well, she didn't believe in heaven and hell

Setting the Scene:

Melissa’s living room is your horror HQ. She's got a plush sectional with a throw blanket in that deep-school-red shade, wine on the coffee table, and candles flickering with an amber glow. It’s romantic, sure, but that’s not why you’re here—you’re here to be terrified together.

She insists on physical DVDs: no streaming. “It’s the principle,” she tells you, thumbing through her alphabetized collection of actual scary movies, not the fake jump scare shit. You're impressed by the depth of her collection: vintage Italian giallo films, ‘70s slashers, obscure psychological horror you’ve never heard of.

Movie Taste + Watching Habits:

She has zero patience for bad pacing. If the movie takes too long to get going, she’ll roll her eyes and talk loudly over it. “We get it. Your wife’s dead. Move it along.”

She LOVES practical effects. Think The Thing, Hellraiser, and Suspiria (the original). “See that blood? That’s real corn syrup and food dye. None of that CGI bullshit.”

You’re a little more squeamish, so she likes picking movies she knows you’ll squirm at—just so you’ll hide your face in her chest and clutch her arm. She lives for it. “Aw, baby, is it too much? Wanna watch ‘Hocus Pocus’ instead?” (Teasing you with a grin).

During the Movie:

She doesn’t jump at scares. Ever. But when you scream, she laughs, wraps an arm around your shoulder, and presses a kiss to your temple. “Jesus, babe. You’re cute when you’re scared.”

Melissa talks to the screen. Constant commentary. “Why would you go in the basement? Stupid.” You used to get annoyed, but now it just feels like part of the experience — and her commentary is funny.

If it’s a movie she’s seen before, she’ll purposely turn to you during key moments, watching your face instead of the screen. “Wait for it… Aaaand—yep. You jumped. Classic.”

Post-Movie Vibes:

She always asks if you want to sleep with the lights on—even though she knows you’re going to say yes. She never teases you for it, though. In fact, she leaves the bathroom light on “just in case.”

The best part for her is the aftercare. You’re jittery and clinging to her like a scared little kitten, and Melissa? She’s smug but sweet. Pulls you onto her lap, lets you bury your face in her neck, strokes your hair, murmurs, “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you, honey. I’m right here.”

If you're really spooked, she'll suggest a "palette cleanser" .. usually something comforting, like old Golden Girls reruns or an episode of Frasier, playing while she spoons you under the blankets.

Smutty Bonus Headcanons:

You being scared turns her on just a little bit. There’s something about you clinging to her, half-hiding behind her arm, asking her if she can stay close—that lights a fire in her stomach. "You scared, baby? Lemme make you forget about that monster under the bed."

If you jump during a particularly tense scene, she’ll tug you into her lap and whisper, "I gotcha. You’re safe with me, sweetheart." But her hands might wander, stroking your thighs while you’re still shaking just a little.

Sometimes she’ll turn horror night into foreplay on purpose. Picks the movie with the creepiest music just to get you curling into her chest, and then afterwards? She’s got you under her, saying, “Think you’ll be able to sleep now, or do I gotta wear you out first?”

Little Things She’d Say:

“What, that scared you? That was nothing, baby. Wait ‘til you see the next scene.”

“You’re lucky I’m here, y’know. You wouldn’t last five minutes in a haunted house without me.”

The Decision:

Alex is very pragmatic and busy, so the idea of adopting a pet doesn’t come out of nowhere — it starts as a passing conversation one night when you're curled up on her couch after a long day.

You're watching some feel-good documentary about rescued animals, and you offhandedly say, “God, I’d love to adopt one someday.” You don’t even think she’s listening until she murmurs, “We could. If we found the right one.”

She surprises you by bringing it up again a week later, coffee in one hand, case files in the other. “There’s a shelter near my office. We could just… look.”

Alex insists it be a rescue. “Too many get overlooked.” She says it firmly, but there’s emotion behind it. She doesn’t like injustice in any form — not even when it comes to animals.

The Search:

She's meticulous, of course. You make a spreadsheet (half as a joke), but she takes it completely seriously. Size, temperament, age, energy level — she wants to be sure you're both capable of giving this animal a good life.

She’s drawn to the older dogs/cats at first — the ones with cloudy eyes and greying snouts — and she can’t hide how soft she gets when one curls into her lap like it’s already chosen her.

You try to get her to hold a hyper little puppy at one point just to see her squirm. She tries to stay composed, but the moment it licks her face, she breaks into the most gorgeous, unguarded laugh. “Okay, that’s illegal,” you say. “You can’t be hot and adorable.”

You both end up falling in love with a shy, scrappy mutt that hides behind a kennel door — a little rough around the edges but clearly just scared. “Reminds me of you,” she teases, brushing your arm. “A little bitey until you feel safe.”

The Adjustment:

Alex prepares like it’s a court case. Researches food brands, behavioural training techniques, schedules vet visits, makes an intake plan. She buys way too many toys and doesn’t realize it until you’re tripping over a stuffed duck.

