syllables.

“Just tell me,” she begged. “Please.”

The redhead gripped your hand, running her thumb back and forth across your knuckles. You opened your mouth to answer, but then she leaned in and your brain went staticky at her next words, the way her lips brushed against the crown of your head.

“Let me in.”

You trembled. Every molecule of your body swayed forward, desperate to surrender, to tell Melissa everything. Somehow you managed to come back to earth, to find your voice.

“Mel,” you said evenly. “I’m not sick.”

She drew back slightly, fixing you with a classic Melissa Schemmenti look. Skeptical and stubborn, like she could intimidate the truth out of you.

“You swear?”

You nodded. “I swear.”

She held your gaze for another beat, scanning your face for any trace of a lie.

“Well then…” She wiped furtively at her eye makeup, concern shifting to frustration. “Why do you look like you’re wastin’ away?”

You tried to laugh it off. “So I lost some baby fat,” you said. “Big deal.”

“Don’t avoid the question,” she said sharply. “What are you doing home early?”

You squirmed.

“It’s hard to explain.” You looked down at your hands, choosing your next words carefully. “My body of work just…wasn’t what they were expecting.”

Melissa frowned, feeling more confused than ever.

“Body of work?” She repeated the word slowly, like a riddle she was sounding out.

Before she could ask more questions, the classroom door suddenly banged open. Melissa stepped back, snatching her hands away from your face as if burned.

“Jesus Christ, Janine,” she spat. “You ever heard of knocking?”

The younger woman’s eyes widened, flitting from you to Melissa and back again.

“Sorry,” she winced. “A few of us are ordering lunch, we didn’t know if you wanted…”

Janine trailed off, noticing the tension in the room. “I’ll just… take that as a no.”

The younger teacher ducked out of the room, practically fleeing Mel’s murderous look.

“I should get back up there,” you said wearily, pushing yourself out of the chair. Pain radiated through your skull, and you suddenly felt so tired. Melissa watched you, clasping her hands together to keep from reaching out.

“Let me drive ya home,” she said softly.

“No way,” you laughed. “I have work to do.”

You stopped in the doorway, turning back to look at Melissa. She had her arms crossed, leaning against the desk. Her face was angled down, her red hair hanging in a protective curtain, and she looked very small.

You felt an impossible swell of longing in your chest. The next words left your mouth without your permission.

“I know I’m not making sense…”

Melissa looked up, her eyes brimming with something like hope.

“But maybe…” you trailed off, worrying your bottom lip between your front teeth. “Maybe I can show you?”

[sapphicandgraphic]

Body of Work — Chapter3

Synopsis: Melissa runs into an ex at Abbott. Sparks fly! Wounds heal! But will it be enough to bring you back together?

Chapter: 3/?

Warnings: Homophobic slur, violence, problematic Gary, Mel to the rescue

A/N: Updates have been slow because I moved last week! Now that I’m more settled in, planning to crank on this and other in-progress stories. As always, thanks to all those who read, like, and comment 💜

Your brother picked you up on the corner outside your loft. It was a small industrial apartment that technically wasn’t zoned for anything residential. But you knew the building manager—he’d given you your first studio space way back when—and had worked out an agreement. You could live in the shabby little workspace for a few months, just until you got back on your feet.

You hadn’t slept since yesterday when Hank dropped you off in the same exact spot; had instead climbed the fire escape and spent most of the night on the roof staring at the ozone glow of downtown Philly until the sun came up and it was time to get ready for another day.

Hank handed you a coffee as you hauled yourself into the van. Yesterday he hadn’t pushed. But you could tell right away that he was bursting with curiosity—about Melissa, about what the hell you were doing back here.

You took a sip of coffee, rolling your shoulders experimentally. Your brother glanced over.

“Sore?”

As a teenager, you’d spent many summers working jobs like this with your father and brother. But it had been a while since you’d assembled rigs, sanded walls, painted ceilings. Now you were out of practice, your muscles stiff and aching.

“Not too bad.”

He rolled his eyes. “Why do you always do that?”

You shrugged. “Do what?”

“That thing,” he said, gesturing vaguely with his hand. “Where you pretend like you’re not hurting.”

You arched an eyebrow, remaining silent. Hank could get himself worked up just fine without your help.

“Just like when you broke your arm in sixth grade,” he seethed, flicking the blinker on with more force than necessary. ”And didn’t bother to tell nobody for a week.”

You snorted. “I told mom,” you said. “She just didn’t believe me.”

“Because you downplayed it!” Hank exploded. “And now you’re doing the same thing with this job.”

You stilled. “What does the job have to do with any—“

“You don’t gotta do it.”

The words hung between you in the van. Hank was staring straight ahead, hands gripping the top of the steering wheel as he navigated early morning traffic. And now you weren’t trying to be difficult, you were really just lost.

“Do what?”

Hank made an impatient noise.

“Work ten feet away from the woman that broke your heart.”

You looked out the window, deflating a little.

“Oh, that,” you said, spinning the radio dial. “It’s fine, seriously. Nothing I can’t handle.”

But Hank didn’t drop it. He came to a red light and took a breath, fiddling with the gear shift nervously; but there was a note of calm determination in his voice when he spoke again.

“You know you didn’t do nothing wrong by leaving.”

His big brown eyes were shining, his jaw set in a determined line. You realized all at once how much he had grown up in the last year. And even though you were the older sister, suddenly you felt very young.

“I’m serious,” he said. “You got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to practice your…your craft.”

“My craft,” you snorted, trying to lighten the mood. Even now you were still a little uncomfortable with the pretentious air of the art world. It didn’t always jive with how you were raised, your blue collar sensibilities. “It was a fine arts residency, not a coven.”

He barreled ahead.

“Whatever! All I’m saying is, anyone who can’t be happy for you about that…they don’t deserve you.”

You shifted in your seat, horrified to find tears stinging the corners of your eyes. Traffic started moving again. The radio crooned softly, filling the car with a cloud of white noise.

“You know what’s funny?”

Hank glanced over, watching you carefully. Really listening.

“I never even submitted the application. It was one of my art teachers. She sent scans of my work to that program.“

A look of surprise flickered across Hank’s face. “But I thought it was your dream to be over there…”

“It was,” you said.

Ever since you were a kid, you’d been obsessed with painting. You used to sit in the garage, playing with your dad’s old brushes. Eventually he bought you a set of acrylics and an easel. The fixation intensified from there.

Your parents took you to as many museums as they could find. While your brother dragged his feet, crawling out of his skin with boredom, you couldn’t get enough. By the time you were ten, you knew exactly what you wanted to be.

“So why come back?” Hank said. “I don’t get it. All you ever talked about was getting out of here, making art.”

You shrugged, grateful to see Abbott up ahead. “Dreams change.”

He parked the van and you grabbed your supplies, parting ways with your brother at the stairs. Hank had offered to finish the portion of remaining work near Melissa’s classroom, for which you were grateful. You walked up a level to begin spackling on the 2nd floor.

