#mildly edited the mirror one so there wasn’t a line going up the middle of ramonas face

[weezeryuri]

icons for the soul

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

after Elise the knight wins a jousting tournament, she is approached by the prince, Nova, while he is astride his black stallion. dismounting, he kneels to her, kisses her hand, and declares that he is in love with her.

So first off, I kept their names generic (the knight and the prince) because my brain needs everything on my blog to be somewhat similar. But I did keep physical appearances just how you messaged me.

Secondly, this whole piece is not edited and is full of cheesy dialouge.

Third, I started writing this before this very particular scene. I hope you like it!

Warnings: weaponry (is that a word?), cut by a sword, jousting tournament

~

"This is absurd," the prince exclaimed as he walked his horse, a stunning black Friesian stallion, through the murky woods.

The event of plodding through the forest wasn't the "absurd" part the prince was so adamant about proclaiming. It was the fact that a knight, a woman knight to be exact, was leading his horse as she rode astride her mare- a shimmering chestnut colored Arab with the temperament of a feisty toddler.

"What is absurd is the fact that you rode that horse, not one of the steeds equipped for endurance, for a ride of distance," the knight, fair in stature with long blonde hair and icy blue eyes, retorted as she clucked her horse along.

Friesians, as dashing as they were, did not have the physical ability to go on long treks. Arabs, skinnier by far- the knight hated the size difference between the bold stallion and the petite mare- were the proper mount; given the occasion.

"I have a parade when I get into Neighboring Kingdom's citadel," the prince replied, unfased by the knight's blatant voice. "Riding one of my otherwise less glamorous horses would be unsuitable."

"You expect you joust in this thing?" The knight gestured towards the stallion.

"Yes I do."

"I think you expect to lose," the knight rolled her eyes.

The pair came upon a beaten down path. Horsetracks and wheel-marks indented the ground, making it seem like a plow paved it then a boulder rolled across. The knight tossed the reins back to her sire. The useless horse would be able to plod across a path. It wasn't like they were in the middle of the woods, having to watch for holes and omnious roots as trip hazards.

Her mare obviously took the lead, her neck stretched out, ears pointed forward as she viewed every tree and every stump with inquisitive curiosity. The bridle she wore, a nice black one was a jeweled browband that stretched down to a cowlick in the center of her forehead. The bit, a simple one, not too harsh for the mare's sensitive mouth, was made of the finest metal. A martingale, ornated with the finest blue and white jewels that matched the browbane, stretched from the bridle to the girth underneath the tiny horse's stomach.

The saddle was much more simple. It was, by all means, meant for speed. Not so much for fighting, but she still wore a scabbard with a fancy sword.

"The warrior who I am fighting is the kingdom's strongest knight," the prince said, desperate to start coversing with the elegant, if not glamourous lady.

"So is it even worth this journey?"

"Indeed." The prince wanted to say more, but that would make it seem like he was pushing it. After all, he didn't want to annoy the knight- that wouldn't be a good way to foster a relationship.

After a couple hours of sparse conversation and making forks in the road, the pair came upon a small village nestled into the base of a mountain.

"We shall stop here," the knight said, her voice full of undeniable tiredness.

The prince, on the other hand, preferred to keep on going. They could just an hour's travel in then camp in the woods, under a willow tree... if the environment proved loyal, he could also find some holly and string it over the campfire...

"Sire?"

"Wha- ah yes, stopping here will be beneficial."

"Beneficial?"

"Yes, for sleep and food." Did he just embarrass himself?

"Mm."

The village was still in the prince's kingdom, though on the border. Some may argue against that territorial arrangement, but the small town's people waved the black and blue flag of the prince's kingdom.

The chorus of excited outbursts and anxious ramblings was the first noise that the prince and knight heard, even before the placid bleat of the sheep and the moo of the vast heards of cattle.

"The prince is here!"

"Tell the elders that the prince arrived!"

"Prepare a room!"

The prince trotted his horse forward, the long silkly feathers on its hooves brushing the ground in elegant fashion. The knight's Arab nodded her head and crow-hopped, putting up a fit that the lady riding was not a fan of.

"Knock it off," she growled, pushing her hands forward whenever the mare would rear so she wouldn't pull on her tender mouth.

The Friesian and blue haired prince greeted the oncoming crowd with arrogant waves and smiles. The knight dismounted the hot headed chestnut horse and led her through the city. She would have to find a cottage, a shed at best, to rest before finishing the trek the next day.

She strolled through the village, whispering soft words to her horse and scratching its long ears.

After much judging and contemplation, the knight walked up to an isolated house. It had a shed with hay and a water trough, so it would accommodate the mare's needs as well. Before even knocking on the wooden door, she allowed her horse to drink.

A small girl made her appearance, her eyes widening in suprise before rushing off, calling for "father".

A man came along next, armed with a sword. The knight did not unsheath her weapon, but stood next to the scabbard just in case.

"What are you doing here knight?"

"Passing through sir."

"By yourself?"

"The prince is with me. Now, if I may, could I sleep inside this shed tonight?"

"No member of the palace is welcome here."

That is unfortunate...

"Well sir, we had a long day, at least let my mount drink."

The man raised his sword and stepped forward. "Leave," he grunted.

The knight, not wishing to start something, gathered the reins and swung into the saddle with ease.

"Good day," she said as proceeded to walk away, but at the last moment, a blade slit her thigh.

"Hey!" She exclaimed, drawing her sword. The mare, jittery with excitement at the sight of the dazzling weapon, spun around quickly. Her ears pricked forward, awaiting further comands.

"You do not strike an officer of the king and a personal bodyguard of the prince," she spoke her well-rehearsed words in a slight accent, habit from all the times she mocked the statement in the mirror.

"Leave my property," the man warned. The knight lowered her sword slightly, but did not move.

"Sir, I don't want to start anything, but if I must..." I also don't want to show submission, she thought to herself, but kept that hidden in her cognitive sayings.

"My knight!" Came a roaring voice just as the two metals were about to collide. The knight backed her horse up briskly to avoid any harm to the skinny face.

"My prince," the knight lowered herself into an awkward bow.

"Is this man troubling you?"

"Nothing more than I can't handle," the knight replied, sheathing her sword. The man, a strangly thing with a coarse brown beard, and beady eyes, still held his own weapon high- ready to fight for whatever reason.

"Back off," the prince wielded his horse around and clucked him into a threatening rear. The seventeen hand-high stallion towered over the man who scurried into the safety of his cottage.

"I could've handled it," the knight said as the prince looked at her.

"I know, but sometimes allow me to be a gentleman," he teased, his eyes searching the cut on the knight's leg. "Are you okay?"

"It's just a scratch, I had worse."

"Get it cleaned."

The knight didn't reply, she just asked for a walk and started to stroll down the desolate street- the civilians must've fled with the brief commotion started.

"Come with me!" The prince called, but the knight kept walking. She didn't want her sire to rub it in that he saved her- not that she needed it. Heck, she could've finished the man right there and then if the oh so lovely prince did not interfere.

The next morning, the pair was even more silent then normal. The knight rode a good few strides ahead of the prince, not even reacting to his petty complaints.

The Neighboring Kingdom where the prince was to joust was only a morning's ride away. The tournament was in the afternoon and the next day where princes and lords were to fight until there was only one victor.

The prince was, by all means, the best at jousting- actually anything on horseback, not that the knight would admit it. He won the first five within one pass and then he was done for the day. The next day would be the championship to determine the winner.

And the new Champion.

Oddly enough, the two competitors were the prince and the prince from the kingdom in which they were competing.

The two lined up their horses on opposite ends of the arena and held their lances steadfast. The Friesian was rearing, just like the other's gray horse was prancing about.

The bell rang.

The two kicked their horses into a gallop, rushing at the other with lances high in the air. The Other Prince leveled his at the prince's neck and...

He dodged, ducked clear out of sight.

They lined up again.

Ding!!

The horse's hooves clawed at the air as they races towards one another. The lances leveled, the horses sped up (the knight was mildly impressed at the Friesian's ability to perform).

