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schemmentigfs · 1 month ago

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Heyy babes😘🩷🪩

I've got a request for a Melissa x art teacher!reader where R and Mel are married but they both kept their own last names (and maybe they were wedding bands instead of big sparkly ring) so nobody really caught on, but they've never hid it so like if anyone asked they wouldn't deny it <3

And maybe reader is like really sweet and kind and loves to go on and on about Melissa but understands time and place and just doesn't do it at work. Kinda like a grump x sunshine

Wedding Bands.

Summary: the Abbott crew unexpectedly finds out about your marriage with Melissa.

tags 🤍: @lisaannwaltersbra

Being married to Melissa Ann Caterina Schemmenti is like living with a storm that balances between chaos and calm—blunt, sarcastic, and fiercely protective, but with a tenderness that only you really get to see. She’s fire and steel on the outside, especially when it comes to her students and her friends, but behind closed doors, with you, she’s a softer, more vulnerable version of herself. It’s a love that surprises people who only know the tough, no-nonsense second-grade teacher with her sharp tongue and devil-may-care attitude. But, it's a love that you wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.

Though you both kept your last names after getting married, there’s never been any secret about your relationship. You wear matching, simple wedding bands, understated and meaningful rather than flashy. There was no grand show when you exchanged vows, no glittering diamond engagement rings or social media announcement. It was just you and her, standing together in the truth of your love. You’ve never hid it either. If anyone asked, you’d tell them. But most don’t. Maybe they assume you’re just close friends. Maybe they’re too focused on the fact that, at work, you’re the soft-spoken art teacher with paint-splattered aprons, and she’s still the formidable Ms. Schemmenti.

Today, though, is not a workday. It’s early Sunday morning, the soft light of dawn filtering through the curtains. You’re in bed, nestled in a cocoon of warmth, Melissa’s arm draped across your waist, her hand resting lazily against your stomach. The slow, rhythmic sound of her snoring fills the quiet room. It’s not the delicate, quiet kind of snoring you’d expect from someone so beautiful.

No, actually your wife snores like a bear, loud and unapologetic. The kind that can startle you awake at night, though by now, you’re more amused than anything.

You turn your head slightly, watching her sleep. Her fiery red hair is splayed across the pillow, messy from a night of tossing and turning. There’s drool on her cheek, and it’s smeared against your neck, leaving a wet patch on your skin. A small smile creeps onto your lips as you stifle a laugh. She always denies she snores, and the drooling? She flat-out refuses to acknowledge it, no matter how many times you tease her about it.

As much as you want to stay wrapped up in her warmth, you need to get up. There’s a list of house chores waiting for you, and if you’re going to make breakfast for the both of you, you need to get started. You shift gently, trying to slide out from under Melissa’s arm without waking her, but as soon as you try to pull away, she lets out a low, grumpy groan.

“Mm-mm,” the older woman mumbles, still half-asleep, her arm tightening around your waist. Her lips brush against your neck, and you feel her nuzzle closer. “Hm, babe?”

You chuckle softly. “Mel, I need to get up,” you whisper, trying to pull away again.

“No. Stay,” your wife grumbles, voice thick with sleep. She sounds like a grumpy old bear as she buries her face further into your neck. “Too early.”

Her lips press lightly against your neck again, but this time, they linger, and you feel her teeth graze your skin. You freeze, not because you’re afraid, but because you know what’s coming next. Melissa Schemmenti, for all her gruffness, has a soft spot for early morning affection. The moment you try to escape, she pulls you back in, refusing to let you go.

“Lissa….” you sigh, laughing quietly.

Before you can protest, she bites down on your neck—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to make you squirm. Then she starts sucking, slow and deliberate, her lips pulling at your skin as her grip tightens around you.

You gasp softly, trying to wiggle away, but she’s got you trapped in her sleepy hold. “Melissa Ann, come on,” you whine playfully, knowing full well that she’s not going to let you go so easily.

She doesn’t stop. In fact, she only intensifies her efforts, the wet, lazy kisses trailing along the curve of your neck. You can feel her smiling against your skin, and you know exactly what she’s doing. She’s using her favorite trick—those soft, irresistible puppy eyes—to get her way. Melissa, grumpy and stubborn as she is, knows how to play you like a fiddle.

“Please?” the redhead woman mumbles, voice barely above a whisper, still sleep-heavy. “Just five more minutes.”

You groan, unable to resist her when she’s like this. She can be a total grump, but when she looks at you like that—her dark green eyes soft and pleading, her lips pressed to your skin—it’s hard to say no.

You sigh, letting your head fall back onto the pillow. “Fine. Five more minutes,” you mutter, pretending to be annoyed, though you’re smiling the whole time.

Melissa makes a satisfied noise, finally easing up on her hold, though she keeps her face buried in your neck. You can feel her lips curve into a grin as she gives your skin one last playful bite before settling down. Her snoring resumes almost instantly, deep and steady, like the rumble of an engine.

You lay there for a few more minutes, listening to her breathe, feeling the rise and fall of her chest against your back. She’s a force to be reckoned with, that’s for sure, but moments like this, when it’s just the two of you, she’s like a big, sleepy kitten. All her sharp edges soften, and the walls she keeps up for the rest of the world melt away. You can’t help but feel a surge of affection for her in this vulnerable state, her warmth surrounding you like a protective barrier against the outside world.