The building was quiet. You clicked on your radio, tuning in to a big band station. Then you unpacked your tools and got to work.

For maybe an hour you lost yourself in the familiar rhythm, the back and forth of the strokes. It was meditative, almost hypnotic. Your entire body was merely an instrument, the paintbrush an extension of your arms. Even the burn in your shoulders wasn’t totally unpleasant. It felt good to work up a sweat.

You had just dipped your roller back in the pan when a noise caught your attention.

Gary was at the other end of the hall, kneeling on the floor, restocking one of the vending machines. He lifted his head and you both froze. An awkward silence bubbled up.

“Morning,” you said stiffly, raising your hand in a half-wave.

“Hey,” Gary said. “I was hopin’ I’d run into you.”

His face was fixed in a friendly expression, same as yesterday. But the words were laced with an undercurrent of menace.

“Really?” you said, regarding the man warily as he pushed himself up off the ground, wiping his hands on his pants. He began walking toward you.

“Figured we should lay a few ground rules,” he said. “About Mel.”

You bristled at the familiar way he said her name. He was close enough now that he noticed. His lips quirked up in a half-smile, like he enjoyed your discomfort.

“She didn’t say nothin’,” he said, finally drawing even with you. He extended an arm and leaned against the lockers, effectively boxing you in. “But I can put two and two together.”

He let the words hang in the air, maybe waiting to see how you’d react. You glared up at him, refusing to give an inch.

“Last summer,” he said. “That was you, right? The one that broke her heart.”

You inhaled sharply, hating the victorious little smirk that danced across his face. He saw that he had struck a nerve, and pressed his advantage.

“Thought so,” he continued. “And now you’re back. Why is that?”

He was close enough that you could see the flecks of hazel in his brown eyes, the silvery scratchy whiskers emerging along his jawline.

“Not sure why you think it’s any of your fucking business,” you said, voice icy.

His half-smile evaporated.

“Mel is my business,” he growled, swaying closer. “And you need to stay the hell away from her.”

It suddenly occurred to you that you were all alone up here, that maybe you should play it safe. Gary was a big guy. But you’d never been one to back down from a bully.

“Or what?” You taunted. “Worried about a little competition?”

In a flash he brought a hand up, gripping the front of your shirt in his meaty paw and giving you a rough shake. Your teeth knocked together.

“Or I’ll make sure you regret it,” he said.

Before you could push his buttons any further, a sharp cry ripped through the otherwise silent hallway.

“Hey!”

Your brother had appeared at the top of the stairs, carrying part of the scaffolding rig on his shoulders. He took one look at Gary and dropped the metal poles. They clattered against the linoleum and rolled away, the sound echoing loudly in the otherwise empty hall.

Downstairs, Mel paused in the middle of outlining her lesson plans. Her eyebrows drew together and she glanced up at the ceiling. She could hear what sounded like raised voices coming from the 2nd floor, then a definite crash as something hit the floor.

“What the…?”

Her mind immediately went to you. Had you fallen? Hurt yourself? She swore under her breath and hurried out the door, taking the stairs two at a time. Quite an impressive accomplishment in heels, not that anyone was around to notice. She rounded the corner just as Hank took off running, shouting.

“Get your fucking hands off her!”

At first Melissa was confused. Hands off who? Then she saw Gary a little further down the hall and Melissa finally understood why your brother was so outraged.

Her boyfriend (the word made her suddenly nauseous) had one hand twisted in the fabric of your shirt, nearly lifting you off the ground.

She had seen Gary get physical a few times before, usually at closing time in the bar. He was a hothead when he drank, and he had a jealous streak. But she’d never seen him lay his hands on a woman. There was a cold, mean glint in his eyes.

She opened her mouth to shout at him, to call him off. But before she could get the words out he slammed you against the wall. You grunted in pain, and the sound activated something feral in Melissa. She saw red. She wanted to rip his hands off, wanted to beat him to death with his own dismembered limbs. But Hank got to him first.

He launched himself into Gary, tackling him to the floor.

“You — don’t — fucking — touch — her,” Hank panted through gritted teeth, scrambling on top of the other man and gripping him in a headlock.

Gary roared in frustration, swinging his elbow backward until he found Hank’s ribs. Your brother wheezed, loosening his grip and doubling over.

“Hank!” You cried, pushing yourself off the floor. “It’s not worth it.”

But neither of them were listening. Gary took a big swing, which glanced off Hank’s jaw. Your brother stumbled backward, shook his head like a dog trying to get water off its coat, then charged again. Gripping the older man around the waist, he drove his fist into his gut. You scrambled around the perimeter of their clumsy dance, attempting to pull them apart.

“Stop it,” you yelled. “Let him go!”

For a second you could see your brother’s eyes shift to you, like he might listen to reason.

“Come on, pretty boy,” Gary goaded. “Or did your dyke sister get the balls in the family?”

Hank’s face twisted into a snarl and he lunged forward again.

Melissa had seen enough. Someone was going to get really hurt if she didn’t put an end to his.

“Alright,” she shouted. “Break it up!”

The sound of that familiar voice distracted you immediately, like a siren call luring a sailor toward the rocks. You looked up just as a stray fist swung out from the fray, connecting with the side of your head. The last thing you saw was Melissa’s face, her mouth making a soft “oh” of surprise. Then everything went dark.

Melissa heard the unmistakeable crack of bone-on-bone and saw you crumple to the floor. For one heart-stopping second, it was like she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Then she broke into a run, shouting your name.

Hank and Gary froze, the panic in her voice cutting through the fog of testosterone. They both watched helplessly as Melissa skidded to a stop and knelt on the floor beside you.

“Mel,” Gary said. He was breathing hard, trying to straighten his shirt and smooth back his hair. “This ain’t what it looks like.”

“Shut up,” Melissa snarled, eyes never leaving you.

Melissa could count on one hand the number of times she had prayed as an adult. Growing up, religion had been big in the Schemmenti household. But faith in a higher power had lost its appeal after childhood.

As she looked down at you sprawled on the floor, Melissa realized she might willing to reconsider her relationship with the almighty. She pulled you half into her lap, operating on auto-pilot as old instincts kicked into overdrive.

Please please please, she thought. Please be okay.

She pressed her hand to your cheek, stroking it apprehensively as she spoke in a low worried voice—honey, baby, sweetheart—moving so carefully that she might have been handling porcelain. For a few tense moments, your face remained slack. Melissa brushed your hair back, revealing a small cut near your hairline. The sight of blood, fresh and wet, sent another wave of fear through her.

“Come on,” she said, voice cracking with worry. “Open those pretty eyes for me.”

Your eyelashes fluttered. You made a small pained noise. And then, like your body couldn’t help but obey Melissa Schemmenti, you turned your head, accidentally nuzzling your lips into the palm of her hand. She felt goosebumps erupt on her bare arm.

“Mel?”

You blinked hard as you fought your way to the surface. You frowned, trying to focus on her face.