This time, the prince was able to knock his for off his horse. He clattered onto the ground, armor striking hard soil.

Cheers rallied in the crowd, apart from a few jeering remarks about "unfairness" and "cheating".

The prince took his praise proudly, and the knight found herself clapping alone with the audience. That was until the prince cantered up to her, dismounted...

"My knight," he purred, taking her hand and kissing it politely. He knelt down onto one knee.

"Will you marry me?" He asked.

"No."

[6ix-dragons]

Their Desired Future (for Jerza Day 2020)

Series: Fairy Tail Pairing: Jellal/Erza Rating: T+ Word Count: 3,799 words

Note: This story can also be found on AO3, FFN, and Pillowfort!

UPDATE (June 22, 2021): I have updated this story, to make a few changes! These include edits to sentence structure/rewording for some parts of the story to improve the flow, and make them more readable. However, I've also changed a certain part that happens later in the story, by adding more to it! I hope you enjoy these changes, and the updated story itself!

---

It was a little late in the morning, when retching noises erupted from outside the half-open door, leading into the bathroom.

Within the room, a young, redheaded female had found herself on her knees, hunched over the toilet. Clad in only her violet silk bathrobe, the scarlet-haired woman braced strongly against its seat. Her fingers firmly grasped onto it, as she emptied out the contents of her stomach into the bowl below.

Breathing heavily, the redhead coughed, sputtered, and wheezed, before spitting out the remnants from her mouth. She groaned woefully, her lips twisted to a deep scowl.

"Ugh…this…damned illness!" Her trembling body heaved mightily, while she leaned up more against the toilet's seat. "I swear it's been like this, for almost a couple of weeks, already!"

Erza then suddenly grunted, freezing in place, when she felt another wave of nausea hit the core of her body. The intense churning in her stomach had eventually come to pass, without forcing her to throw up—but, it left the redheaded woman with great concern that perpetuated with every passing moment.

A deep sigh escaped her breath. "Seriously," she muttered, lifting her head up from being face down towards the toilet's bowl, for long. "What is going on with me, right now?"

In her mind, she could recall how it all progressed, and culminated, into the predicament she currently experienced, just now. First, she felt mildly nauseous at times, the week prior. Initially, she brushed it off, thinking she had caught some kind of stomach virus. That is, until it all escalated in the next few days after, when she found herself rushing towards a restroom.

It just seemed to hit whenever it wanted to, but Erza knew that whenever it did, it hit her hard. It especially hit her, every time she had taken a bite out of her favourite foods—including her strawberry cakes. In fact, it was so bad, that even the very scent of those cakes had sent her running straight to the toilet. She just found it so odd that it would even happen like that.

The other times Erza had used the toilet, during the days after her mild illness, was when there was a sudden urge to relieve herself. It happened more frequently than she thought, having felt her bladder fill up more than a few times, every day.

Flushing the toilet with a single push on its tap, the female Scarlet gingerly moved towards the mirror above the sink. Grabbing a face towel, she wiped the bottom-half of her face, before rinsing the towel under the sink's faucet.

As she did, she closely observed her own reflection in the mirror, parting away the fringes of her hair that stuck to her forehead. Beneath her messy tresses that were tied into a high ponytail of sorts, her face was flushed with burning red, from the great exertion her body previously made. Even that, however, had failed to hide the dark shades that slowly formed underneath her eyes.

Erza could also recall in her mind, of how fatigued she was, during those same days—when her illnesses gradually worsened. Just like the nausea, she found herself a lot more tired, at any given time. It truly wasn't like her, to fall asleep in the middle of anything. It was even the case for this morning, when she got out of bed a couple of hours later than she'd usually been.

'No, really,' she thought, pressing her fingers against her temples that ached within, while she returned the damp face towel onto a wall-mounted hook. 'What the hell is going on with me?'

The redheaded woman frowned at the aches that pounded away at her head and across nearly every muscle in her body. 'Ugh,' she groaned at the pangs of pain throughout her muscles. 'Where's Jellal, when I needed him the most?'

As she noted in her own mind, her lover and husband had already left their house, off on his own accord. Of course, he had woken up earlier than her—hence, the lack of his presence around their house. And, yet, it would be nice if he was still here…if only to take care of her whims, and needs.

While she began brushing her teeth, and rinsing her mouth thoroughly, Erza thought of every single reason, as to why she continued to experience these symptoms. There was then a thought that surfaced in her mind—one that made her much nervous than how she felt with the symptoms she recently experienced.

Finishing her final rinse of her mouth, the scarlet-haired female stepped out of the bathroom, where she ended up in their bedroom. Taking the calendar off from her nightstand, she peered carefully at the current month it was on. Erza counted back the days, with the grueling question on her mind: 'When was the last time I had my period?'

She gasped aloud, eyes widening, upon the realization that her previous period had occurred the week before those symptoms started.

'No…it can't be,' the redhead narrowed her eyes at the calendar, in disbelief. 'I couldn't have missed it, last week…right?'

Turning away from the calendar, Erza stared into the open void, trying to remember the last time she made love with her husband.

In her mind, there was no denying it that both her, and Jellal were…sexually active with each other. Quite even so, in recent memory. However, for each time they did the deed, protection was always used. Although, there were times when she'd assumed that it was a 'safe day' for her, too.

Whether or not they had used protection for the last time they made love to one another, it really didn't matter much to her, anymore. The rising suspicions in her mind already pointed to a single, potential cause that could dramatically shape the course of not just her life…but, together, with him, as well.

Erza's breath stilled, as the unnerving thought of it all had sent her stomach bloating, and churning away, yet again. Holding a hand against her belly, the sudden wave of nausea had come, and gone, without much incident.

She shook her head, after, her breathy sigh drawn out.

Opening the top drawer underneath her nightstand, her hand crept into the furthest corners of it, before they were able to find what she was looking for. Pulling it out from the drawer, a small box filled with testing sticks was held in her hand.

As she remembered well, she bought it from a local pharmacy, only a few weeks prior. She had her own reasons for purchasing it—among them, in such situations like the one she currently faced.

Closing the drawer, Erza took the box with her down the stairs, into the kitchen. Placing the box on the countertop, she poured herself a full glass of water. Taking the box away from the countertop, the scarlet-haired woman read the instructions on the package, while she drank down the entire glass.

Bowing her head slightly, an unsure frown was plastered on her face. 'Will this…even work?'

The redhead took another moment to carefully examine the box, before she felt a familiar pressure building up in the lower regions of her body. Exerting a wistful breath, quietly, Erza placed the empty glass on the counter. Having opened the box, she took out one of the testing sticks from it, inspecting its pen-like shape.

She carried both the box and the testing stick with her, into the upstairs bathroom, where she set them aside on the sink's counter.

It was now, or never, for her, at this point.

Taking a clear, plastic cup, from a pile sitting atop a nearby shelf, Erza plopped down onto the toilet. Bringing the cup underneath her bathrobe, right between her legs, the redhead began to empty her bladder, sighing softly in relief.

---

With the testing strip portion of the stick fully dipped into the filled plastic cup, Erza could only sit and watch, from the seat of the toilet. Her fingers grasped the soft silk fabric of her bathrobe, trembling away with intense anticipation. The feelings of fear, and anxiety heightened in her mind, with every passing second—despite the test taking only ten minutes to complete.

It was just beginning to be a bit too much for the redheaded female, wondering what the result would be for her. She had to find a way to ease her nerves, to calm herself down, in all of this.

Rather than waiting for the test to finish, she decided to take a shower, in the meantime. Rising up and away from the toilet's seat, Erza untied the knot of her bathrobe, slipping it off from her bare body. Hanging it onto a wall-mounted rack, she undid her knotted strands of hair at the back of her head, freeing her long tresses that flowed down to her waist. She then stepped into the spacious stall, having opened the frosted-glass door to it, before twisting the taps around.

An airy sigh of content left her breath, as lines of water cascaded from the shower head, gently pelting over her exposed body. Erza found the warm water to have soothed her aches, and pains, from earlier, as she grabbed the bar of soap from the corner shelf.

