callie

So, four years later, she really did admire how hard you worked. Because she knew first-hand how much effort it took to succeed in a competitive, cutthroat field. Much less excel. Because after that first rejection, something inside of you had flipped. You’d learned and grown, and now, you outpaced everyone. 

The youngest principal clarinet and principal E-flat clarinet the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra had ever seen. 

The thought made her so proud that Mel couldn’t help but feel like she had been the one to achieve it too whenever it surfaced in her mind. 

So, yes. Mel loved your work ethic and everything you’d achieved because of it. 

But at 12:07 AM, with her having the day shift and you teaching lessons the next day, she was about to confiscate your Selmer Paris (B-flat, thank god, she wasn’t sure if she could handle the high octaves of the E-flat so late at night) and lock it away in the guest bathroom. Which you would severely protest to, worried the instrument would get out of tune or the cork would crack, so, actually, Mel wouldn’t do that. But still, it was too late for you to be practicing. 

A solo performance that weekend was the root of your stress. And to say the least, Mel was halfway worried to death that you were going to burn yourself out.

Getting out of bed is difficult when the sheets are warm, and she’s found a comfortable position, and she’s already halfway to sleep, but she’s missing you. And after a beat of silence that has her momentarily convinced you’ve finished practicing, you begin the measures you’d been obsessing over with that stupid run– 

Mel’s throwing the comforter off her legs in a matter of seconds, making her way down the short hallway to the living room, where you’re sitting on the couch, back pin-straight with Becca in the armchair, wrapped in a blanket and watching you intently. At the sight of her, hair mussed from almost-sleep and eyes barely open, Becca springs up, rushing off to her room before Mel can get out a word of: “You’re supposed to be in bed.” 

Because you’re all supposed to be in bed. 

You, however, don’t even pause, eyes glued to sixteenth notes.

And Mel’s been listening to you play for years, knows what your mind is looking for when you get stuck in incessant loops like this. Sure, sometimes your reasoning is justified (she might as well be musically trained now as well), but right now that’s not it. You’re just being picky. Perfectionism leaking into your much-needed sleep. Which Mel will not tolerate.

You complete the excerpt, huffing as you reach for your pencil to angrily mark what’s probably a sharp considering the D-sharp major key. Mel takes the moment to speak. “Are you done?”

Your eyes flick to her momentarily. She sees the exhaustion. But she also sees the fire of how stubborn you could be. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, setting the pencil back down and lifting the instrument back to your face. Your thumb nudges at the ligature, adjusting the reed. “This entire box of reeds is terrible. Can’t believe I pay over 36 dollars for only two decent reeds–”

“Because you’ve broken them in,” Mel mumbles sleepily, pushing away from the doorframe to come stand by the foldable music stand. “It’s time to let them sit and harden a little again.” You open your mouth to protest, but Mel is gently collecting your sheet music, sliding it back in its folder. “And it’s time for us to go to bed.”

“I’m not tired yet, Mel– C’mon, I just need to go through measures 128 and 149 again, please–”

She shakes her head, gesturing for you to clean the instrument and put it away. 

“You are tired, honey,” she says gently. “You need to listen to your body. I can for tonight, but tomorrow, please, only do a light practice session.”

You let out another tiny huff, reaching for the pull-through swab. “Fine.”

But Mel can tell that you don’t mean it. That you aren’t recognizing your fatigue because you’re on the high of productivity. And, well– sometimes, the only way to get through to you when you were like this, was to lay you face down on your shared bed and lazily fuck you into the pillows. 

Your eyes roll back, arms lax even as your hands weakly grip the headboard, as Mel continues her unhurried pace. Long, easy strokes of the strap, the biggest one you owned, sinking into your warm, swollen walls. You were pretty sure every time she buried the silicone into your sopping cunt with that tiny squelch, the tip nudged your cervix. But, again, you couldn’t really think from the sparks of pleasure it was sending up your spine. Only let out tiny squeaks that went along with the quiet creaks of the mattress each time Mel leisurely fucked back into you. Pillow under your hips, her hands skimming over your ribs and breasts and arms to keep you on edge and shuddering like a leaf, the angle and position was meant so neither of you had to do much work.

That pillow wasn’t going to be used to sleep on after this, though. Not with how you’d soaked it.

A small tap on the back of your thigh, barely sharp enough to sting, pulls you from the cloudy state of mind you’d eased into. “How are you feeling?” Mel says, voice soft, but not mumbling, that hand that had slapped your thigh settling on your hip. 

You can only answer with a small moan, shifting your body back against her touch, craving to feel more of her. More of her hands and her mouth and her warmth instead of the teasing brushes of her fingers designed to keep you on edge. 

Which she picks up on. 

Still maintaining the friction your pussy needs to be brought to a peak, which she would deny you, one of Mel’s hands moves to hold yours where they’re on the headboard, the other brushing your hair from your sweaty neck. Her front folds over your back, her sleep shirt soft against your damp skin as her chin tucks against your shoulder to press her lips against the corner of your jaw.

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispers against your skin, the frame of her glasses digging into your cheek. But you don’t care, not when the tip of the dildo bumps against your cervix again and your thighs shake, pussy drooling around where it’s stretched, and you’re right there–

Mel’s hips still, fingers intertwining with yours as she pulls the orgasm away. 

You almost sob at the rejection. If it weren’t for the way you were so relaxed after being high-strung all day, or if it weren’t for the gentle kisses she trails from your jaw along your neck and over your shoulders before her lips are returning to your ear. “How are you feeling?” Mel repeats gently against the shell of your ear. And you know she won’t move until you give her a word.

So you force your lungs to work harder than shallow breaths. “Better,” you say shakily after a beat.

To your relief, Mel rocks her hips again. You moan quietly in contentment. 

“You’re going to be amazing this weekend, honey. Please don’t overwork yourself,” the plea mixed with praise against your skin. And in this stripped mindstate, this intimate space with the person you trust more than anyone or anything else, you believe it. “No more stressing yourself out either,” Mel continues, and your ears pick up on the hitch in her own breathing.

Her thrusts had turned into more of a grinding motion now, nudging your engorged clit against the fabric of the pillowcase and most likely hers against “I hate seeing you like that. They don’t understand– How lucky they are to have you–” She squeezes your hands with hers, breath warm against your neck. “How wonderful you are… Stresses me out too…”

“Don’t want you to be stressed–” you squeak out softly, managing to lift your head enough to tilt it and meet her eyes. The pressure on your clit combined with the way the strap is grinding against your cervix and the sight of Mel’s flushed cheeks is enough to have your orgasm building again, more intense than last time.

Mel shakes her head quickly, forehead meeting yours. “I’m not, honey, I’m just worried about you.” She sounds whiny, brows pinched together as your half-lidded eyes flutter shut with a tiny gasp. 

“Mel–”

“It’s okay…” she rushes out, knowing that tone. High-pitched and oh so pretty, one that you only adopt when you’re about to cum. “You’re so perfect,” she mumbles, letting her lips hover right next to yours as you pant and jerk under her to finish yourself off by fucking against her. “Say it back.”

That heat in your stomach peaks.

“I– mm, m’perfect–!”

Mel’s lips meet yours, her way of comforting you through the mind-numbing high.