“What happened?” You slurred a little, your tongue felt too bit for your mouth. “Why’re you crying?”

She exhaled sharply, something between a laugh and a sob. Her shoulders sagged with relief.

“Cause you scared me,” she said in a ragged voice. “Ya gagootz.”

Your head hurt and everything felt a little fuzzy, but you became aware that you were in Melissa’s lap. That her hands were gripping your waist. And you weren’t anxious to change that. You reached up, catching a fat salty tear with your fingertip.

“Don’t cry,” you sighed. “You’re too pretty to cry.”

Melissa blinked down at you, smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. And for a moment it was like nothing had changed. You were just waking up in her arms again, like you had done dozens of times before.

Then Hank cleared his throat.

“Come on,” he said, stepping forward. “Let’s get you —“

Melissa shot him a nasty look.

“I got her.”

Your brother’s eyes widened almost comically. He glanced at you, then held his hands up in a clear sign of surrender.

“Suit yourself.”

“Scram,” she said, and before Gary could look even a fraction triumphant about this, she added: “Both of you.”

“Mel,” he tried again. It seemed like it was dawning on him just how this looked. “Come on, I was just trying to protect you.“

Melissa looked up at him, righteous anger coloring her cheeks. “Protect me from what?”

“She hurt you,” Gary said. “She’ll do it again if you give her the chance.”

Your whole word seemed to shrink to those words. You didn’t blame Gary for saying them. In fact, you had thought pretty much the same thing on an endless loop for the past 24 hours. You were so afraid of proving him right.

Melissa glanced down, watching the dance of emotions across your face. Then she placed a hand over your chest and glared up at Gary, her decision made.

“The only person I saw hurting anyone was you.”

[sapphicandgraphic]

Hey I really love your work and wanted to ask if you are planning on any other Agatha fics soon or future chapters of existing Agatha fics?

Hi anon! Thanks for the nice words 💕 and yes, more Agatha coming soon! I have chapters in progress for Mary Celeste and Teacher’s Pet, plus a couple new ideas on the backburner. Always open to requests as well!

[sapphicandgraphic]

absolutely loving the new melissa fic! so so good. i wanted to ask if you’re still continuing ride it out or is it complete? =)

Thank you!! Ride It Out is not complete and I have the next chapter half-written! (Spoiler alert: sexy times by the fireplace are in store, as the storm rages on!) Will try to pick the threads back up asap, thanks for asking about that 🥰

[sapphicandgraphic]

Body of Work — Chapter 2

Synopsis: Melissa runs into an ex at Abbott. Sparks fly! Wounds heal! But will it be enough to bring you back together?

Chapter: 2/?

Warnings: mean!Melissa (but we’re mostly through that after this chapter, I think!), exes-to-lovers, Gary cockblocks, Barb ships you and Mel, we will get through this!

A/N: Remember that Melissa x painter!reader fic I mentioned a hundred years ago? Well I finally got around to writing it!

You didn’t speak to Melissa again all morning, but you could feel her presence on the other side of the wall. It radiated outward, like the gravity of a planet. You were in her orbit now. You couldn’t break free.

After so many months being separated by thousands of miles, by oceans and continents, she was right there. Yet she had never felt more out of reach. It was crazy-making, like having an itch you couldn’t quite scratch.

Your brain was buzzing with thoughts of her cruel mouth, her sharp eyes, her intoxicating smell. There had been nights in Italy when you wondered if the haze of memory might be embellishing her beauty, a generous distortion, a trick of your mind’s eye. But seeing her again had proved just the opposite….

There were dozens of delicious details that you had somehow forgotten, that came surging back as you caught glimpses of her through the glass. The way sunlight filtered through her auburn hair, the maddening pout of her lower lip as she scribbled on a piece of paper, the fulsome curve of her waist as she swayed between the desks. You were so distracted that you nearly fell off the scaffolding twice. Hank glared at you.

“Go eat something,” he said finally. “You’re useless like this.”

You didn’t argue. Wiping your hands on your overalls, you climbed down off the rig and ducked into the bathroom. Splashed some water on your face. Gave your hands a good scrub. You diagnosed your reflection with one word as you balled up the paper towel.

“Pathetic.”

Then you walked down the hallway to the teacher’s lounge. The soft sound of chatter inside the room made you pause. You had been hoping to find it empty. But a few teachers were sitting at the table, swapping summer stories. You quietly moved toward the refrigerator where you had stashed your lunch, hoping to go unnoticed. No such luck. Conversation died down when you stepped in, and you felt the tips of your ears start to burn as a familiar voice cut through the air.

“You lost?”

You looked up and locked eyes with the redhead. She was hunched over a bowl of pasta, glaring daggers into your skull. You swallowed, caught in the vice-like grip of her stare. Another voice interjected, coming to your rescue.

“Melissa!” Barbara Howard chided. “Don’t be rude.”

Melissa shrugged, going back to her lunch. Barbara shook her head once in disbelief then smiled at you.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “Nice to see you again.”

You smiled back, feeling shy. You had met Barbara a few times last year, had always liked her.

“Hi, Mrs. Howard,” you said, stuffing your hands in your pockets. “Good summer?”

“Excellent!” Her eyes crinkled indulgently. “Gerald and I took a cruise!”

You couldn’t help the bubble of laughter in your chest as she shared the quick highlights with you. Melissa speared a ziti angrily. Barbara ignored her friend, refusing to let you slink away.

“And how have you been? I thought you were in Italy, completing an apprenticeship?”

Your smile faltered just a bit.

“I was,” you hedged, risking a quick glance at Melissa. She had stopped chewing her food, and you could tell she was listening even though she was stubbornly avoiding your gaze. “I had to take a leave of absence.”

Barbara’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Leave of absence?” she repeated. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

You gripped the back of your neck, really not wanting to go down this road. “Eh, it’s a long story.”

Barbara’s keen eyes brimmed with further questions, but she let it lie. For now.

“That’s a shame,” she said. “Melissa showed me your work, you’re very talented.”

You shifted awkwardly, shrugging off the compliment.

“Isn’t she, Melissa?”

And now you could see that Barbara was up to something. Trying to broker peace, maybe? You felt your cheeks get hot, noticing the murderous look on Melissa’s face. This wasn’t going to end well.

“If she’s so talented, what’s she doin here,” Melissa demanded, voice clipped. “Slumming with us?”

And now a heavy silence fell across the staff room. You laughed, a hollow and humorless sound. If only Melissa knew why you were back, why you’d had to leave. But she didn’t know. And you’d rather melt into the floor than explain it to her, especially with an audience.

“Melissa Ann Caterina Schemmenti,” Barbara growled. “Apologize right now.”

But you were already drifting away, backing down. You opened the refrigerator, retrieved your lunch, and started to shuffle out of the room.

“It’s alright,” you said, forcing a smile on your face that felt too tight, too bright. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Howard.”