The female Scarlet took in its pleasant strawberry scent, while running the bar across her arms. Her body, however, stilled, when she ran it down her midsection. Looking down on herself, with raised eyebrows, Erza placed her hand over her abdomen. Smoothing over it with her hand, she noticed that her belly wasn't as flat, and toned, as it was before. Rather, it had bulged out slightly.

"Huh," she murmured lowly, pressing her hand lightly against her midsection. "It must be all the food that I ate, lately…"

Moving the bar of soap towards her chest, Erza winced at the prickling pain that surged from her breasts, when she ran it against them.

"Oww," she hissed, taking the soap bar away from her chest. With a free hand, her fingers gave a few light pokes, and squeezes, against her bosom. Groans of discomfort sounded from the redhead, having felt the prickling jabs from within. "How are my breasts this sore? They weren't like that, before…"

Erza also noted right away, about how heavy her breasts were. While her breasts were already enormous to begin with, she didn't think, let alone feel, that they had grown in size—up until this point.

Whatever she may think of it all, it certainly didn't help allay the worries she had.

The scarlet-haired female finished her shower, by wetting her hair, and scrubbing it with her favourite shampoo. After a thorough rinse, she turned the taps off.

Clouds of steam rushed out from the stall behind her, as she swung the glass door open. Reaching for a large towel from a rack at the closest corner, Erza draped the cloth over her shoulder, holding onto it. There was a tall, full-length mirror situated at the wall beside the shower, where the redhead examined her own body with it.

Right away, she noticed the changes in her body that struck out to her, as the most obvious. Her burgeoned chest had indeed become larger, than what they usually were—having grown by almost a cup size, she figured in her mind. The areolae of her nipples also grew a bit larger, alongside, with the redhead having observed the slightly-darkening colour of them.

Lowering her gaze further below the chest of her mirrored self, Erza could barely notice the small bulge that formed around her lower midsection. Upon turning her body to its side, however, the bump had become more apparent to her.

Laying her hand over it, Erza released a low sigh filled with uncertainty. She then took out the large towel that she held over her shoulder, and wrapped it around her body. Taking a smaller towel from the same rack, she dried her hair with it, before wrapping it around the top of her head.

As she did, the chimes of a few electronic beeps reached the redhead's ears. They forced her attention towards the testing stick that was in the cup, signaling that its test was complete.

Holding back the gulp in her throat, Erza paced towards the sink's counter. The crimson-haired woman took a few deep breaths, while she carefully retrieved the pen-shaped stick from the cup. Her fingers trembled mightily, struggling to hold onto it.

'I…I don't know what to think…if it's true that I'm…!' Her bottom lip quivering, Erza closed her eyes, and flipped the stick over. '…Alright…you can do it, Erza. Just get this over with��'

Taking another deep breath to relax, as much as possible, Erza opened up her eyes, and peered down at the front side of the plastic stick.

A huge rush of air escaped the redhead, her body paralyzed in place. Her pupils shrunk within her eyes that grew wide at the results displayed on the pregnancy test that she took.

Two red lines filled the rounded rectangle, on the front side.

It was positive.

The redhead blinked for a few seconds, at first. "No…that can't be right…can't it?" She whispered to herself, finding her grip on the pen-like stick much shakier than before. Her breathing picked up immensely at this sudden revelation, along with the beating of her heart. "You've got to be kidding me…"

As the shock of it all had slowly worn off, a rush of emotions began to overwhelm her. Tears started to gather in her eyes, while she continued to stare at the positive test result, still processing it through her mind.

Erza sniffled, right as she looked down at her abdomen, placing a hand gently over it. With the tears threatening to spill from her eyes, she slowly brought herself back into the open shower stall, sitting down against the tiled wall that was still wet from her most-recent bath.

The tears in her eyes finally leaked out from the corners of her eyes, streaking down her face, as she locked her gaze at the stick. Eventually, the frown on her face turned to a smile of joy.

While she had yet to see a gynecologist to confirm everything, she was now more than happy to know that she was going to become a mother, soon. She was ecstatic, rather. Whatever fears and concerns that she had from the beginning had already faded away, with this finding of her own.

Taking her eyes off the stick, they flew back towards her belly, where her hand remained over it. Sniffling again, Erza placed the stick onto the damp floor, resuming her gaze towards it. She then turned her sights back to her abdomen, wondering to herself about how she'll break this kind of news to her husband.

---

"I'm back, Erza!"

It was later into the evening, when the young, blue-haired male returned to their residence.

Closing the front door behind him, and locking it, Jellal noticed the odd silence that greeted him, right after he stepped in.

"Eh?" He raised his eyebrows, as he called out her name, again. "Erza?"

Her voice came out from around the corner, leading into their living room. "I'm right here!"

His lips crept to a smile, as he walked into the room. He found her seated on their sofa, in her blue silk bathrobe, with her hair tied back into a high ponytail. Only the lamp at the side table next to her had provided the lighting, for the entire room.

"Jellal." The redhead greeted him with a heartwarming smile. "How was your day?"

The cobalt-haired male held back an elated hum. "It was actually nice," he replied with a small grin. "I got to go out more, with Natsu, and the others."

"That's pretty good to hear." Erza gave a soft simper, in response—before she casted her eyes away from him, with a slight frown.

It didn't take long for Jellal to notice that something was off about her, right away. "Is…is something wrong, Erza?" His eyebrows cocked upward at her. "Something on your mind, perhaps?"

"Jellal," she softly requested, scooting aside to make room for him, as she placed her hand on the empty seat. "Please sit down with me."

Blinking for a brief moment, Jellal took up the seat next to her, with a more concerned expression on his face.

"Erza…what is it?" He placed his hand gently over hers. "It's okay to talk to me…"

Taking the moment to go through what she wanted to tell him, said redheaded female took a shallow breath, mustering the courage to do so. "Jellal," she began, quietly. "Do you remember those times, when I got very sick, through all of last week?"

Jellal nodded his head shortly. "Yeah." He brought his hand at the back of his head. "You told me it was a bad stomach virus of some sort."

Erza's frown widened, as she glanced away from him. "Well, it's not actually that."

He raised a curved brow at his wife. "Then…what is?"

Finding it in her heart to go ahead with it, the redheaded Scarlet turned to face him directly. "Well," she revealed, with a small smile. Her smile gradually cracked open to its brightest, as she continued, measuring her pauses carefully. "What if I told you…we are expecting a new addition to our house…our family?"

"F-Family?" Jellal initially blurted out, trying to make sense of her question, before everything slowly dawned on him. "Wh—what…w-wait…E-Erza…a-are you trying to tell me, y-you're—"

Surprise instantly took him, when, in one instance, he saw her rise from the sofa. In the next, she suddenly grabbed his hand, and placed it against her abdomen.

"Yes, Jellal," she finally spoke up, excitedly. Tears welled in the corner of her eyes, as she did. "It's true…I'm pregnant."

Gob-smacked at the news from her, the azure-haired Fernandes didn't know what to make of it. He remained silent, still staring at her with incredulous eyes, and his jaw hanging slightly ajar. He then turned his sights awkwardly away from her.

Erza's eyes widened at him, as she broke the silence first. "…Y-you okay, Jellal?"

She then gasped, when she felt his arms wrap around her. Quickly standing on both feet, Jellal had leaned in closer to her.

"Yeah," he sniffled, burying his face against the crook of her neck, smiling ecstatically. "You have no idea how happy I am, to hear this from you."

With wondrous eyes, Erza blinked for a second. She smiled serenely, letting the tears flow down her cheeks, while she ran her hand gently over the back of his head.

Another moment passed, before Jellal finally released his arms from her. Crouched down, on one leg, his eyes darted to where her midsection lay. He curiously rested his hand over it, through her bathrobe. "Did you see the doctor, already?"

"Ah…yes," she nodded. "I did see the doctor earlier this afternoon…and, she confirmed that I am, indeed, pregnant."