But, true to her nature, Melissa doesn't stay sweet for long. The peace of the morning is interrupted by her grumbling as she rolls over, releasing you from her grasp but leaving a lingering bite mark on your neck.

“You’re ridiculous as fuck, you know that?” you tease, rubbing at the sore spot.

She cracks one eye open, smirking lazily. “You love me.”

You sigh dramatically, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

The rest of the day goes as most of your Sundays do—comfortable, slow, filled with the kind of peace you’ve learned to savor after a busy workweek. You make breakfast while Melissa lingers in the kitchen, sipping coffee and watching you cook with a half-smile. You love these little moments, the quiet domesticity of your life together. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos of school, where she’s the tough-as-nails second-grade teacher and you’re the laid-back art teacher, happily covered in paint most of the time.

At work, your marriage isn’t something you flaunt. Not because you’re hiding it, but because there’s no need to announce it. You’ve always been the kind of person who believes in keeping personal life personal, especially when you’re at school. Besides, anyone who really knows you two could easily guess there’s something more between you. There’s the way Melissa’s eyes light up when she talks about you, the way she sneaks glances at you from across the teachers’ lounge when she thinks no one is watching.

And of course, there are your wedding bands. Small and simple, just the way you both wanted them, they’re easy to overlook unless someone knows what they’re looking for. You remember the day you picked them out, how you and Melissa both agreed that neither of you wanted something big or flashy. Just something meaningful.

“I like that we don’t need to make a show of it,” you had said at the time, sliding the band onto her finger with a smile.

“Good,” Melissa had replied, grinning as she slid yours onto your finger. “Because I’d rather die than wear a giant rock.”

Later in the day, when you’re both lounging on the couch, your wife pulls you into her lap, wrapping her arms around your waist. She’s still grumpy from the morning, but she’s softened considerably since then.

“You know I hate when you try to leave me in bed,” she grumbles, pressing her lips to the back of your neck.

You laugh, turning your head to look at her. “Yeah, well, I hate waking up covered in drool, so I guess we’re even.”

Melissa groans, but there’s a hint of a smile on her face. “I don’t drool, dumbass.”

You smirk, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. “Sure you don’t, Mel.”

She narrows her eyes at you, playfully biting at your shoulder, but you just laugh, knowing that as tough as she acts, she’s completely wrapped around your finger. And that’s something you’ll always cherish—knowing that, at the end of the day, no matter how grumpy or sarcastic she gets, Melissa Schemmenti is yours, through and through.

Your marriage wasn't a secret at Abbott, but somehow, most people just didn’t seem to catch on. You wore your wedding bands every day, and if someone asked, you’d have no problem sharing the truth, but the topic just never came up. Despite there being rumors, you figured the quiet art teacher with the sunny disposition and the tough, no-nonsense second-grade teacher seemed like an unlikely match to the rest of the staff.

Of course, Barbara Howard knew from day one. She was your wife’s best friend for god's sake. Melissa had too much respect for Barb to keep something like that from her. The kindergarten teacher would give you knowing smiles at staff meetings during development weeks or breaks and occasionally make cryptic comments that sailed right over the heads of your co-workers, though you and the older woman always exchanged smirks when they happened.

But now, as you’re sitting in the teacher’s lounge on a normal Wednesday afternoon, sipping your coffee and chatting with Janine and Jacob about the upcoming art fair, the rest of the crew is about to have an awakening.

Melissa bursts into the lounge, her usual fiery energy turning heads as she stomps in, tossing her bag on the nearest chair. You glance up at her and smile, knowing from the look on her face that she’s had a day. Before anyone else can react, she strides across the room, stopping directly in front of you. Without a word, she leans down and plants a quick kiss on your lips—something she doesn’t usually do at work, but it’s clear she’s too frustrated to care right now.

The teacher’s lounge goes silent.

Jacob, who had been mid-sentence, looks like someone just unplugged his brain. Janine’s big eyes are wide as saucers, and Gregory, who had been quietly minding his own business in the corner, slowly raises his eyebrows. Even Ava, who’s notoriously hard to surprise, is staring from her spot with an amused grin.

Melissa pulls back from the kiss, scowling as she collapses into the chair next to you.“You’re not leaving earlier and letting me with those monsters today. I’m taking you home,” she growls, reaching for your coffee and taking a sip without asking.

You giggle, kissing her nose that scrunches immediately. And lean back in your chair, as the rest of the room remains frozen in shock.

“Wait, wait, wait—what?!” Janine is the first to find her voice, her hand flailing as she points between you and Melissa. “Did you—did you just—”

The redhead shoots her a look, half-exasperated and half-amused. “What, pipsqueak? You’ve never seen a married couple kiss before?”

Jacob’s mouth drops open, his eyes flicking between you and Melissa like he’s just put two and two together. “Married?!” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, looking completely flabbergasted. “You two are married? Like wife and wife?”

You bite your lip to hold back a laugh, glancing at Melissa, who rolls her eyes. “Yep, Hill,” you say casually, holding up your left hand to show your wedding band. “We’ve been married for about six years now.”