“Call me Barbara,” she said warmly, as if Melissa weren’t absolutely fuming two feet away. “And you’re welcome to eat here with us.”

You risked one last look at Melissa. She had the decency to glance away, a pretty pink flush coloring her throat.

“Maybe some other time.”

You made it to the parking lot, stumbling out and immediately gulping down a lungful of air. You felt both exalted and devastated by Melissa’s cruelty. Part of you cried out at the injustice. But there was another, darker voice in the back of your mind, reminding you that you deserved it all. Your head was spinning as you made your way to the company van, opening the door with your family crest emblazoned on the side.

Interior and exterior painting

Since 1947

You swallowed back a bitter laugh at those six simple words, which had always contained your destiny. A fate set in stone, something you’d never escape. It suddenly seemed foolish that you’d ever tried. You’d do this job til the day you died. Like your father, like your grandfather.

You grabbed your paperback from the dashboard and set off toward a picnic table on the playground. The sounds of the city were somewhat muted here. The sun was warm on your back, making everything feel marginally better.

You leafed to your bookmark and scanned the pages with dull eyes. You played with your food, forcing yourself to swallow at least a couple bites. Then you felt a prickle on the back of your neck, like someone was watching you. You looked up.

Melissa was standing by the fence.

“What now,” you called over to her. “I’m not allowed to eat on school grounds?”

Was it your imagination or did she almost crack a smile?

The redhead wavered for a moment, then approached the table. With every step she took, her body seemed to downshift, becoming softer, almost repentant. Like she was taking off a plate of armor, laying down the sword and shield.

She slid onto the opposite bench, folded her hands diplomatically on the surface of the table. The sun broke through the clouds as she looked up at you. For a second, the sight took your breath away—the warm beam of light casting shadows on her jaw, her clavicle. You tried to commit everything to memory, the contrast of the light and dark, the creamy color of her skin, the fine muscles in her throat and jaw as she cleared her throat.

“Barbara sent me out here to apologize.”

You set the book down. “You, apologize?”

Melissa made a vague gesture with her hand. “It has been known to happen.”

“Ok, let’s hear it.”

Melissa gritted her teeth, stubbornness and obedience warring within her.

“It was brought to my attention,” she said, reciting the words slowly. “That maybe I was too harsh. That maybe ya don’t deserve to be treated like that. And that maybe I should think twice before letting my anger get the best of me.”

You chuckled.

“Barbara still keeps you on a pretty tight leash, huh?”

Melissa’s eyes flashed, and for a second you thought you’d pushed too far. But then her shoulders relaxed, a ghost of a smile flickering across her face.

“She’d put a muzzle on me if she could.”

You could feel the electric shift in the air. If Melissa was a storm, your heart was like a weather vane spinning madly back and forth. You met her gaze, licked your lips.

“I’ve got a ball gag that would probably do the trick,” you deadpanned, loving to wind the other woman up. Your head buzzed pleasantly at the flush in her throat, her cheeks.

“Don’t get cute,” she said.

“Can’t help it.”

And this time Melissa definitely smiled.

“So, do ya accept?”

Your forehead crinkled in confusion and Melissa had to resist the very strong urge to reach out and soothe the worry lines away.

“My apology,” she clarified, waving her hand again. The light caught the bracelets and bangles on her wrist, and you felt like a fish being baited by a very pretty lure. “Barb’ll be wantin’ a full report.”

You laughed softly. “Of course,” you said. “And you can tell her that I said it wasn’t necessary.”

Melissa cocked her head to the side, confused.

“You have every right to hate me,” you explained, eyes downcast. “For showing up like this.”

Even though she had spent all morning snarling and snapping at you, those two words—the loathing, the awful heartbreak they contained—caused a minor earthquake in Melissa’s chest. Because she’d been trying to do just that, to hate you with all her might. But with sudden crushing clarity, she realized she didn’t, could never.

“But I swear I didn’t know, Mel, and the job will be done in a few days,” you continued, oblivious to her epiphany. “Then I’m gone. You won’t have to see me anymore.“

Melissa felt like a building with a crack in the foundation, swaying dangerously side to side, about to topple. She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped herself at the last minute. Instead her hand shot out, lifting a baggie of celery and carrots. Her voice was rough when she spoke.

“You actually eat this rabbit food?”

You blinked slowly, confused by the way her eyes glistened, by the abrupt change in topic. She gave the bag a furious shake for emphasis, underscoring her question, demanding an answer.

You shrugged. “Not much of an appetite these days.”

Something about those words set off another alarm bell off in Melissa’s mind, unleashed a fresh wave of worry. She searched your face, taking in the shadows under your eyes, the hollow look to your cheeks.

You squirmed, suddenly uncomfortable.

“I should get back to work.” You gathered up your lunch, fingers clumsy under her hawk-like scrutiny.

“Hey,” she said, voice low and urgent, like she was putting the pieces of a puzzle together. “Look at me.”

Your eyes snapped to her face. Melissa leaned in closer, arms braced on the table. The breeze picked up, and suddenly she was awash in the smell of you. Clove and tobacco, with a faint undertone of something chemical like acetone. A painful thrum of longing shot through her body.

“What’s going on?” Her hooded eyes were boring into you. “Talk.”

You stared at her perfect face, dumbfounded by her beauty. How many different shades of green were in those eyes? A dozen?

“What do you mean?” You asked, mouth suddenly dry.

Melissa clenched her fists, like she was trying to resist reaching out and touching you.

“What do I mean?” She repeated, voice rising an octave. “You’re supposed to be halfway around the world, living your dream! Now you’re here, looking like…”

And there it was again, that flinch. Someone else might not have caught it, the way you recoiled, drew back just a fraction. But Melissa knew all your tells.

She trailed off. Her sense of unease was deepening by the minute. She didn’t like this.

“Are you okay?”

The question was blunt, direct, and laced with genuine worry. You could hear it in her raspy voice, see it in the shine of her eyes.

You opened your mouth. The desire to confess was perched on your trembling lips. Of course I’m not okay. I’m an open wound. Losing you destroyed me. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I’m going crazy like this.

But you choked it all back. Because for better or worse, it seemed like Melissa had moved on, healed, developed enough scar tissue to get through the day. And the last thing you wanted was to hurt her again. You were the one who made this mess, and it was your job to clean it up.

“I’m fine,” you managed, voice oddly strangled.

Melissa scoffed, crossing her arms and fixing you with a glare. “You’re still a terrible liar.”

And it was too much—the way she still knew you, saw past your bravado.

“Just…” you scrubbed a hand over your face, desperation mounting. “Don’t worry about me, alright?”

She rolled her eyes, as if to say not worrying about you would be like asking my heart not to beat, my lungs not to breathe. The expression was so achingly sweet, so familiar that you suddenly felt like you might be sick.

“I can’t do this,” you said, standing up and abandoning your uneaten food.

Melissa sat there for a moment, considering her options. You were halfway across the playground when she made up her mind. She had already watched you walk away once. She didn’t think she could do it again.