Parting open the flaps of her bathrobe, Jellal managed to feel the exposed skin of her abdomen, stroking his hand around it. "How far along are you, right now?"

Erza held back a small giggle. "A little more than eight weeks," she explained. "That's how my doctor told me." She then took out a postcard-sized photo from the coffee table, handing it over to her husband. "She was willing to take an ultrasound scan, as well."

Jellal was amazed, upon viewing the photo print of their child—no larger than a cue ball—currently developing within the confines of her womb.

"I can't believe it," he murmured in awe, before placing the photo back onto the table. His eyes returned to her belly, having felt its slight bulge with his hand. "More than eight weeks, already…"

Erza maintained her gaze onto her husband, below, smiling happily under awestruck eyes. The redheaded female then felt her husband's lips press against her belly, as he left a few kisses against it.

"H-hey!" She giggled to his warm touches. "That tickles!"

"My apologies," Jellal chuckled. "I can't resist." He then looked up at her, while he took her hand, bringing his large one over it. "Although, I must say, Erza…I want to thank you."

A tinge of red covered across her face, as she blinked. "For what?"

"For everything," he answered, from the bottom of his heart. "For giving me another chance in life." He gently moved his hand around the back of hers. "For being there with me, every step of the way." He then brought their hands together, over her abdomen. "But, most importantly…for making me a father." He flashed a bright smile at her, under weeping eyes. "I'll be there for you and our child…always."

In the back of his mind, this was the best result that could ever happen for both of them. This was a desired future—not just for him, or only for her. But, it was theirs. Together.

Their desired future.

And, it finally became reality.

Tears started to leak from her eyes, again. "That's so sweet," she gasped out, before her lips broke open into a heart-warmed smile. "Yes. Yes, Jellal. I know you will." She softly stroked her hand over his. "The baby and I are very fortunate to have you. Thank you, Jellal."

Rising up onto his feet, the azure-haired male wrapped his arms around her, once again. Erza returned his hug, bringing her arms around him. Gently releasing her from his hug, Jellal's hands remained on her arms, as he leaned in to slant his lips over hers. Erza sighed delightfully, pressing her lips back against his.

Both then pulled their mouths away from each other, the now-expecting couple catching for air. Jellal brushed his fingers gently against the side of her face, wicking away whatever tears were left on her skin.

Erza narrowed her eyes at him, her lips stretching to a curious smirk. "What are you thinking now?" She then gasped, when she felt him scoop her up, with his arms. "Eh? J-Jellal?!"

Carrying his wife in his arms, Jellal gave her a naughty smirk of his own, curving an eyebrow. "I thought…maybe we can celebrate this kind of news, upstairs." His curved brow then hitched upward. "Shall we?"

The blush on her face deepening into the colour of her hair, Erza blinked at him, with stunned eyes. She then released a long, mischievous giggle, in which her husband chuckled back.

With her arm around his neck, Jellal carefully carried his now-pregnant wife out of their living room, and up the stairs to their bedroom—where the real fireworks started from there.

[ryik-the-writer]

The Audacious Storybrooke Mirror Advice Columnist (Wednesday Paper Edition)

In which Lacey French is a smutty advice columnist for the Storybrooke Mirror.

Ch. 1: Lacey is challenged at work and discovers she has an admirer. 

Based off a prompt I saw eons ago. Will be plot driven for the first few chapters but I hope to just wing it the rest of the way.

A03

-.-.-.-.-.

“FRENCH!”

Lacey smirked around her cherry sucker as the echo of Glass’s feet boomed closer, her eyes never leaving the screen of her ancient but well-maintained computer.

She hummed when she heard him stop behind him and didn’t even flinch when a rolled up newspaper hit her desk.

“Wanna explain this?” he seethed, hands on his hips like he actually could intimidate her.

Lacey held up one finger as she continued to read her email, knowing her “boss” was getting more annoyed by the minute.

“French,” he growled in warning. Lacey chuckled, and turned to him.

“Yes?” she inquired, fluttering her eyelashes.

Glass held the paper to her face, causing Lacey to lean back.

“I read this morning’s paper, thanks,” she said.

Glass’s finger slapped at a section of the paper. “I’m referring to this trash you put in my paper!”

“Trash that the night editor had no problem with,” Lacey waved him off.

“I’ve talked to Cruella, but she’s as perverted as you are.”

“So, this is my problem how?” Lacy inquired with a flick of her wrist.

Glass’s eye twitched. This was it. Lacey French was going to be give him an aneurism in the middle of his office.

“This,” he began to explain quietly for the thousandth time. “Is a community newspaper, and you just told a member of that community to…to…”

Lacey bit her lip as Glass sputtered through the answer Lacey gave in her most recent advice column.

Well, to be completely fair, “advice” was putting it mildly.

Lacey gave a guide to pleasure, for one’s self or for them and their partner, which ever they were seeking.

“Racy Lacey” as she was penned in a small, one-fourth sized space each Wednesday on the back of the Storybrooke Mirror’s sports page, gave relationship, intimacy or any sort of general tips that dealt with one’s sexual life. A twist on “Dear Abby,” so to speak.

Yes, shocking in a small community newspaper, but hell, it made the Wednesday paper the most popular one each week.

She knew this from the hundreds of emails—good and bad—she got each week, depending on just how “degrading” the column was that week.

The process was simple: someone would send her an email with their problem (sex wasn’t good anymore, she doesn’t know I exist, he doesn’t know I exist, something like that) and Lacey would write back with a suggestion. A handful of the emails (usually the most sexual one) would go in the Wednesday’s paper, and Belle would spend the rest of the day going through the flood of emails that either bashed her for her “sinful” ways or wanted advice for their own conundrums.

This week was no different.

With a smirk, she snatched the paper from Glass’s hands when he could find the words to describe her latest round of advice.

“Dear Racy Lacey,” she began, dodging Glass’s grab.

“I haven’t slept with my husband in nearly five months! And I’m starting to worry he’s no longer attractive to me!”

“French!”

Lacey jumped on the desk of another journalist, a true feet in her heels.

“We’ve been so busy with our jobs and children, we’re so tired during the week, so last weekend I sent the kids to their grandparent’s house, put on something flattering, and thought we were set, but he just went straight to bed! What’s happening to us?”

Signed: Bland Bedroom

Just as Glass was ready to take a stapler to her ankle, Lacey jumped down and began zagging through desks to keep away.

“Dear Bland Bedroom, my advice is to put on your sexiest high heels—”

“French!”

“Put one on his chest—”

“I’m warning you!”

“And ride him until he’s spent.”

Lacey threw herself back in Glass’s chair, lightly panting as Glass struggled for his breath at her.

“Remind him that you are a goddess among worshipers and he should be worshipping you, every night on his knees, preferably.”

Lacey met Glass’s heated glare and causally handed the paper back to him.

“Best luck to you, Racy Lacy.”

Glass snatched the paper back, kicking his office door closed from all spectators.

“You’re evil.”

Lacey shrugged. “I prefer imaginative.”

Glass took in a deep breath. Lacey could practically see his blood pressure slowly drop down to normal.

“You’re fired.”

Lacey waved him off as she spun in his chair. “No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not.” Lacey pushed with a chuckle. “People like what they’re reading, and they like it more when it gets a little…sultry.”

Glass groaned, a second away from busting a blood vessel.

He knew good and well Lacey’s M-rated columns helped keep subscribers sending in those monthly checks, but he couldn’t help it if some of those subscribers happened to be a bit more persuasive of what should and shouldn’t go into their community paper.

“The truth is Lace…Regina called again.”

Lacey’s smirk melted into a scowl.

“So what?” Lacey shrugged, trying to hide the uneasiness bubbling in her gut. “Hasn’t her majesty ever heard of first amendment rights?”

“Easy,” Glass warned, more than certain that the walls had ears that led straight to Mayor Mills.

“No,” Lacey scoffed. “I’m not going to let her dictate what I write, and neither should you!”

“That woman has the ability to sway this town any direction she chooses, and she might just persuade them to chase you out of town.”

“Oh please,” Lacey spat, though she wasn’t foolish not to take such a threat lightly.