The first night, the dog whines in the middle of the night and she’s out of bed before you. “No, stay. I’ve got it,” she says, already slipping on her robe and heading for the living room.

You find them asleep on the couch together the next morning — her in her robe, the dog sprawled over her lap, her hand resting protectively on its back.

Work & Responsibility:

She’s fiercely committed to making sure the dog isn’t left alone for long stretches. She arranges her court schedule to come home midday. Sometimes, she even brings the pup to the office (when it’s quiet) and lets it sleep under her desk.

If she has late depositions or hearings, you’re the designated bedtime cuddler — but you start sending her photos of you and the dog cuddling, which she definitely does not show anyone at work except maybe Olivia Benson.

You overhear her calling the dog “our baby” when she’s talking to a colleague, and your chest almost explodes with love.

Emotional Impact:

The dog quickly becomes the softest part of your lives together — the constant in between court dates, late nights, bad news, and cold winters.

When Alex has a bad day, she doesn’t even speak — she just lies on the floor and lets the dog clamber over her. It grounds her in a way nothing else does.

You catch her once, whispering something to the dog about how she never thought she’d have a home like this. You’re in the doorway, and she pretends she didn’t say it. But her eyes say everything.

Bonus Headcanons:

The dog is obsessed with you, but protective of Alex. It barks at anyone who even raises their voice near her.

You jokingly buy your dog a little blue necktie to match Alex’s courtroom outfits. She glares at you, but she secretly makes it the dog’s official "court day" collar.

How You Met:

You’d been a notorious little firecracker in the neighborhood since you were a teenager — makeup too heavy, skirts too short, mouthing off to anyone who told you how to act. Melissa had known of you through your mom, always hearing the “can you believe what she’s done now?” stories at brunch.

First proper meeting was at your mom’s summer BBQ when you were 23, freshly single, drunk off pink wine coolers and practically grinding on the patio furniture while ‘80s power ballads played. Melissa had lit a cigarette and watched you with thinly veiled amusement, thinking Jesus Christ, this one’s a menace.

You clocked her the second you arrived — something about that raspy voice, sharp suits, chain smoking habit, and those dangerous, bedroom eyes had you immediately plotting how to make her look at you the way you wanted.

Dynamic:

Melissa’s a gruff, no-bullshit, old-school Italian woman who tells it like it is and thinks you’re an absolute disaster… but she cannot stop craving you.

You’re a loud, chaotic, over-the-top bimbo with a hyperfeminine aesthetic, a penchant for starting shit you can’t finish, and a dangerously sharp streak under all the gloss and giggles.

Melissa pretends she’s annoyed by your constant selfies, shrill laughter, and obsession with pink — but the possessiveness she feels when other people look at you says otherwise.

You absolutely weaponize your sexuality around her. Bending over just a little too far when you know she’s behind you, sucking on lollipops in front of her, showing up at your mom’s house in dresses that should honestly be illegal.

Tension & Sex:

The first time it happened was a fight. You called her a washed up old bitch, she called you a spoiled little whore, and then you were pinned against the wall, dress bunched up around your waist, Melissa’s nicotine-stained breath hot in your ear.

Melissa likes it rough. Hair pulling, face grabbing, calling you every filthy name in the book. “You like being a little dumb fucktoy for your mom’s best friend, huh? Goddamn mess you are.”

You love baiting her until she snaps — there’s something about pushing a woman like that to her breaking point that makes your thighs ache.

She smokes after sex. Laying there like it’s no big deal while you’re half-naked, covered in bruises and lipstick smudges, draped over her chest and still whining for more.

Public / Family Events:

You two have a disgusting amount of sexual tension in public, especially around your mom and the other neighbourhood ladies.

You’ll lean against her in the kitchen while she’s chopping peppers, whisper something filthy about what you want her to do to you later, and she’ll just chuckle, “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind.”

Melissa gets wildly jealous when you flirt with random guys at parties. One time you giggled your way onto some twenty-something’s lap at your cousin’s wedding and Melissa dragged you into the coatroom by your wrist, fucked you up against the wall, and made you come around her fingers before you could even get a protest out.

Soft Moments (Because There’s Always a Few):

Melissa pretends like she doesn’t give a shit about you — until you get too drunk and start crying about feeling stupid, or like nobody takes you seriously. Then she’s there with a rough hand on your thigh, calling you her gorgeous, fuckin’ perfect girl, promising she’ll take care of you.

She buys you dumb little gifts — gas station sunglasses, cherry lip balm, cheap hoop earrings. But then randomly surprises you with designer heels you’d been drooling over, swearing she got them on sale even though you both know she didn’t.

She won’t say I love you. But when she thinks you’re asleep, she brushes your hair off your face and mutters Jesus Christ, you’ll be the death of me.

Texts Between You Two:

You: send nudes

Melissa: You’re outta control. And you better delete that shit before your ma sees it, you little dumbass.

You: Make me 😈

The Setup:

You’re a rising star in the indie scene—sweet, soft-spoken, known for haunting melodies and shy interviews where you giggle through compliments and constantly thank your fans.