Janine practically jumps out of her seat, hands flying to her cheeks. “How did I not know this?!”

Ava, who’s been watching the whole thing like it’s her favorite drama, lets out a cackle. “Y’all are just now figuring this out?” She leans back on the brick wall, crossing her arms. “I knew it. I mean, look at them. The only question is who lasts longer in bed.”

Melissa narrows her eyes at the principal. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

You smile at that, glancing at your wife, whose grumpy expression has softened into something more affectionate. She leans in closer, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before muttering, “We should’ve told them sooner. Now they’re never gonna shut up about it.”

You laugh. “Yeah, but you love it.”

“Hmm,” your wife grunts, though the smile tugging at her lips gives her away. “Maybe.”

As the crew continues to ask questions and process the fact that you and Melissa have been married this whole time, you just sit back and enjoy the moment. It’s not like you’ve been hiding your love, but there’s something nice about finally sharing it with the people you work with every day.

And even though the second grade teacher will grumble and complain, you know she secretly loves that they all know now too. Because, at the end of the day, being with you is something she’s proud of, whether she admits it out loud or not.

From across the room, Barbara catches your eye and gives you a wink, as if to say. I told you they’d figure it out eventually.

You wink back.

Later that evening, after a long day filled with laughter and revelations, you and Melissa find yourselves cuddled up on the couch, wrapped in each other's arms again. The soft glow of the lamp casts a cozy light over the room, and you can hear the faint hum of the city outside your window.

You rest your head on Melissa’s shoulder, feeling her fingers gently tracing patterns on your arm. It’s a comfortable silence, the kind that speaks volumes about your relationship. You’ve always loved this about her—how she could be so gruff and intimidating to others, yet so tender and nurturing with you.

As you sit there, your mind wanders back to the day’s events. You can’t help but wonder what it would have been like if the rest of the crew had found out sooner. Would they have treated you differently? Would they have reacted with shock and excitement or simply accepted it as part of the dynamic? The thought brings a smile to your face.

“What’s so funny, amore?” She asks, glancing down at you with a quizzical look.

You shake your head, grinning. “Just thinking about how everyone reacted today. It’s kind of wild, isn’t it? They never saw it coming.”

Melissa chuckles, her laughter a low rumble in her chest. “Yeah, they’re pretty clueless ‘n a bunch of dumbasses. But it’s funny to see their faces.”

You nod, leaning into her a bit more. “I love that we’re us. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

The older woman turns her head slightly, her green eyes sparkling in the dim light. “You mean that?”

“Of course. You’re my everything, Mel,” you say earnestly.

Her expression softens, and she leans down to plant a gentle kiss on your forehead. “You’re mine too, sunshine.”

As you settle back against her, a warm feeling spreads through your chest. You realize that regardless of how others might perceive your relationship, it’s what you have that truly matters. Your love, your partnership, and the moments next to her.

You know that you wouldn’t trade this life for anything. Not the snarky comments, not the grumpiness, and definitely not the way she loves you. Together, you are perfectly imperfect.

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x y/n #lisa ann walter #abbott elementary

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yoomiwrites · 21 hours ago

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We won²

Summary: The war is won, yet you lost too much. And well – how much can you still win? Read the first chapter here: We won

Note: I felt the rush and wrote more chapters for Ekko (5 or 6, depends on where I'll "cut" em). So yeah, more Arcane on my feed! I also wrote a Mel story which I'll probably post later.

Life after the war was a slow, aching process. The streets were littered with reminders of what they’d lost—buildings in ruins, empty spaces where loved ones once stood. Amid the chaos of rebuilding, you found purpose in small acts: patching walls, tending to wounds, and, most of all, looking after Ekko.

He threw himself into the work, determined to rebuild faster than his body could manage. You often found him at the break of dawn, still tinkering or sketching plans, dark circles under his eyes.

“Ekko, you need to sleep,” you’d say, gently prying tools from his hands.

He’d protest, insisting he was fine, but you didn’t budge. You made sure he ate enough, often sitting beside him with your own plate to ensure he didn’t skip meals. It was a rhythm you both fell into—one that kept him going and kept you close. Even if your heart ached to be more than his friend, you knew this was what he needed.

One morning, you found Vi at Powder’s grave. She stood there alone, her shoulders tense, her jaw tight. You hesitated before approaching, unsure if she wanted company. But when she glanced over and gave you a nod, you joined her.

The grave was simple, adorned with flowers that had started to wilt. Vi’s fingers traced the edge of the stone, her gaze distant.

“She was a mess, you know,” Vi said suddenly, her voice rough with emotion. “But she was still my sister.”

You nodded, unsure of what to say. You thought of all the times you’d seen Powder and Vi together as kids—the way Vi had shielded her, protected her.

“I think she knew you loved her,” you said softly.

Vi scoffed, her lips curling into a bitter smile. “Maybe. But I spent so much time hating her, it’s hard to forgive myself for that.” She paused, then added, “But Cait… she helped me. Helped me forgive myself.”

Her words carried a weight you recognized—the struggle of moving forward when the past still clung so tightly. You swallowed hard, thinking of your own burden.