Glass groaned, exhausted already. Dealing with the mayor and then one of his most hard-headed employees would put anyone out, but he needed to find a solution to appease both sides.

Lacey was talented. Sultry, yes, but she had skills befitting a feature writer.

The advice columns were easy income for the paper, but a target for mockery for Storybrooke’s more conservative residents.

It would seem the mayor was only getting involved to settle them, her biggest supporters and the ones who primarily funded her mayoral campaign each year.

“Look,” Glass said. “For modesty’s sake, can you try to write something nice for next week? Why not just a simple advice piece on…anything!”

“If people wanted advice, they’d go to Hopper,” Lacey pouted, leaning her head back in the chair.

“Just…try, please?”

Lacey glanced at the man who was technically her boss. She’d always thought he looked like a bulldog, expressionless and kind of dumb, but loveable.

“I’m not publishing any fluff,” Lacey affirmed.

“That’s not your call,” Glass replied with a dry smile. “Just keep it PG and we might live to see another edition.”

“If by PG you mean post-coital gratification than—“

“French!”

Lacey snickered before sliding out of his chair. “I’ll…attempt to be civil,” her smiled faded for a moment, her eyes going dark, “But no promises.”

Glass sighed, knowing that was as good as he was going to get for now.

“Have something on my desk by Monday,” he said as he began to leave his office. “And get your boots off the desk.”

Lacey dropped one boot, keeping the other firmly stacked on yesterday’s paper in defiance.

This was ridiculous! Who the hell was the mayor, telling her what she could and could not write!

“Probably the closest thing to sex she ever gets,” Lacey snorted to herself.

With an exaggerated groan, she heaved herself upright, lazily logging into her work email from Glass’s computer (he’d be pissed later but so be it).

She scrolled through the dozens of emails she received from Storybrooke’s secretly lewd citizens, as well as the ones condoning what she did for a living (including a particularly lengthy one from Mother Superior.)

Of course, they signed their letter with a penname or a name surrounding their problem, such as “No Longer Interested” or “Spice it up or Give it up?”

She went through a few of them, but had to decline writing on them. They were sex-related, and already tempting her to screw what Glass or Regina or anyone else said and reply to them.

“Ugh,” she moaned, sorrowfully scrolling past the deliciously sinful emails.

Just as she was ready to shut down the computer, a few choice words at the subject line of the email.

Alone in Storybrooke wrote:

Dear Racy Lacey,

Your mind is brilliant, in both your columns and in your day to day life.

I see you time to time in town, and I’m instantly drawn in, like a month to a flame.

Your courage to stand up to this town is admirable, as brilliant as a warrior on a battlefield.

Your outer beauty as well isn’t without comment.

Brown hair, beautiful blue eyes and an unforgettable accent…and legs for days I may add.

Reading your columns every week is equivalent to sampling the finest of erotica the world has ever known, I hope to enjoy them…and perhaps one day you…in the future.

Lacey blinked, the twinge of pink that had spread over her cheeks heating her entire face.

It would seem she had an admirer, well another one that is.

She had her fair share of fan mail, some of which cusped on downright creepy, and there had been a time or two she had left a tip on Sheriff Graham’s desk.

Yet this was more…flattering. Abet, a bit strange, but still worthy of a hearty reply.

She cracked her knuckles, ready to reply to this fellow. Her current task could wait.

As she highlighted the name of the penname, her eyes caught the email address, which looked terrifying familiar.

mrgoldsshop@gmail.com.

Lacey’s stomach lurched.

“No way…”

She hovered her mouse over the email address and her worst fear was confirmed.

Mr. Augustine Gold. The beast of Storybrooke who owned every piece of property within the town line.

And her landlord.

“Oh Shit.”

[artificialqueens]

malamente part 7 (branjie) - evan

art by @k-i-t-e-98!

AN: oh hello! It’s been a while! I’ll admit I had abandoned this story and dove headfirst into school this past semester, but I can’t move on from this little world and I really want to see this through. There’s no telling how long the next chapter will take, but I have a plan. This might have 11 chapters total, but that’s an estimate. Let’s see what more trouble I can get these two into. Shoutout to Meggie for her constant encouragement!

New to Malamente? Catch up here on AQ or over at AO3. I’m @formercongressman.

–

It’s a slow news day, but every day is a slow news day in this town. So Yvie’s got her sketchpad unabashedly open over her work computer’s keyboard, knowing there’s no easy way she can make it look like she’s actually hard at work were someone to come in and check up on her.

She’s trying to find the line between human and starfish for the five-limbed creature she’s sketching, and it’s proving more of a challenge than she had anticipated. There’s only so many places you can locate a face.

“Knock-knock,” a voice says aloud. Yvie cringes before she turns around, trying with little avail to block her sketch pad with her body.

Her boss is in the doorway. He looks chipper, he’s got his fist raised as if he was going to knock on her cubicle wall but no, that would be too normal and unobtrusive of a thing for him to do. She smiles with as many teeth as she can show. “Hi, Patrick.”

“How’s that school carnival story coming along?”

“Almost done,” Yvie lies. It’s been sitting in her drafts folder completed for two days. It wasn’t a story she could make anything mildly edgy out of, so she banged out a haphazard scene of kids and goldfish and smiling parents that she couldn’t get away from quickly enough. “Just putting in some final touches.”

He must know Yvie hates him; she’s not subtle, and it bugs her even more that he pretends everything is perfectly peachy-keen.

“That’s great! Because I’ve got something new for you.” He hands her a manila folder which she doesn’t open. “Something a little more exciting, a little more up your alley.”

“Great, I’ll take a look at it.” She sets the folder on her desk, turning away in the hope that he’ll leave.

“What are you drawing? Is that a starfish?”

Fucking hell.

She tosses the sketchpad into her desk drawer and slams it shut. “It’s nothing.”

“Well. Get me that carnival story by the end of the day!”

“Yup.”

She waits until she hears his footsteps recede, muffled by the dreary brown carpet, before she finally opens the folder. She’s curious, truly; that much she can’t pretend.

And damn, he wasn’t lying. It’s a big story, technically. Definitely not the kind of thing Yvie usually gets assigned. The first page is a police report of a rich white lady getting carjacked in the middle of the day about a week ago. The woman is important; she’s the wife of the chair of the symphony board. Yvie’s seen her smiling face on a billboard near the bank downtown, and she looks chipper even in the driver’s license photo paperclipped right below the report.

She knows the story she’s supposed to write. Community Rocked by Violence: Your Personal Wealth is Always Under Threat, with a picture of this woman looking stoic and a little hurt. She’ll write a paragraph about maybe why the guy did it, trying to realize and flesh out the narrative, and Patrick will cut it in editing and simultaneously lob off another piece of her willpower and soul. This story is an opportunity, sure, but she already knows where it’ll go, knows how it’s supposed to end.

She flips to the next page and the hairs on her arms stand on end.

It’s Victor fucking Paulson, smiling with his teeth but not with his eyes, in his Best Buy employee photograph. He’s the suspect, rumored missing for about a week, having taken off with this Nina West’s minivan. There’ll be no sympathetic paragraph for her editor to cut on this one, that’s for sure. She thinks of the screen door to his apartment slamming and waking Yvie up at three in the morning, Vanessa’s voice ricocheting off the buildings as she shouts back up at him, his cold and terse words back at her lost in the buzz of the bugs chirping in the night. He’s an asshole, Yvie knows that for sure. But this level of criminality is downright eerie. She whips out her phone to tell Scarlet.

Y: Have you seen Victor at all this week?

S: no, why?

Y: He stole a car, nobody’s heard from him in a while

Y: Just got assigned the story at work

S: sounds about right for him

S: that’s a big story baby!! happy 4 you

Y: Thanks, but it’s weird right?

S: it is

S: but as they say

S: bye bitch

Yvie chuckles and send back the thankful emoji. That explains why the neighborhood has felt different, why she hasn’t seen anyone coming or going from Victor and Vanessa’s apartment in the last couple of days. She wants to roll her eyes a bit at Vanessa for moving in with that older blonde woman the second her boyfriend skipped town, but she’s seen quicker U-Hauls and frankly doesn’t blame her.