So this time, she called your name. This time, she decided to fight.

But you didn’t turn, didn’t look back; just kept placing one stubborn foot in front of the other. Across the parking lot. Up the concrete steps. Down the hallway. Into a maintenance closet. You collapsed against the door, chest heaving as you slid down the wall.

And you almost laughed out loud at the absurdity. Because it had been a year, and somehow nothing had changed. You were still hopelessly in love with Melissa…still terrified of hurting her…and still trying to outrun something that felt inevitable.

[sapphicandgraphic]

Hiiii 🤗

I read the first two chapters of The Mary Celeste and noticed chapters 3 and 4 are on patreon only, but I saw chapter 5 available here on Tumblr. Will you be releasing chapters 3 and 4 here as well? Just thought I'd ask. Thanks!!!

Love your fics!!! 🥰

Heyyyyyy 🤗 !

Thanks for the note, and yes I’m planning to unleash those chappies here, thanks for the reminder! I’ll tag you when they get added 💕

[sapphicandgraphic]

Body of Work — Chapter 1

Synopsis: Melissa runs into an ex at Abbott. Sparks fly. Wounds heal. But will it be enough to bring you back together?

Chapter: 1/?

Warnings: Mean!Melissa, exes-to-lovers, Gary cockblocks, Barb ships you and Mel, we will get through this!

A/N: Remember that Melissa x painter!reader fic I mentioned a hundred years ago? Well I finally got around to writing it. 💖

Melissa pulled into her usual spot, threw the car into park, and immediately started doing twelve things at once. Touching up her lipstick in the rearview mirror, gathering several pages of lesson plans, zipping up her lunch cooler.

“Marone,” she said, glancing at her wristwatch.

She set off toward the school, expertly juggling a large iced coffee, some colorful folders tucked under one arm, a purse slung over her shoulder.

The redhead was in such a rush that she completely failed to notice the commercial van parked by the playground, hand-lettered with a very familiar surname in loopy cursive.

If she had glanced up, she might have fled right then and there. Turned around, gone home, hidden under the covers. But instead she barreled forward, blissfully unaware, muttering more curses as she stalked the well-worn path to her classroom.

School wouldn’t officially start back until next week. But Melissa was more than ready to dive into the prep work, lose herself in the thousand and one tasks clamoring for attention. Re-stocking supplies, organizing lesson plans, attending staff meetings. She needed the distraction.

The redhead rounded the corner of her hallway. She was rummaging in the pocket of her bag, groping for her keys. Her patience already felt thin, her temper simmering just below the surface. She chalked it up to not enough sleep last night, maybe one too many glasses of vino with Gary.

But really, she had been like this for months. Restless, distracted, off-balance. Melissa was good at covering up her hurt parts, hiding away the tenderness, concealing the root cause of her pain. It was a pretty good act—good enough to work on a blunt instrument like her boyfriend. But not the likes of Barbara Howard. The other woman was sharp, observant, especially when it came to Melissa Schemmenti.

She knew there had been a breakup last year. That Melissa had taken it harder than usual. But she’d moved past it, met Gary. Then this summer the pain seemed to reignite. Her mood darkened. Barbara had first noticed something was really off when Melissa showed up for the annual Howard summer cookout empty-handed. The redhead was a proud Sicilian. The kitchen was a sacred space, and she never missed a chance to show off her cooking, to impress the entire extended Howard family with a recipe from her Nonna.

Barbara hadn’t said anything at first, just followed her friend out into the backyard, keeping an eye on her from afar. She seemed…sad, distant, down. But when Barbara broached the topic, Melissa warded her off immediately with a dismissive laugh.

“Sad? Please, I got great friends, a great job, a great guy in my life.” And here she put on her bravest smile, lopsided and charming in the fading afternoon light. It made Barbara’s heart clench painfully. “What do I got to be sad about, Barb?”

This last part Melissa said like a challenge, chin jutting out slightly, voice hardening at the edges. The indomitable Mrs. Howard arched an elegant eyebrow, recognizing a trap when she saw one.

“Only you can answer that, Melissa.”

The rest of the summer had passed quickly—too quickly, like water slipping through cupped palms. Rather than dreading the start of the school year, Melissa had been looking forward to it. The walls of the house felt too close, especially on the nights when Gary stayed over. The hot summer air seemed to mock her, reminding her of happier times in different arms. By the end of July, she was counting down the days until she could be back in the chaos of the classroom, distracted from the dark cloud hanging over her stubborn heart.

Now that the day had finally come, Melissa was walking on auto-pilot, barely looking where she was going. The sound of music pulled her out of her thoughts. She looked up at the last second, stopping short just before she collided with an enormous metal scaffolding rig.

Melissa felt a familiar spike of impatience. The redhead looked up. A lone painter was working on the upper platform, applying primer to the wall. She frowned as a wave of deja vu washed over her.

“Yo!” She barked, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of the radio.

The painter jumped slightly, startled, then glanced back. Melissa gestured at her classroom door, which was completely blocked by the rig. She was about launch into a tirade. But the words died on her lips as she realized why those broad shoulders looked so familiar.

“Mel,” you breathed.

The color drained from your face in shock. It would have been comical if it wasn’t so fucking gut-wrenching.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just stared at each other, the space between you expanding and contracting like the lungs of some wild animal caught in a snare. The smooth baritone of Frank Sinatra snaked out of the speakers. I’ve got you deep in the heart of me, so deep in my heart that you’re really a part of me. You leaned down, shutting the radio off.

Melissa was speechless, her pulse fluttering madly in her throat. And you could see her gathering herself, trying to decide how to fight her way out of this.

“Well,” she said. Melissa didn’t like surprises. And she sure as hell didn’t like surprises from ex-girlfriends who were supposed to be on the other side of the world. From her silky tone you realized she was extending her claws, baring her fangs, preparing to draw blood if necessary. “Do my eyes deceive me, or is that da Vinci herself gracing our humble hallways?”

You didn’t know what to say. How many sleepless nights had you spent imagining the other woman? And here she was—statuesque, furious, like one of the old Greek gods, a deity descended directly from Mount Olympus to strike you down, to deliver a swift and terrible punishment.

Before you could figure out how to respond, your brother rounded the corner holding two coffees.

“They didn’t have espresso, so I just got—“

He broke off, noticing the obvious tension in the air. Melissa barely spared him a glance. Her green eyes were glued to your face.

“Looks like those fancy art classes really paid off,” she continued, voice dripping with sarcasm. And you flinched at her cruelty.

“Hey!” Your brother stepped forward, eyes narrowed in mistrust. “Is there a problem here, lady?”

“No problem,” Melisa said coolly. “Get this rig outta my way, I got classes to prep for.”

Your brother looked at you, uncertain.

“It’s alright.” Your voice was meek as you stowed your paintbrush with numb fingers. You weren’t ready to face her. Not now. Maybe not ever.