“I’m trying to move on too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “He… he doesn’t need me to love him like that. He needs a friend. And I want to be that for him.”

Vi turned to you, her sharp gaze softening. “You’ve been through hell and back for him. That counts for something, even if it’s not what you want.”

“I know,” you said, blinking back tears. “It’s just hard. Letting go.”

Vi’s hand landed on your shoulder, her grip firm but comforting. “You’re stronger than you think,” she said. “And if it gets too much, you know where to find me.”

Her words weren’t poetic or grand, but they were exactly what you needed.

As the days turned into weeks, you found yourself letting go little by little. You stayed by Ekko’s side, but your heart began to heal. You threw yourself into the work, into helping Zaun rise from the ashes. And on the days when the weight of it all felt too heavy, Vi’s rough but steady presence was a reminder that you weren’t alone.

Ekko didn’t notice the shift in you, and that was okay. You didn’t need him to. It was enough to see him smile, to know he was still here, and to know you had a place in his life—even if it wasn’t the one you’d once dreamed of.

#ekko arcane #arcane #arcane x reader #ekko x reader

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glossysoap · 1 year ago

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ready to comply viii - Ржавый

Ржавый or rusted, is defined as:

deteriorate through neglect or lack of use.

warnings/tags: you are referred to as both “the asset,” “09012020,” and “you”. time skips, memory loss, dehumanization, abuse, hydra soldier being creepy but that’s as far as it goes.

notes: aforementioned creepiness will be indicated by red, bolded writing. the second red bolded writing will indicate the end of it! stay safe!

prev chapters here!

word count: 2,523

🏷️: @viylikescats @warenai @briacreations96 @fullmoon-94 @breadboyye @kiroshang @zvdvdlvr @lunitalloronaa @itzzjxlyn @lonely-ofc @m0rganit3 @badbishsblog @wolfyland07 @angelsdemonsmonsters @unkn0wnd3ad @itstokyo-cos @c1rice @venusianlustt @bugonawall @shadowycreatormentality @blackrose4242 @blackgaladriel @lilpothoscuttings @thvxr @tapioca-marzipan @nickangel13 @luvmeijii @atjamesbbarnes @h-leigh @writingmybeloved @chloeforde @divine--serenity @hunterbunter3000 @thriving-n-jiving @mar-mar-mel @namgification @ivymarquis @crazy-phan-girl13 @goodsoup03 @schaarfyx @rhyanna6012 @abbiesxox @kenz-ee @whateverwhocares6

Eight weeks have passed since (first name/last name) asset 09012020 was captured.

Eight weeks since asset 09012020 was incapacitated via blood loss after being fatally stabbed. Eight weeks since the asset was delivered to headquarters and underwent the beginning stages of experimentation.

Eight weeks since the asset’s left arm was amputated and replaced with a vibranium arm. The red russian star had tainted that arm ever since.

Eight weeks after being placed in a cryogenic chamber and frozen in time for two weeks.

Six weeks since waking up in a new room and seeing the new arm for the first time. Six weeks since the asset resigned to the fact that they were not going to be rescued.

Six weeks since the asset accepted that everything would be better that way.

Six weeks since the asset began experiencing isolation and dehydration.

Two weeks since the asset began exhibiting symptoms of extreme dehydration, isolation and deprivation. Two weeks since the asset began hallucinating. Two weeks since the asset hallucinated that their comrades, loved ones, brains splattered across the walls and their intestines pooled out of their mangled bodies.

Two weeks since the asset was dragged out of the room and placed back in that metal chair, shackled and chained up all over again. Two weeks since the asset was subjected to their first round of many electroshock treatments.

Two weeks since the asset was stripped of all memories and their brain was made to be a perfectly blank slate. The perfect tool for HYDRA to mould as they wished.

That first session marked the beginning of the assets’ journey to become the best, most skilled and efficient super soldier. Everything that the original Winter Soldier was supposed to be.

Two weeks since your identity as (first name) (last name) was stripped away from you and scrubbed out of your brain.

Two weeks since the asset first spoke the words, “я готов отвечать.” Ready to comply.

You were now property of HYDRA, Russian branch — subject participant of the Winter Soldier project. You were now known as ‘asset no. 09012020.’

In the two weeks since then, you had developed a new normal. You developed a routine here.

Every single day, you would be woken up at the crack of dawn in that same room you were kept in for weeks on end.

Only now, since that very first session, they left the vents to your room open. Instead of the sweltering heat that once overwhelmed that room, it was now the same freezing temperature that filled the rest of the HYDRA facility. The serum flooding through your veins helped you endure extreme temperatures, but you were still shivering all the same. You had resorted to taking the bed sheet off of that cot and using it as a thin, sad looking blanket.

Everyday, you would wake up by two sounds. Either the screaming that echoed throughout the facility, or by the scraping of the metal door against the floor as it opened.

The screaming you heard was brought on by the same torture you had endured over the past eight weeks. Being stabbed, beaten, and electrocuted. Bones broken and fractured, leaving splintered and shattered fragments of bone marrow. Bones would be left to heal incorrectly, leaving those subjects to have those bones forcefully broken all over again.