She finds a sticky note on the back of Victor’s photograph. It’s in Patrick’s neat handwriting: police dragging their feet, he’s friends with cops, maybe investigate?

“Oh fuck yeah,” Yvie mutters aloud.

The non-starfish in her desk can wait. Yvie’s finally got a real mystery to solve.

–

“Vaaaaaanjie! Your girlfriend’s here with coffee!”

Silky’s voice booms through the dress store, earning them a concerned look from the few people shopping and a narrow glare from Vanessa’s boss behind the register. Brooke flushes red, nearly spills the latte she’s holding on the wall of wedding dresses beside them. Silky cackles as Vanessa pokes her head out from the dressing room.

“Bitch!” Vanessa hisses under her breath, loosely shoving Silky out of the way. Her cold glare melts as she shoulders up next to Brooke.

“Vanjie, huh?”

“You better not start calling me that.” Vanessa takes the coffee from Brooke’s hand with a well-concealed smirk. “Thank you, baby.”

She doesn’t bring up the “girlfriend” thing. They’re not girlfriends. They haven’t discussed it, haven’t thought to put a word on it. It feels risky, trying to cram whatever tenuous but wonderful arrangement they’ve managed to develop over the past couple of weeks into the box of a word. Besides, “girlfriend” feels frivolous. This is something else, not quite documented with language yet.

“You get off at six, right?” Brooke tucks a loose strand of Vanessa’s hair behind her ear.

“Six, yeah.”

“How does stir fry sound for dinner? I got some purple cauliflower at the farmers market and some Thai peppers and I wanna give it a go.”

“They make cauliflower in purple?”

“Vanessa!” A woman pokes her head out from behind the dressing room curtains, and Brooke watches the ice sink back into Vanessa’s eyes. “I think you already took your break?”

“Be right there!” Vanessa affects her voice, a kind of faux-sweetness that makes Brooke laugh while Vanessa’s manager turns away with a stern eye.

“That sounds real good baby,” she continues, voice softer, “but everything you make is good.”

Brooke rolls her eyes, knows it’s not worth it to argue with Vanessa on that. “I’ll have it ready a little after six, then.”

“I’ll be there.” Vanessa pops up on her toes to press a quick kiss to Brooke’s lips. She breaks into a smile that Brooke can’t help but mirror.

So it’s like that, mostly. It’s easy.

Brooke doesn’t really notice when Vanessa stops promising she’ll go back to her apartment eventually. Brooke didn’t really believe her in the first place, especially when the promises always came when Vanessa was splayed out adorably on the couch or picking up a pile of recently discarded clothing next to Brooke’s bed. Eventually Brooke suggested that Vanessa hang her work clothes up in the empty closet that used to be Jason’s, and that’s probably the moment that solidifies it.

Vanessa moves in. Her duffel bags empty out and disappear, and her makeup spreads across Brooke’s bathroom counter. The cabinets fill up with Takis and sour candy and other foods that would scald Brooke’s mouth, the fridge is stocked with leftover Chinese food Vanessa picks up for them both after work some nights.

It’s nothing like when she first moved in with Jason. He liked space, distance, room to think. Even in those early months he would lock himself away in his office after dinner and go to bed without saying goodnight. But Vanessa joins her in the shower, wraps her arms around Brooke’s waist when she’s cooking, falls asleep with her fingers laced against Brooke’s. Brooke thought maybe she just wasn’t cut out for domesticity. But this feels so fresh and good and right.

Whatever the opposite of loneliness is, Brooke thinks this is it.

It’s a week or so later and they’re sitting by the fireplace, wrapped up together underneath a knitted blanket Vanessa’s abuela had made, while Brooke flips through a Chekov play and Vanessa scrolls through her phone. Vanessa curls against Brooke’s side, a closeness and comfort that’s become thrillingly normal.

“This feels so easy,” Vanessa breathes into the collar of Brooke’s shirt. “Should it feel this easy?”

Brooke knows what Vanessa means. She tucks her book between the couch cushions and cards a hand through Vanessa’s hair. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“I just…” Vanessa sighs, straightens up, bites her lip. It’s a serious and vulnerable face, one that reminds Brooke too sharply where they are and how they got there. “I always wanted some fairytale romance, you know I love that sappy shit. Like in a rom-com where everything sorts out nice and happy in the end. And this, you, this feels like the end of the movie.” Her fingers trace around Brooke’s wrist. “But I keep looking over my shoulder. I keep checking under the bed. I keep biting my lip when I drive past cops, and I don’t know if that’s going to get any easier.”

Brooke pulls her close again, feels the emotion welling up in Vanessa’s shoulders and presses a hand against them, wishing she had her own magic to will it away. “I want it all to be easy. But life’s not a movie.”

“I know. I just want it to be.”

It’s quiet except for a few sniffles. Brooke holds her because it’s all she can do.

“Do you think we’ll ever get to be normal?” Vanessa asks after a moment.

Brooke smiles a little. “We were never normal.”

“Can we try it for a while? Cook dinner together, watch trash TV, tell me the shit from your past and I’ll tell you mine?”

That Vanessa’s eyes can glimmer like that after all of it, after everything, is reason enough to agree.

When Jason was still alive, Brooke had given up on a home. Hell, she’d largely abandoned love, or the concept of getting anything she’d expected or hoped for in life. Even someone who seemed like the most brilliant match – wealthy, educated, with famous friends and a divine record collection – could ruin your world, take and take until you were hollow and fragile as a seashell. Vanessa was far from her fairytale fantasy. Vanessa ticked none of the boxes she’d learn to look for. But life is not a movie, and maybe she could throw out that broke-ballerina-to-trophy-wife storyline script along with the coldness and cynicism she’d so far managed to shake.

“I want that,” Brooke breathes. “Yes, please, let’s be normal.”

Vanessa smells like spice today, cinnamon sugar with cloves. She laughs a soft laugh that’s just for Brooke, one that crackles like a fireplace. It’s warm here, Brooke thinks, the kind of place she could make a home.

–

The next morning, normal gets off to a rocky start.

The doorbell rings at eight A.M., and Brooke wraps herself in a robe to answer it. Her shoulders tense when she sees the gardener, who’d dug up her backyard before there was another body to bury. She had forgotten to call him to tell him there was no garden to fix, an oversight that snapped her immediately awake.

“Morning, ma’am. Warmer day today, thought I’d fill in your garden plot out back.” He’s chipper.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. It’s already filled in.” She mirrors his smile. “Just eager to start planting, that’s all. I’ll still pay you for today, of course.”

The gardener looks at his shoes, and then towards the gate. Brooke holds the silence, an old trick she’d learned at fundraisers with Jason to maintain control of an unpredictable situation, when someone else was thinking. Any awkward silence can be a power grab if you minutely twist it in your favor. Fortunately the man doesn’t need much convincing.

“Alright then, Ms. Hytes. Thank you for your business.” He turns to leave and grabs something at the base of the doorstep. “Oh, and here’s your paper.”

She takes the paper from him, lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding as the door clicks behind her. That hadn’t been suspicious, she’s pretty sure, and her confidence grows by a centimeter.

She’d never cancelled Jason’s Sunday paper subscription, and she barely kept up with local news anyway. She lays it absently on the kitchen island while she fumbles with the french press, still a little too sleepy to remember exactly how strong Vanessa liked her coffee. Very strong, she guesses, and dumps and inordinate scoop of grounds into the glass.

“You bringing me breakfast in bed?” Vanessa appears in the archway, wrapped tightly in the comforter she dragged along with her.

Brooke smiles. She can’t think of a better morning. “Yeah, get back in there.” She pops a few slices of sourdough in the toaster.

“It’s cold without you.” She moves towards Brooke, nestling back into her. For a brief moment she allows herself that indulgent, cliche thought: they fit well together.

“If you were wearing clothes–” Brooke starts to tease, but then she catches sight of the front page of the paper, and her face contorts in shock.