Emily Prentiss, by contrast, is the dark rock icon. She's been in the industry for over a decade, all smoky eyes, husky voice, tattoos, and dry sarcasm. Her lyrics are sharp, sultry, and unapologetically emotional. Think Joan Jett energy with Fiona Apple depth.

You’re booked as her opener for a major tour. You nearly faint at the news. She doesn’t even do openers… but she personally asked for you.

Backstage Vibes:

Emily sees you the first time in rehearsal, clutching your guitar and tuning it like it’s sacred. You barely make eye contact. She leans on a doorway, arms crossed, amused.

“You’re smaller than I thought,” she drawls. You squeak out something polite and blush so deeply that she has to bite back a grin.

She starts showing up to your soundchecks. At first you think it’s coincidence - then you catch her in the wings, always watching.

On-Stage Chemistry:

The first time she invites you to duet with her during her set, you nearly drop your pick. It's a slow, sultry cover of “Wicked Game.” You sing harmony, voice trembling slightly. She leans in close, sings right into your mic. The crowd loses it.

After that, it becomes a thing. Every show, a different duet. The audience ships you hard. Fan edits, reaction videos, headlines like “Goth Rockstar and Her Angelic Protégé?”

She teases you after every show - calls you “songbird” or “my little dove.” You always hide behind your hands.

Off-Stage Dynamic:

Emily is a walking contradiction - gruff but deeply attentive. She leaves protein bars by your amp, tucks a note in your guitar case before big gigs (“Don’t be cute, be legendary.”)

She’s fiercely protective. The second someone tries to get too handsy at a meet-and-greet, she’s between you and them like a wall. “She’s not for you.”

You bring out a softness in her that freaks her out a little. She’ll smoke a cigarette outside your dressing room, pacing, talking herself out of knocking. You always open the door anyway.

Music as Love Language:

You start writing songs with her in mind. Soft, yearning ballads that your fans assume are about a lost crush. Emily knows they’re about her.

One night, you leave your notebook open by accident. She finds a verse: “She’s everything I shouldn’t want, but still, I’d drown in her voice again.”

That night she kisses you for the first time - slow, possessive, with the kind of need that’s been simmering under every glance.

Contrast in Public vs Private:

Publicly, she’s cool, composed, always giving cryptic answers when asked about her love life. Privately, she’s wrapped around you, brushing your hair back while you play for her in bed, head on her chest.

You get flustered by media attention; she shields you from it. Emily knows how brutal the industry can be, and she’s determined to keep you from getting chewed up.

The fans adore you both. The internet dubs you “Dark Star and Daylight” and Emily saves the fan art she secretly loves on her phone.

And the Sex?

She’s experienced, dominant, filthy in the most loving way and you’re absolutely not as innocent as you look, which delights her.

The first time is slow and worshipful. She peels your clothes off like unwrapping something delicate. She asks before every touch.

General Dynamic:

Alex knows who you are. Maybe not everything, but enough. Enough to keep your name in her mouth and on her desk more than it should be.

You’re the kind of woman who walks into a courtroom just to watch her, all tailored suits and subtle smirks - never on trial, never on record. Just a presence that drips threat and fascination.

There's a mutual obsession simmering under the surface. She won’t admit it. You don’t have to.

How You Met:

She prosecuted one of your lieutenants. Her argument was flawless, clinical. You were there in the gallery, watching with a look that made her stomach flip.

Later, you sent her a bottle of wine. No note. Just a challenge.

She didn’t drink it. But she did research you obsessively that night.

Tension-Filled Encounters:

She visits you in your penthouse under the guise of “negotiating” an informant deal. You greet her in silk and smile like you already own her.

You love to watch her fight her moral compass when she's alone with you. How her jaw tightens when you touch her wrist, how her breath catches when you whisper her name.

You’ve never laid a hand on her. Not in public, not even in private .. yet. You make her want it first. You’re patient. And terrifying.

Sexual Dynamic:

When it finally happens, it’s violent with restraint—Alex kisses you like she hates you for making her want this, want you. You let her lead at first, until her hands start shaking.

You tease her for being a “lawful good girl with filthy hands.” She slaps you once for it, and you moan.

She comes back to you after the most stressful cases, trembling, needing control, and you let her take it … until she begs you to take it back.

Emotional Undercurrents:

Alex pretends she can compartmentalize it .. you. That it’s just sex, just stress relief. But you’re in her head like a brand.

You’re in love with her precision. The way she slices through corruption like a scalpel. You would never admit it, but you want her to be your equal.

You’d burn half your empire if she asked, because you know she never will.

And she’d never admit it, but her moral compass has started spinning. Especially when you leave bruises on her thighs and marks where no one can see.

Power Dynamics:

You give her intel she can’t trace. “Anonymous tips” that crack open cases. She suspects it’s you. She never proves it.

You call her “counsellor” in bed and “Alex” in front of your men. Both make her weak.