In similar cases to yours, where their limb injuries were too far gone, a bone saw would be used. Skin would be shredded and blood would pool from the affected limb, revealing the pink muscle tissue underneath savaged skin. The doctors would just keep sawing through the muscle and tendons, all the way until they hit the dull bone that held the limb together. Once they hit that, they would apply even more pressure in order to cut through the hard marrow. Pieces and shards of white would splinter off as the metal cut through the bone, the fragments of bone were reminiscent of shrapnel resulting from war. Once the saw cut through the bone, it was only a short matter of time before the saw would cut through the remaining flesh. About a minute, to be exact. And once that was done, the dead limb would fall to the cold, concrete floor.

Like a parasite cut off from its host.

Throughout all of that, the subjects would never be sedated or knocked out. Not until they passed out from the pain, of course.

Whenever you heard their screams and wails of pain, a shiver would run down your spine. And you didn’t know why.

If you took one look down at the metallic arm you now sported, you could only guess that you had endured the same fate as the screaming subjects.

But you didn’t remember any of it.

If the screams weren’t from amputations, they were from the subjects’ brains being put in a blender. The screams were from being strapped in to a metal chair and hooked up to a machine that electrocutes their brain.

You had been strapped into that machine four times since that first session.

That same machine that tore apart your mind and put it back together in all the wrong places. Memories that were once dear to your heart and soul were yanked out and left empty, leaving your mind a blank slate for conditioning. Your mind was never the same. It was like a puzzle that someone tried to piece together with glue, yet a piece was always missing.

Something was always not quite right.

Your mind always swam, drowned, in unfamiliar voices cutting in and out. Their was always multiple voices —always male, and all of them held a certain twang. An accent that tied them to their birthplace, though you couldn’t place where. Two voices left you especially confused. The first was the gruff voice, one that barked orders and felt reminiscent to your handler. The second was the erratic voice, one filled with such excitement and adrenaline that was such a stark contrast to anything you’ve ever known. At least, anything you can ever remember.

You couldn’t place where the gruff voice was tied to, where the curve to his words originated from. You couldn’t tell where the erratic, rushed voice was tied to, especially with how his accent distorted certain words and vowels.

Those two accented voices would always say a word, shout it, even - voices painted with desperation and want.

Maybe it was a name? But whose name was it?

Foreign colors and hues burned at the forefront, seas of camouflage green and black running rampant. Yet, a flash of cerulean always stood out. Bright and electric. Whenever that vibrant blue crossed your mind, you felt something unfamiliar bloom in your chest.

Whenever you woke up, whenever you heard those screams, you were reminded of these thoughts and feelings that were so foreign to you. Reminded of the thoughts and feelings that you couldn’t place, voices that you couldn’t put a name to.

You were always reminded of the bitter truth — that your mind was just a broken puzzle, full of missing and misshapen pieces that would never fit.

A piece of you would always be loose.

If you weren’t woken by those bloodcurdling screams echoing through the facility, you would be woken by the door to your room opening. The clanging of the metal door and the creak of the steel scraping against the floor would ring throughout your room and make you jolt awake.

That was how you woke up today.

At the sight of men marching into your room, your heart skyrocketed from the calm, resting pulse and into a rapid panic. You curled into a fetal position, back against the cold wall and arms wrapped around your knees.

The first man was familiar to you, he was the man who kept you on a leash ever since that first session. He was the man who held all of the power over you. The man who controlled your every word and movement.

He was Brock Rumlow. One of HYDRA’s top secret agents and your handler.

He wore a permanent scowl with a clenched jaw, and furrowed brows to match. Always stone faced.

His dark hair was always styled into a point, the color blending in with his black gear. He wore a black muscle shirt and a bullet proof vest, paired with a tactical vest. He wore black cargo pants and combat boots. Strapped into his vest were tasers and combat knives, as well as a baton. His pants were equipped with a holster, and slid into that was a fully loaded handgun.

Aside from the vest and the array of combat weapons, his gear was the exact match to what you had been changed into all those weeks ago.

Beside him stood two other soldiers, all dressed in dark combat gear and armed with assault rifles. Rifles that were pointed at you, safety clicked off and fingers resting on the trigger — watching for any wrong move or any hint of aggression.

They were there for Rumlow’s protection, not yours.

“Up, now. You have training.” Rumlow ordered gruffly, eyes trained on your frozen figure. Dark eyes almost daring you to disobey.

You weren’t sure whether you should dart out of bed to appease his orders, or whether you should slowly climb off of the cot in order to appear non-threatening. After tossing the two possibilities around in your head for only a moment, you settled on the latter. You maintained eye contact with Rumlow while you climbed out of your cot, making sure to avoid any sudden movements that might appear aggressive. Once you were standing, you straightened your posture and kept your arms at your sides. Head high, and eyes straight ahead at the concrete wall ahead of you.

The two soldiers approached you on each side with caution, still pointing their rifles at you.

“Arms up.” Rumlow orders you.

The daily pat-down.

Having underwent this routine inspection every single day since your first session, you were already prepared.

You raised your arms and widened your stance, leaving a space between your legs so they could pat you down for any contraband or smuggled weapons.