You’d crash-landed back in Philly less than a month ago. You were still licking your wounds, trying to figure out how to move on with your life. And yet…part of your traitorous heart leapt for joy at the sound of her voice, relishing the sound of her name on your lips.

She arched an expectant eyebrow at you, as if she could read your thoughts.

“Sometime today would be nice.”

Her words lashed at you like a whip. Again, you just nodded, fumbling as you unclipped yourself from the safety harness. The silence was deafening. You wondered if she could hear your heartbeat hammering in your chest. Then suddenly, your little brother made a noise of comprehension. Judging by the look on his face, he had put two and two together. You gave him a sharp look.

“Shut up, Hank.”

The idea that he might reveal something to Melissa helped you find your own voice, take control of the situation.

“In fact,” you exhaled sharply, gathering your resolve. “Can you give us a minute?”

Hank regarded Melissa skeptically. He clearly didn’t like the idea of leaving you alone with the other woman.

“Please,” you added, voice low and urgent.

He glanced at you, seeing the desperation in your face, before nodding and walking back the way he had come.

“I’ll be right outside.”

You waited until the door clicked shut behind him. Then you finally swung down from the scaffolding.

You wiped your hands on your stained coveralls and stepped forward. Melissa took a reflexive step back and you felt something in your chest stutter painfully.

You deactivated the brake on the wheel with a tap of your foot, then hauled the scaffolding a few feet back. Melissa tried to remain unimpressed by the muscles rippling in your shoulders, the graceful power in your movements.

And she certainly didn’t allow herself to remember the way it had felt to wake up in those arms, to come undone on those fingers, to fall apart in your bed…

“Sorry about this,” you said, interrupting her reverie. “They told us that most teachers wouldn’t be in until later this week.”

“Yeah well,” Melissa said shifting her weight impatiently. “I ain’t most teachers.”

You smiled despite yourself as memories came surging back. Melissa was so passionate about her job, getting all the details right for her kids, double and triple-checking the lesson plans. It was one of the many things you found impossibly endearing about her.

But the other woman narrowed her green eyes, suspicious of your smile. “Somethin’ funny?”

You looked up. Melissa’s lips were pressed together in a thin line, chin raised slightly, like she was daring you to laugh at her. She looked almost unrecognizable like this, so closed off. All traces of the woman you’d fallen for last summer were gone, hidden away in a fortress, guarded by flashing eyes and harsh words.

“No,” you said, shaking your head so adamantly that your hair fell across your face the way it always did.

Melissa’s fingers twitched. She hated the fact that her body was still hard-wired with the instinct to push it back, tuck it behind your ear.

“Just…” you hesitated, uncertain but full of fondness. “You haven’t changed.”

She held your gaze for a beat, searching for the lie. Finding nothing but sincerity, she looked away.

“So,” she said, slipping the key into her locked classroom door and turning the handle. “You’re back.”

And for a moment, you thought there might have been a hopeful note in her voice. But the next second you realized you must have been imagining things.

“How long will you be darkening my doorstep?”

Melissa glanced at you out of the corner of her eye. Part of her wanted a reaction, a fight; she was maybe even trying to provoke one at this point. But you seemed to shrink even more, like you wanted to disappear right before her eyes. And how fitting, Melissa thought bitterly, unable to feel anything except her own pain. You’d done it before.

“We’ll be here until the end of the week,” you said. “Patching up the walls, repainting the ceiling.”

Melissa smirked, unable to help the bubble of self-righteous satisfaction in her chest. “You went all the way to Italy just for this to be your Sistine chapel, huh?”

Her words were lacerating, laying open a wound that had barely begun to heal. Your breath caught in your chest. For a moment she thought you might crumble. And she hated you for it, hated herself. But you didn’t break.

“Guess so,” you said flatly.

Melissa wavered in the doorway. She wasn’t ashamed to admit that she’d imagined this moment. Had thought long and hard about what she might say if she ever saw you again. Had even rehearsed a few choice words. But in all these scenarios you’d been standing tall, proud, unimpeachable. You had defended your actions, doubled down on choosing to walk away, to leave.

You weren’t doing any of that. You could barely look her in the eye. Every molecule in your body seemed smaller, more uncertain than she remembered.

Suddenly, the messy stack of folders in her hand shifted and started to slide sideways. You jerked forward instinctively, balancing the precarious pile before it could topple to the floor. A few pages managed to escape, fluttering to the ground. Melissa swore, pushing into her classroom and setting down the small mountain of files.

“Just leave those,” she said over her shoulder, flustered at the thought of having to accept any kindness from you.

But you had already knelt down and gathered up the strays. You took a few hesitant steps into her room, setting the pages in a neat pile on the corner of her desk.

“Thanks,” she said.

But you weren’t listening. Something had caught your eye. There, on the edge of her desk, a photograph you’d taken of Melissa at the county fair last summer. It was a little blurry. You’d dug out your dad’s old Hasselblad from the attic and developed it before you really knew what you were doing. But Melissa was radiant, red hair streaking across the film, bright green eyes beaming like searchlights.

You had one arm slung around her shoulder. The other hand was holding the camera, aiming it at your faces. As a result, most of your head was cut out of the frame; just your mouth captured in the upper right-hand corner—smiling, lips pressed against Melissa’s head.

She followed your gaze and froze, cursing her own sentimental heart. She’d meant to throw that picture away a half dozen times, could never bring herself to actually do it.

“That was a fun night.” You said the words softly, like a prayer, like something holy. And suddenly she was the one who couldn’t look at you.

“Hey.” Your voice was achingly tender. “Can we …can we talk?”

Melissa glanced up and felt something flutter in her stomach. You were leaning your hip against the edge of her desk, looking at her with those big beautiful eyes. Maybe talking wouldn’t be such a bad idea…

“Knock, knock!”

You jumped back, turning to find a man standing in the doorway. He was holding a cheap bouquet.

“Gary,” Melissa said, her voice strangled as she plastered a smile on her face.

You narrowed your eyes, watching her body language change in an instant. She stepped past you, planting a kiss on the man’s cheek and accepting the flowers. Roses. So typical. Not even her favorite. You felt something hot and jealous flare in your chest.

“Hey, babe,” he said. “Glad I caught you. Just wanted to wish you good luck on your prep week.”

Melissa smiled, but it didn’t meet her eyes. You hadn’t seen the other woman in a year, but you could still read her like a book.

“So sweet,” Melissa murmured, making a show of smelling the bouquet.

Gary glanced over at you, his eyes crinkling in uncertainty. “Gonna introduce me?”

He was grinning, but there was something not quite warm about the way he regarded you, something threatening in the way he clutched a fistful of Melissa’s hip in his meaty hand.

“Oh, this is one of the painters touching up the school,” Melissa said with a dismissive wave. “She was just leavin’, weren’t ya hon?”

Your cheeks flushed with humiliation, with indignation at the dismissal.

“Nice flowers,” you said, tone overly saccharine in a way that Melissa caught immediately. Gary seemed not to notice.