“What? Did I–” But then Vanessa sees it too, and her shoulders tighten. “Shit,” she breathes.

The lower quarter of the front page is Victor’s face in black and white, stern and unfeeling. It’s his Best Buy employee badge photo. There’s a smaller photograph of Nina with Jon and the kids, their Christmas card photo from this year. But she can’t look away from Victor, whose gaze seems to be boring holes right through the newsprint.

Brooke reads over Vanessa’s shoulder. Thankfully, there’s not much there. It’s a scathing indictment of the police working on the case, who refused to tell the reporter nearly any of the details they had, apparently because they weren’t looking into it. It’s a call for answers, ones that the reporter herself wasn’t able to find. That’s good. That’s something.

“They’re still looking for him,” Vanessa says, worried.

“The police aren’t.” Brooke bites her lip, and rubs small circles into the skin of Vanessa’s shoulder with her thumb. “And Nina won’t push them. There’s nothing here to worry about.” And Brooke surprises herself by believing it.

The toast pops up. The kitchen smells like rosemary.

“Let’s forget about it, then.” Vanessa turns away for a moment, shakes her joints loose, and then looks up at Brooke with the trusting beginning of a smile. “We can forget about it.”

Brooke rolls up the newspaper and wedges it underneath folded cardboard in the recycling bin.

–

“The front page!”

Scarlet elatedly drops the newspaper down on the bed where Yvie is still cocooned in the covers. Yvie saw a draft before it went to print, so this is no surprise, but Scarlet’s bright energy this early in the morning hits squarely her like a dropped pallet of bricks.

“Under the fold,” Yvie murmurs, snaking an arm out to peek at it.

“Yeah, but it’s the front page! My girlfriend is on the front page on a Sunday. I’m getting this framed.” Scarlet bounces on and off the bed, then heads for the kitchen. “And I’m popping champagne.”

Scarlet likes champagne, always keeps a bottle or two in the back of the fridge to mark the smallest celebratory occasions, so it’s not that rare of a moment. There’s no orange juice for mimosas, but that doesn’t stop her. Yvie knows it makes her happy to pop a bottle, so she lets Scarlet shoot it off over her bed and the cork smashes directly into the light fixture. Scarlet cackles, Yvie rolls her eyes, and they drink directly out of the bottle.

“I hope this doesn’t lead to them actually finding him,” Yvie says between sips. “It’s been so much quieter next door.”

“He’d end up in jail, right? Or at least if he came back there’s no one left for him to shout at.”

“Lucky Vanessa.”

Yvie missed having her around, and she knew Scarlet missed having someone to snoop on. But even then, she knew that anything would be better for Vanessa than staying in that place. Yvie left home on her eighteenth birthday. She knows the allure of an escape hatch.

Still, there was more that just felt… off about Victor’s disappearance. While she had been researching the story, Yvie had called the toll companies for the highways outside of town, and there was no evidence of any plates matching the ones on the stolen car. D15NEY, a cheesy vanity plate she’d repeated too many times to forget. He could have taken back roads, sure, but stolen cars just usually don’t stay stolen for long. It got under her skin that the police hadn’t called to ask those questions, though they still didn’t have any satisfying answers.

Maybe that wasn’t her job. Maybe that was well above her pay grade. Maybe she shouldn’t be so bothered about a rich white lady who lost her minivan. But she had a feeling that kept itching at the back of her neck, Victor’s gaze glaring vacantly from that Best Buy photo, and the persistent inability to drop it.

“Hey,” Scarlet says, snapping Yvie back to reality. “I’m proud of you. And you should be proud of you too.”

Yvie leans over to kiss Scarlet’s forehead. “I am.” It’s not a lie. It’ll open up more interesting projects at the paper, maybe even a promotion out of working under Patrick down the line. And then a bigger paper, and then something national… She’s getting ahead of herself.

“And hey,” Yvie says instead. “You know I love you, right?”

Scarlet beams and nods and scoots up the bed to kiss her, but her foot gets caught in a blanket and she topples forward. Champagne splashes on the comforter, which has seen much worse, and Yvie laughs as Scarlet rolls into her arms.

“Drinking on an empty stomach at nine in the morning…” Scarlet muses to herself. “Bad idea.”

Yvie finally pulls herself out of bed, and drags Scarlet along with her. “C’mon, put a shirt on. I’ll make you toast.”

–

It still looks a bit like an unmarked grave, so Brooke plants her garden.

It’s winter, but they’re pretty far south and Brooke researches some plants that are hardy enough to still grow. Spinach, kale, rainbow chard; dropping the seeds into the soil feels like she’s sending them on a doomed mission, but she does it anyway. But soon they sprout, soon they flourish, and Brooke can hardly contain her excitement.

“It’s all the extra nutrients they got in there,” Vanessa jokes when Brooke drags her out into the yard to show her the leaves peeking out through the dirt. Brooke isn’t sure whether to grit her teeth or laugh, so she does both.

Maybe Vanessa’s right. A corpse in a garden is something like compost.

Soon they’ve got more greens than they know what to do with. They make salads and stir-frys and smoothies but it’s still more than they can eat. Brooke snags a small stand at a weekly farmer’s market, and gets hooked on this new reason to get out of the house. She quickly learns why it was the last spot available, nestled between a particularly smelly fishery and an apiary that likes to bring along some of their bees, but she learns to live with it and breathe through her mouth and she sells the veggies off at rock bottom prices. Turns out Vanessa’s magic can get rid of bee stings like they’re nothing.

Time passes. The cold air softens, and a weed springs up from a crack in the cement under the carport and weaves itself through the spokes on the wheel of Nina’s van.

Holidays with their respective families come and go. Brooke is grateful her family is too cautious and uptight about grief to ask her if she’s seeing anyone, but when she facetimes with Vanessa that night she finds out there’s a horde of Mateos eager to meet her. They come over in early February, and Brooke and Paula cook side by side while Vanessa’s cousins gleefully raid the liquor cabinet.

She overhears Paula whispering something in Spanish to Vanessa in the hallway – esta suerte, para encontrar alguien tan sincera y cálida e inteligente, es algo que solo ocurre una vez en la vida – too fast and affected for Brooke to understand. A second later she sees Vanessa dabbing at red eyes, careful with her makeup, and Brooke gathers her up in her arms.

“They’re happy tears,” Vanessa explains. “Really happy ones.” Brooke kisses her eyelids anyway.

They manage to get Nina, Silky, and A’keria together in the same room for a dinner party, and the night seems to be off to a rough start when Silky shouts over every carefully planned conversation starter Nina tries to initiate. But there’s very little an entire bottle of tequila can’t fix, and soon Nina and A’keria are dancing to Nicki Minaj while Vanessa and Silky shout out less-than-tasteful alternate lyrics over the music. They all crash in guest rooms, and Brooke is pretty sure she can hear Nina mumble, “Much more comfortable than the back of my car,” before she falls asleep on top of the covers with her clothes on.

Vanessa says it first. Brooke brings her an iced dragonfruit tea with boba home from the farmer’s market on a Tuesday afternoon. Vanessa is wrapped in a tangle of blankets on the couch, nearly finished with the Donna Tartt novel Brooke had gifted her just a few days before. She takes a huge sip from the drink, and with a mouth full of tapioca pearls, it’s a grateful sigh: “Ugh, I love you.”

It’s so casual that Brooke almost doesn’t catch it, and Vanessa is so wrapped up in the book that she doesn’t even look up. But Brooke pauses, waits, hopes.

Vanessa looks up quizzically and Brooke watches the gears in her head turn. The color rushes from Vanessa’s face as she catches up. “Oh fuck, I mean–”

“I love you too.”

“I love you,” Vanessa says it again, and Brooke knows that the dopiest smile is spreading across her face. Bubble tea forgotten, Vanessa climbs into her arms. They say it back and forth until the words almost lose meaning on their tongues.