The two soldiers lowered their rifles and began patting you down. One soldier started with your right shoulder and moved down that arm. The other patted down your back and your waistband, feeling the fabric to make sure there were no shiv’s or makeshift weapons hidden there. Once that soldier was finished, he moved on to your legs. He carefully patted your left leg down first, ensuring to feel at your ankles to make sure you didn’t hide anything in your boots. He then moved on to your right leg and did the same on that side.

Eventually, the first soldier finished with your right arm and moved to pat down your chest. He started at the shoulders and moved down, feeling to make sure that there weren’t any bumps in the fabric.

Your jaw clenched as the soldier began grazing over the fabric of your muscle shirt, almost taking pleasure in the inspection, however brief it may be. Your eyes shot to his and narrowed into a sneer, daring him to go any further.

Without noticing, your metal hand formed a fist. Ready to smash their faces in without breaking a sweat.

The soldier at your chest only glanced down at your metal arm once, before glancing back up at you with a gulp.

“All clear, sir.” The soldier stammered, almost squirming under your glare.

The two soldiers stood and returned to their positions at Rumlow’s side, rifles pointed at you.

You walked to stand in your usual position behind Rumlow as he began leading you out of your room and into the hallway. You could hear the heavy footfall of multiple combat boots echoing the hall — from the soldiers, your handler and yourself.

You embraced the change of scenery, no matter how depressing the other cell doors might be or how the grey walls seemed to stretch on forever. It was still different from your own cell, so it would have to do.

As you were escorted from your cell, you heard many different sounds echoing through the hallways. Screams of the assets and barked orders of the soldiers. Metal hitting metal, metal hitting wood. Guns firing.

But you kept walking. Step after step. Eyes staring straight ahead, unseeing. Just thinking of all of the people cursed with the same fate as you. Getting cut up and fractured, getting put back together only to be broken all over again.

Soon, you had arrived to the training center. Rumlow stopped in front of you and pulled his keycard from his pocket, holding it out in front of him so the security camera could identify him. The doors unlocked and swung open.

Rumlow lead the way into the gym and ushered in the two soldiers to follow, before shutting the door behind him.

You swallowed before glancing around the large room.

The gym was large, with black mats covering the concrete floor and mirrors covering the walls. There were machines scattered throughout the room, mostly ones that helped built strength and endurance. Weights were stationed on both sides of the room, and treadmills were lined up on both sides as well.

A few beds were prepared off to the side with IV poles next to them, and bags of clear fluid were hanging from the poles.

Soldiers were stationed at every corner of the room as well as the middle of the room, and the entrance. They were all armed with assault rifles and tasers, just like the previous soldiers you had already met.

Other assets had also filled the room. Plenty were already using equipment, whether it be lifting weights or running with the treadmill on high speed and incline.

Their faces were all hardened, clenched jaws full of pain or anger — or a mix of both. They would push themselves past their limit, desperate to avoid any punishment.

You were pulled out of your thoughts by a loud whistle ringing out through the air.

The attention of every single asset in the room was drawn to Rumlow.

“It’s time for the first spar of the day. It’s down to … ” Rumlow glanced at his tablet. “Asset no. 09012020 and.. Asset no. 101943.” An uncomfortable silence fell over the room as soon as the words came out of his mouth.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you glanced around the room, looking to see who you would be up against.

Your questions were quickly answered when the sound of combat boots hitting the ground met your ears.

Your eyes dart to the source of the noise, to see a man stomping over in your direction. He was pale and muscular, and taller than you. He had shaggy brown hair that almost fell to his shoulders, some falling in his face. He had icy blue eyes and stubble that covered his jaw. He was also dressed in similar attire, a muscle shirt and cargo pants.

He also had a metal arm, just like you.

next chapter

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oneofthetorturedpoets · 6 months ago

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Casual (part 1/?)

Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

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You've always be attracted to Melissa, her fiery red hair drawing you in like a moth to a flame. You'd leave your door open after lunch so you could admire her figure as she teaches in the classroom right across from yours. You thought the feelings would go away after a few weeks but it's been a year since you've started and you still get butterflies when she looks your way.

It's PECSA weekend and you are dreading the event. You're a homebody and the idea of spending three days away from home annoyed you.

You hear a knock on your door during your free period, you look up, your heart skipping a beat when you see her. "Hey, you."

"Hey, Mel." You reply, closing your laptop in the process.

She frowns. "Why the long face?"

"I'm just stressed about pecsa." She pulls a chair up next to you, her perfume clouding up your senses.

"I've been over 15 times, if you're stressed about the lectures, I can give you my notes." She leans her arm against your desk, her hand holding her head up.

You sigh. "That would be great but I'm more worried about being gone for so long, I don't want to be away from home."

"I get it, I'm sorry." She grabs your hand, trying to comfort you. You try to be cool about it but your heart is racing.

You shake your head. "don't be, I'll live."

The weekend came faster than you'd like, you find yourself frantically packing your bags the morning of. You hear your doorbell ring.

You rush down stairs, swinging open the door. "Hey, you ready?" Melissa asks as you pull her into your house.

"perfect timing, I need help throwing my shit into bags." She shakes her head.

"I told you to pack yesterday." The disapproval in her voice making you feel bad.

You pull her upstairs. "I know, I just lost track of time grading last weeks tests."