You walked down the hall and out into the parking lot to find your brother. Hank was leaning against the wall eating sunflower seeds. He didn’t say anything when you approached, just passed you a cup of coffee. You took a sip, barely tasting it. With shaking hands you lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

“So that’s her,” Hank said. “The one that…”

You sighed. “Yep.”

He spat out a few shells, nodding sagely. “She’s hot.”

You laughed, humorless and hollow. How were you going to survive the next five minutes, let alone the rest of the week?

“I’m screwed,” you said, flicking ash onto the sidewalk. “Aren’t I?”

Your brother chuckled. “Yep.”

Together, you walked back inside and got to work.

[sapphicandgraphic]

The Mary Celeste—Chapter 5

Synopsis: You’re a grad student who starts digging into a decades-old unsolved mystery for your thesis. When you uncover a dark conspiracy, you’re forced to enlist the help of your reluctant professor, Agatha Harkness.

Chapter: 5/10

Series Warnings: Academic suspense, historical intrigue, enemies to lovers, eventual smut, fem reader, age difference, WLW

Chapter Warnings:  Angst! Stubborn fools falling in love!

The week seemed to drag by. You did everything you could to avoid thinking of Agatha—Professor Harkness—which was tricky given that several portions of your notes had been indelibly marked by the other woman at this point.

Her graceful, sloping cursive littered your papers and books, taunting you from the margins. It was mostly stern staccato criticism, but there were a few softer notes—not quite compliments, but close—scattered throughout. One in particular always made you smile.

You’re on the right track.

It was a silly, throwaway remark, probably written in haste, but it reminded you of something your dad might say. A little crumb of encouragement to keep going, keep persevering in the small, uncertain hours.

The ink was slightly smudged from how many times you’d thumbed over that note. Re-reading it had become a superstition, a kind of good luck charm whenever you hit a wall or needed a boost.

Now your heart twisted painfully as you stared at it.

“Get a grip,” you muttered to yourself.

You reshuffled the pages, trying to compartmentalize as best you could. But your thoughts drifted to Agatha, always Agatha. The look on her face after Monday’s lecture…the firm set of her jaw, the cold tenor of her voice. Like you’d betrayed her somehow. The thought ate at you.

You wracked your brain for logical explanations, trying to recall anything out of the ordinary from that morning. But the only answer that kept presenting itself was Rio. Her kiss. Your arm around her shoulders.

Could Agatha really be jealous?

It seemed impossible. You were her student. And not even her favorite one. She found you irritating, your research methods unorthodox, the subject of your thesis ludicrous...

As much as the other woman had softened in recent weeks, she was still eviscerating when it came to criticism, reviewing your work with an unforgiving eye, always pushing you to validate your wild theories, ground your investigation in reality.

And there was little between you beyond the work. You’d been careful not to disclose personal details about your past, and the other woman was just as guarded, just a mysterious. You knew she was divorced, that she had a son—basic information that you’d uncovered online. And as much as your heart fluttered strangely at the image of Agatha doting on a little boy, you never asked any questions about him and she never offered. Yours was strictly an academic relationship—warm, perhaps, even cordial, but that was where it ended.

Except…what about the car ride?

You had replayed that moment a dozen times, remembering the way she had leaned toward you, the fond smile playing around her lips, the words she had murmured in your ear. Easy, superstar.

The book of maps you’d been examining suddenly seemed like a lost cause. You slammed it shut, pushing it across the table.

“This has to stop,” you mumbled, scrubbing a hand over your face.

If anything, you were the one with a crush. And that was bad…very bad. You couldn’t complicate things with Agatha. She was your only real ally at the university. You couldn’t risk sabotaging your work, your father’s work. Not for anything.

You glanced around the empty library, gazing up at the ornate ceiling, lost in thought. Then you glanced back down at the maps scattered on your table. You needed a break from cartography.

Strolling toward the Christian theology section, you thumped absently through a King James Bible, trying to get yourself in the mindset of the Mary Celeste’s devout captan, trying to ignore the fact that you had precious few leads to go on.

You stared at the words on the thin, elicited pages, not really absorbing any of them. You were drifting, directionless. This just underscored why you needed Agatha—to help you find new lines of inquiry, gain access to special archives, leverage her faculty position to…

You closed the book with a snap, suddenly remembering this wasn’t entirely true.

Vigilant1872.

You had precious few conventional leads, yes. But what about his offer to meet in person? It was a gamble, sure, but there was something compelling about those messages, about how he seemed to…know your story, your background.

You had pushed it out of your mind, assuming that your by-the-book advisor wouldn’t like it. Her words from your first meeting echoed in your head: “You’re here to do academic research based in fact.”

But now, she wasn’t even talking to you…and the oppressive silence of the library made you feel more restless, more desperate than ever.

If you didn’t push your work forward, you could lose this fellowship altogether. That more than anything swayed your decision.

You returned to your research table and opened your laptop, pulling up the maritime mysteries forum. Sure enough, Vigilant had forwarded a location for Friday’s meeting. Coordinates. You rolled your eyes. How nautical. And he had reiterated his ominous request that you come alone.

You chewed your lip, staring at the screen. You were suddenly relieved you hadn’t gotten the chance to confide in Agatha. Perhaps having some space from her was for the best, at least until you vetted this anonymous source...

Over the next few days you barely ate, barely slept, avoiding the history building altogether. It was easiest to lose track of time in the library, with its dark alcoves and high shelves. Two nights in a row you didn’t come home until the small hours of the morning. Daisy was out of town, so there was no one to notice your absence.

You pored over your notes until your eyes were swimming, your head full of dates and ledgers. The less bandwidth you gave your brain to think about Agatha, the better.

You woke up unbearably early on Friday. The day seemed to have taken a month to arrive, and now that it was here, the hours ticked by like minutes. Was time dilation a side effect of sleep deprivation, you wondered, pulling on a pair of mostly clean slacks and buttoning your shirt hastily. You’d have to google that later.

Before you knew it, your feet were dragging you to the history department. Up the familiar stone steps, through the quiet hallways. You stood outside Agatha’s office, gathering your nerves. And then you knocked.

“Enter.”

Agatha was seated at her desk. She leaned back, steepling her long fingers and regarding you with an unreadable expression. Everything from her immaculate suit jacket to her crisp white shirt signaled that she was composed, unflustered. You glanced down at your rumpled denim shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbow, feeling a brief flush of humiliation.

“You look terrible,” she said, taking in the deep shadows under your eyes. Her tone was light, almost teasing, but she frowned as you approached.

“Thanks,” you said stiffly, glaring as you sank into the chair opposite her desk. You waited, unsure how to begin. The tension from Monday’s encounter hung like a cloud over the room.

“So,” she began diplomatically. “You said you had a new lead?”

You raised your eyebrows, caught off guard.

“Uh, no,” you said evasively. “Well, it’s…irrelevant.”

Her eyes snapped to yours, hooded and dangerous.