She’d said it to a few high school boyfriends, said it to Jason, said it to the Icelandic ballerina after a week and scared her away, but this is the first time it’s felt right, and mutually true. Now Brooke says it whenever Vanessa leaves for work for the day; Vanessa says it when she comes against Brooke’s mouth and she could never have imagined I love you sounding both holy and obscene.

It’s like nothing ever happened. Normal works, until the ground thaws.

For a few rainy days in early April, Brooke lets the garden go untended. She’s about to plant her first tomatoes, and she wants to make sure she has the perfect weather to be able to spend all day lining them up in perfect rows. Her shoes squelch in the mud, a feeling she’s almost come to enjoy, along with the dirt that cakes into her knees as she crouches down.

But then she catches it. There’s a corner of a black trash bag peeking up from the dark soil.

She wants to live in the moment where it’s just a piece of trash that’s blown in from another yard, before everything clicks into its horrible place. It’s torn on the edges, tattered like an animal had gnawed at it. Shit. She’s scooping soil on top of it before she can even think, pushing it back down into the ground and far away. She feels something shift, something that is decidedly not soil underneath her hands but she refuses to think about it, refuses to give it a name.

The tomatoes won’t get planted today. She’ll wait for another day of rain to wash away that texture beneath her fingers, and that memory from her skin.

When she stands, she feels a tweak in her back and winces. It doesn’t resolve when she stretches or twists, just pinches back harder with every breath. Of course. Phenomenal.

Brooke pours herself a glass of wine and takes a bath. It’s three in the afternoon, but that doesn’t matter. Warm water doesn’t loosen the tension in her muscles, and the lavender scent of the bubble soap seems oddly tinted with hints of iron. She closes her eyes and resists excavating anything she’s managed to keep buried for months now.

She’s dressed in sweats when Vanessa gets home from work, curled still uncomfortably on the couch.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“I pulled something, I think.” Brooke omits any mention of the trash bag in the garden. It’s gone now, and it will stay gone, no need to bring it back up.

“Here, sit up.” Vanessa’s hands on her shoulders are an instant relief.

Vanessa doesn’t use her magic often, doesn’t need to. She’ll use it to wipe away her own bruises from running into cabinets or when Brooke’s got a pimple in the middle of her forehead, and on the rare and glorious occasion, in bed. Now, Brooke feels the warmth from Vanessa’s hands sparkling under her skin. The knot against her spine comes undone, the stress that she hadn’t noticed before melts from her shoulders.

Vanessa catches it. “You doing okay?

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” It’s a lie, and Brooke hopes Vanessa can’t sense that.

Vanessa hums and Brooke feels her reaching deeper, into the base of her spine. Something opens. “I think I–”

Lightning strikes. It feels the way broken glass sounds, exploding in shards that crackle their way up and down Brooke’s back.

“Fuck,” Vanessa shouts, pulling her hand back sharply and shaking it like she’s been burned.

“What was that?” Brooke tries to reach for Vanessa, tries to comfort her, but she holds her hand close to her chest. The electricity lingers in Brooke’s body, crackling like a blanket loaded with static.

“I don’t know.” Vanessa rubs her palm, pain in her face. Brooke wonders if she can heal that kind of thing herself. “Abuela never… I don’t know. Fuck, I’m sorry, baby.”

“I’m sorry.”

Vanessa gets up and runs her hand under cold water. Brooke sits on the couch, silent and particularly helpless.

Something is catching up with them, but Brooke has no words for it. It’s seeping into their normal, which turns out to be more fragile than she had thought. Ordered rows of tomatoes and the easy comfort of fresh love feel a bit distant. She feels it in every vertebra.

They decide that if nothing else, it’s a safe night for a TV binge. They order pizza and curl up on the couch, as Brooke holds tight to Vanessa and tries to settle into the weird static sensation in her spine. She catches Vanessa flexing her hands, rubbing her fingertips together, still feeling the aftereffects of the shock. They settle into bed like any other evening, huddled in the weight of too much unexplained.

Most nights sleep comes easily, but tonight it’s miles away. She silently counts to ten, fifty, a hundred, and still can’t get the thrumming feeling of worry in her chest to go away. After an hour or so of sleeplessness, she slips her arms from around Vanessa and gets up to find a book in the living room.

She stops suddenly before she can even make it to the living room.

Jason is sitting in a chair by the bar.

There are a few things you expect from a ghost. They’re supposed to be see-through, or pale and ragged like a corpse, or at the very least levitating. Jason is none of those things. He looks solid, human, too comfortable in a spot where he so often used to sit. He’s got a glass of dark liquor in his hand, swirling a large ice cube around, with a rueful smirk carved into his face.

If she hadn’t watched him die, hadn’t felt him go cold, she might think he let himself back in with the key.

“Brooke Lynn.” His voice has a sour edge, and she’s instantly reminded of how much she hates the way her name sounds when he says it. “It’s been too long.”

“This isn’t real,” she says confidently, elbow planted on the back of the other chair.

He cocks an eyebrow. “You wanna test that?”

“Yeah, actually.”

Jason throws his glass at her, and she braces herself, but the glass passes through her, no impact. She glances over her shoulder, looking for glass shards or any sign that this was real.

“I thought so.” Brooke narrows her eyes knowingly, a little self-righteously, and god it feels way too good to be able to look at him like that with no repercussions. A bit callously, she sits in the chair across from him.

“You still flinched,” he notes. There’s another glass in his hand, refilled with scotch and ice that clinks against the sides.

“Why are you here?”

“You drank all my scotch.”

“Well, you weren’t drinking it.”

“And there’s a 26-year-old shop girl sleeping in my bed.”

“My bed, now.”

“You always were a vindictive bitch, weren’t you? Under all of that? She can’t see it now, but give it a year. You know you’re meant to be alone.”

Brooke bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood. Jason always knew how to drive a knife.

“Why are you here?” she repeats.

“You’re getting too comfortable, that’s why.” The ice clinks against his glass. “I’m here so you don’t forget.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, you didn’t even know him–”

“I’m talking about me,” he smirks.

“You always are.”

“Would you listen? God. Justify that body in your garden all you like, but can you justify what you did to me? Have you heard of divorces, Brooke Lynn? Police reports? Fighting back?” Brooke feels her jaw tighten, and Jason catches it. His eyes light up, his words drip with sickly-sweet contempt. “No, instead of facing me, you spit on the life I gave you and killed me. You’re cheap, you’re greedy. But there’s quite a few different ways to stab someone in the back, huh?”

“Stop.”

Brooke feels ice prick at the base of her spine. It’s subtle, the first snowflakes just starting to fall.

Jason laughs softly to himself. It’s a face she’s seen too many times on him, that smug self-righteousness, one she never imagined having to see again. It’s engraved in the contours of his face, she notes. There’s no way to know the cruelty behind those laugh lines.

“You said it, honey. None of this is real. What does that say about what’s going on inside your head?”

Brooke stands, turning to leave, to run. She wishes she had a drink to throw in his face, wishes she had some way to hurt him. “You’re burning in hell.”

“Go back to that girl,” he calls after her, and she can hear his cruel smile. “You’re going to destroy her.”

In the hallway outside the bedroom, Brooke presses her face into the sleeve of her sweatshirt and breathes. Each breath is ragged, threatening to turn into a sob, but she packs it up tight, pulls it inwards and downwards. The pinpricks spread. Fuck.

Jason knows right how to get to her, how to wedge into those soft spots and make her wish they were never there. It’s impossible to write off. Ghost or fever dream, she’s haunted.

She presses the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, sets her shoulders, and goes back to bed. She settles in next to Vanessa, who rolls back into her touch.

“Hey, were you up?” she murmurs softly.

“Yeah, couldn’t sleep.”

“You talking to someone?”

“Nina.” Brooke lies. “On the phone.”

“Mmm.” And she’s asleep again.

Two lies in one evening. You’re going to destroy her, he said. Vanessa twists warm against her, settles against her chest. Brooke hopes Vanessa can’t feel her heart racing from where she rests her head.

Sleep comes in fragments, waves of unconsciousness so shallow she’s not even sure if she’s slept. Ice blue shards slice up and down her spine through the night.

–