"You could've called me for help, I'm always willing to help you."

Melissa held the door open for you as you walk into the hotel. The reception greats you and gives you keys to your room. You are in conjoint rooms, just a few doors down from Barbara. After you three get settled down, Melissa is already begging to go to the pool.

You make your way down to the pool, setting up your spot, both you and Melissa strip down to your bikinis before scoping out the bar right next to you. "Let me get you the best drink they have over there, it's like an orange fruity drink, you'll love it."

She runs over there, you watch as her ass bounces with each step. You try to not make it obvious as you squeeze your thighs together, Melissa turns around, seeing you look at her, she waves in your direction. Your face goes red, waving back at her.

It's the evening of the next day and you're exhausted. You've been to seven different lectures and 26 different teacher booths. Just as you turn around to grab another pamphlet, Melissa grabs it before you can.

"Why are you over here with the boring stuff?" She teases, you smile towards her.

"I never wanted to be in the first place, I was about to go back to the hotel when they stopped me." You stuff the papers you had in your hand, into your purse.

She gasps. "You can't go to your hotel room yet, you have to go to pacsageddin! It's the best party here, you can't miss it."

Melissa practically drags you to the party with her and Barbara. You all try to find a seat before a lady offers you a few chairs at her table.

"What schools are you with?" The lady asks as you three sit down.

Melissa frowns. "Who's askin'?"

"We're all with abbott elementary, how about you?" Barbara replies for you.

She nods. "I'm here as a vender, I own nickels school supplies."

All of a sudden Melissa is listening intently, you smirk, hoping to see some of her Schemmenti charm. "You're dawn nickels?"

They continue talking as you see a woman with blonde hair walk over, as you're about to comment on how similar she looks to Melissa, she gets up. "This table is taken."

A look you've never seen before takes over Melissa's face. "But-"

"It's taken, Barb." Melissa storms off and Barbara follows her. You're about to get up but the lady who Melissa knew stops you.

"Who are you to my sister? Another one and done?" You look at her weird, confused on what she meant.

"She never mentioned she has a sister, and I see why." You comment.

A few hours later you find yourself struggling to open your hotel door, the drinks you've had making it hard to think. You hear a door swing open.

"What took ya so long?" Melissa asks, giving you a dirty look.

You turn towards her. "having a conversation with your apparent sister."

The look she gave you made you shiver. "what the hell were you doing talking to her?"

"It wasn't a good one, I spent half the time defending your ass so don't give me that look, schemmenti." You struggle with the key some more before Melissa takes it from you and inserts it, opening the door. You mumble a thank you and walk into the room, she follows with you. You set down your things before turning your back to Melissa, She gets the hint and steps closer.

"You didn't have to defend me from her, everything she says is a lie." She says as she helps you unzip your dress.

"Well I wasn't going to sit there and let her drag your name through the dirt." you shrug off the dress, reaching for a shirt you put out. once that's on you turn to see Melissa right in front of you, the smell of alcohol drips from her.

She glances down at your lips. "Thank you." You look between her eyes, her aura drawing you in. You lean closer, seeing how far you can get. "I'm drunk."

"So am I" You smash your lips to hers. the jealousy Melissa was feeling seeped into the kiss, making it rough and passionate. Her lips were soft, catching you off guard. Her hands go straight to your ass, taking handfuls of it.

She pulls away. "What happens at pecsa, stays in pecsa?" You nod quickly, wanting more of her.

#fanfic #fem!reader #my fic #wlw fiction #abbott elementary #law #lisa ann walter #melissa schemmenti fic #melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x reader #Youtube

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llondonfog · 5 months ago

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God there's something that drives me crazy about it how Lilia and Malleus have been putting Silver to sleep for years using Meleanor's lullaby. You might have talked about it before but ugghhhhhhh as wild as she was, she obviously wanted to be an amazing mother for her kid, and now her caretaking is even reaching the baby of the man who killed her. They're everything they drive me nuts!!!!!

I actually don't think I've talked about the lullaby before!! I've written one little ficlet about Meleanor surviving and Lilia adopting Silver as one big happy family (which I should revisit honestly . . . I live for Auntie Mel who will melt the faces off anyone human or fae or Lilia who causes her precious godchild to cry <3) but I've not talked about the lullaby!!

In regards to Lilia, the usage of the lullaby speaks such volumes to me of how he's already accepted Silver as his son and how he's refused to let the past/Silver's heritage taint his view of this truly innocent child. Silver's father was the one to battle against Meleanor and strike that final blow that destroyed her— the knight would be rightfully responsible for not only potentially decimating a kingdom and leaving it leaderless, but for killing a mother before she ever got to see her son, killing a wife still searching for her husband, and directly killing one of (at the time) Lilia's only two loves in his life. It would not be absurd for Lilia to withhold the lullaby from Silver out of respect for Meleanor, knowing her disdain for the human race and the ties that Silver unfortunately shares to her demise.

But instead, he does not see (as much as he may struggle to accept this change in his heart) a prince of an enemy nation or the son of a murderer— he cradles the warm, heavy bundle in his arms close, breathes in the sweet scent of the spring, and feels that tiny heartbeat as it tries to sync up with his own breathing. That baby— that's his Silver. His child that he's blessed and named, his own son for all the cognitive dissonance he exhibits when he struggles to come to terms with how much he cares for, loves the boy. And what does a parent do to soothe a fretful child in need of comfort? They sing a lullaby.