“Irrelevant?” Her voice was deadly soft. She stood, spreading her arms across her desk and leaning forward, casting a long shadow. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

You were reminded very suddenly how Agatha had referred to herself as an animal, and it made perfect sense when you saw her smile, her canines bared in a snarl. Your pulse raced madly, you might as well have been a jackrabbit one step ahead of a hawk.

“You were practically vibrating last time I saw you, begging to tell me about your new lead,” she said, and you could have sworn you felt the woman trying to read your mind, her eyes glued to your face. Her voice had pitched down to something mesmerizing, spell-binding.

“I was wrong,” you said, hating that your own voice shook.

For several long seconds you stared back at the other woman, trying not to blink, not to flinch. She was waiting for you to crack, but you had no intention of telling her about Vigilant now.

“Are you ever going to tell me what your connection is to this godforsaken ship?”

The question—so direct, so blunt—caught you off guard. Her dark eyes were still boring into you, watchful for any slip-up, any giveaway.

“I don’t have—“

Agatha rolled her eyes, breathing your name like a curse. And you almost caved right then and there, at the achingly familiar way she addressed you. The way she suddenly looked so exhausted, not even mad anymore.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I know,” you said, eyebrows knotting together in something like an apology.

Agatha sank back into her chair.

“It’s infuriating,” she said, regarding you with a kind of half-admiring, half-exasperated expression. “You act like you can just bulldoze your way through history. Like it owes you something.”

She trailed off, staring at you with such intensity that you couldn’t help but squirm.

“But the past is delicate,” she said, getting back on track. “It’s not a matter of force, it requires patience, diligence.”

“I don’t…bulldoze,” you said hotly, cheeks flushing at the accusation.

“And I require trust,” she added, as if you hadn’t spoken.

Agatha looked at you for a long moment, deliberating.

“Office hours are canceled next week,” she said, voice tired as she turned away. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

You sat there for a beat, stunned.

“But I haven’t—”

“I can’t advise someone who won’t be honest with me.”

You felt hot tears of frustration gathering in the corners of your eyes. Because she was right. You were lying right to her face. You stood up slowly, feeling detached from your own body. Without an advisor, without Agatha, you would be truly alone. At the same time, you couldn’t risk her trying to stop your meeting with Vigilant.

The impossibility of the situation pressed down on you, making the walls feel closer, making your chest feel tighter.

“Trust goes both ways, Professor.”

Agatha stilled. Briefly, like she couldn’t help herself, her gaze flickered up at you over the frames of her glasses. Whatever she saw must have startled her, because she inhaled sharply and her eyebrows knitted together in something like worry.

“I tried to come to you on Monday,” you continued, feeling all the pent up anger and hurt from the past week spilling out. “And you shut me out, like I was nothing.“

The words were raw, wet. You felt tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Do I get an explanation for that? Or does your demand for honesty only apply to me?”

Agatha stared at you, pulse fluttering madly in her throat. She swallowed, feeling cornered, exposed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The words were clipped, cold, final. If she hadn’t been looking right at you, she would have missed the way you flinched, drawing back as if you could shield yourself from the uncaring timber of her voice.

It finalized your worst fears. Whatever bond you’d thought was developing here had clearly been broken. Maybe it had never existed in the first place. You swallowed thickly, trying to find your voice.

“Then I guess we have nothing more to say to each other.”

You turned quickly, not wanting her to see you cry as you gathered your bag and left.

Outside, the wind whipped through the trees, shaking down a flurry of brittle gold leaves. You shoved your hands in your coat pockets and walked quickly across campus, feeling something inside you come to life, something reckless and electric and powerful. You held onto that anger, stoking it, suppressing the grief that threatened to rise up and topple you at any moment.

You were right back where you started. Alone.

Well, not alone, you thought with a bitter laugh as you put your hood up and set out across the dark campus.

“Let’s see what Vigilant has to say for himself,” you muttered, wiping the tears off your cheeks.

——————

Agatha sat in her high-backed chair—unmoving, deliberating. Then she opened the bottom drawer of her desk and extracted a bottle of whiskey, a heavy glass tumbler. She knew she needed to mend things with you. But for now, she just wanted to forget the look on your face, the echo of your words still ringing in her head. Like I was nothing.

If she didn’t know better, she would have thought she’d just broken your heart. She tried to shrug this off, chalking your reaction up to student theatrics. After all, she’d made a perfectly reasonable request of you—honesty—and gotten stonewalled in return.

But a wave of doubt crested in Agatha’s stormy mind as she sipped her drink, remembering with considerable discomfort her reaction on Monday to seeing the Vidal girl kiss you. How possessive heat had coiled in her chest, an outrage that had no logic, no name.

Agatha opened her laptop, scrolling mindlessly through her inbox. She took another sip of whiskey, relishing the pleasant burn. Her gaze drifted away from the screen, landing on the small leather loveseat. You should be curled there right now, head dipped low as you scribbled in your notebook, chewing your lip as you chased down a new angle, developing new arguments to add to your thesis.

She realized with a bereft sort of chuckle how much she had grown to like those quiet moments spent in your company, how much she looked forward to seeing your face, hearing your laugh, listening to your wild theories. Without intending to, she had fallen into a pattern where you bookended her week—the first face she saw on Monday morning, and the last face she saw on Friday evening.

“Idiot,” Agatha murmured, deriding her own short temper. It had a way of driving wedges where she least desired them.

But still—she trusted her gut. You were definitely hiding something. She just wasn’t sure what.

As she stared at the empty loveseat, she suddenly remembered the last time you’d been there. The notification she’d seen on your screen. Agatha frowned, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. She’d meant to ask you about it after Monday’s lecture, but never got the chance. Now she screwed her mouth to the side, trying to remember the words.

“Historical maritime mysteries,” she repeated.

If you wouldn’t tell her what you were up to, maybe she could do some sleuthing and get the answers herself.

Her hands gravitated to the keyboard, typed the phrase into her search engine. She scrolled down the page but didn’t see anything that looked right, so she added a few more keywords, including the name of the college. A student forum popped up and she smiled.

“Bingo.”

Agatha browsed the threads thoughtfully, not entirely sure what she was looking for. Her eyes landed on a comment from a user named CelesteObsessed and she snorted.

“Not exactly subtle, pet.”

It seemed to be your first post in the forum, a general call for leads or theories. Agatha was about to click away when she noticed the last comment from Vigilant1872. Her eyes narrowed, first in confusion, then in disbelief as she expanded the conversation and saw your response.

Agatha’s eyes flew to the clock. It was nearly 8:00pm. Her heart suddenly hammered in her chest, painfully loud.

“Shit,” she whispered.

Her brain, which had been getting pleasantly foggy, seemed to sober itself instantly. She sprang out of her seat, knocking her drink to the ground. Then she grabbed her car keys and flew out of the room without a backward glance.

———

[sapphicandgraphic]

yes i am a princess and also a depraved freak pervert. sorry for being perfect.

[sapphicandgraphic]

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