(He thinks Meleanor would understand. Perhaps he even feels her singing through him to the child. And when Silver drowsily blinks his dawn-swept eyes up at his papa, Lilia can only poke his cheek with a smile, wondering if this little human would have been the one to tame the mighty dragon, just as he's softened this old bat's heart.)

For Malleus and Silver, ugh their relationship is so complex and special to me. We have two princes who would have been raised on opposite sides of the battlefield, and frankly, Silver would most likely have died before Malleus could even learn to speak the common tongue. Just like Lilia and Silver, these two should never have met, and yet here we have Mal, strolling around this dinky little cottage with a human babe cradled in his arms, trying his best to soothe its forlorn cries for its father with a distant memory. A prince caring for another little prince, unknowingly welcoming the son of the man who killed his mother into his heart with so much fierce devotion that he would stop the world to keep Silver's tears from falling (I fully believe Lilia would have walked unscathed out of NRC and none of this overblot would have happened the moment that it did regardless of Mal's stewing emotions— but when he saw Silver weeping, he was not going to allow this charade to continue any longer).

But this lullaby surviving for centuries past Meleanor, and how it will continue to survive when Malleus passes it on to his own children, and Silver to his, it gives Lilia a glimpse of the hope he wishes for the future. Between his beautiful child and his noble prince, perhaps they can accomplish what their fathers and mothers could not.

#lettie's asks #twst spoilers #lilia vanrouge #twst lilia #malleus draconia #twst malleus #meleanor draconia #twisted wonderland silver #twst silver #wringing my heart out like a dishrag

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jonsnowunemploymentera · 3 months ago

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There is a kind of triple irony in the following exchange because it highlights two types of blindness: literal and metaphorical.

But all of them seemed surprised to hear Maester Aemon murmur, “It is the war for the dawn you speak of, my lady. But where is the prince that was promised?” “He stands before you,” Melisandre declared, “though you do not have the eyes to see. Stannis Baratheon is Azor Ahai come again, the warrior of fire. In him the prophecies are fulfilled. The red comet blazed across the sky to herald his coming, and he bears Lightbringer, the red sword of heroes.” (Samwell V, ASOS)

The first: Melisandre has two sets of eyes that Maester Aemon does not. One set through which she literally sees the world, and another that allows her to tap into the metaphysical. Mel is a powerful seer but she, in a tragic twist of fate, remains blind to the truth. By taking elements of prophecy at face value, she has determined that Stannis Baratheon is the hero of prophecy. But he is not. And so she employs various glamours and tricks to give him legitimacy. And when Mel finally encounters the (very literal) promised prince, her metaphorical blindness causes her to look right past him.

That’s how we get to the second irony: old Maester Aemon is literally blind and does not posses Mel’s powerful prophetic abilities either. Yet he is able to ascertain that Stannis is not the hero of legend. In his blindness, he still manages to see past Mel’s glamours. Stannis’ magic sword may be as bright as the sun, but it lacks heat. And many times, we see that this false “light bringer” only serves to blind people’s eyes (very literally making them look away) and, as Aemon would put it, lead them further into darkness. For all the vision she possesses, Mel quite tragically misses the mark where Aemon does not.

But there is a third irony because even though Aemon sees what Mel doesn’t, both of them are still blinded to the truth. Mel, utterly convinced that Stannis is her man, misses the visions literally spelling out that Jon is the king. And as far as Aemon goes, he spent a good amount of time thinking that the promised prince was Rhaegar. When he had cause to change his mind, he understood that Rhaegar’s son was the one. Yet Rhaegar died, as did his son. So Aemon remained at the Wall nursing his wounds. But unbeknownst to him, Rhaegar’s son did survive. No, not Aegon. The bastard, Jon Snow. And Aemon knew Jon. He taught him, and loved him. But how tragic, and so very convenient, that Aemon did not have the eyes to actually see Jon. Because if he did, would he have seen glimpses of the prince he had mourned all those years?

This is where information becomes important, especially information that helps us understand prophecy. Both Mel and Aemon make decisions based on what is available to them. What they miss is, in large part, due to what has been hidden from view. Mel sees with her magic eyes that Jon is her king but she dismisses it because he does not align with what she knows. Aemon gives Jon advice befitting of a king, even comparing him to one, but at the end of the day he’s only a Stark bastard; he doesn’t know that this bastard boy is Aegon V come again.

So Mel’s quote doesn’t just apply to her, it comes back to Aemon as well. Both of them come to know their prince, their king, but they do not understand who he truly is. And that raises some interesting questions regarding the nature of prophecy. One may know it to the letter, but do they truly have the eyes to see and understand it? Unfortunately for Aemon, he did not and he died in his ignorance. On the other hand, Mel might be given the chance to correct her mistakes. But something tells me that in an attempt to grasp the light, she will only descend further and further into the darkness…until it’s far too late!

#jon snow #maester aemon #melisandre of asshai #prophecy in asoiaf #the prince that was promised #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls

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