#Tw: adultery

[torchflies]

The Five Names of Ice Kazansky (Girl!Ice Orthodox Jew!Ice) + Glossary of Terms

* I was super bored at my conference and wrote this on a napkin because I was having Jewish thoughts on naming 😎 💁🤷*

—

To be a Jew is to struggle with God — it's the first thing little Hadassah Tzabarit Kazansky learns in this life. 

—

She questions for the first time at six years old as Dassy, Rabbi Kazansky’s sharp-tongued little girl and now, as his only child.

“Abba?” Dassy asks him, holding his big hand in her smaller pair as they toss handfuls of dirt into her twin brother’s grave, “Why did Feivel die?”

Rabbi Kazansky takes his only living child into his arms as he answers, “You already know, zeeskeit. He had lymphoma, he was very sick.”

“But why?” She asks again, with the unfailing trust of a child. “Why did God take him away? He was ours.”

“No,” Her father says as tears drip down his cheeks and into his beard, “Feivel was not ours, just as you are not mine. Our children are gifts, Dassy, but they are only borrowed; we raise our children to leave us. Sometimes they stay in this world to do that and sometimes they do not.” 

—

When her mother dies, she is Hadassah. 

She sits by herself at the funeral, wearing a black dress that’s too long and too loose across her chest to be comfortable. But nothing is comfortable anymore, not when her mother is lying in an aron under the earth and everyone is talking about her like she isn’t sitting ten feet away from them.

There’s dirt under her nails from yesterday, when she had climbed the biggest tree in the shul garden to put an empty bird’s nest back from where it had fallen. She had slipped on the way back down and torn a hole in her tights; Rabbi Moskowitz’s wife, Miriam, had given her an extra pair with a smile. What will we do with you, Hadassah? 

She had spent the entire morning fixing her two thick braids, pulling them so tight that the blond curls didn’t bunch out at any angle, then redoing them again when they didn’t match. It took five tries to make them look perfect. She had pinned both plaits back with one of her mother’s favorite tichels, folding it so it held back her braids instead of covering her whole head. She didn’t have any black dresses, so she was forced to tug out one of her mother’s from her closet, feeling a bit like she was stealing. 

Hadassah, my Dassy. Her mother would say. You’ve gotten so big while I’ve been away. 

Her torn ribbon flutters against her neck and she shoves it down angrily.

She doesn’t want to cry in a room of alte makhsheyfes and alter cockers that she doesn’t know. It’s silly and childish, but all she wants is for her mother to wake up and take her home. 

But dead is dead and Goldie Kazansky is very dead. 

“Hadassah, are you alright?” 

Rabbi Moskowitz sits down beside her, his brown eyes doleful and sad. He shifts until one of his knees sits curled on the bench, regarding her softly and waiting until she’s ready to speak. He does the same thing when she sits in his office every Tuesday morning to practice for her Bat Mitzvah, letting her take her time with the text until she’s ready to talk to him about it. But nothing is right anymore, it’s Tuesday morning and her mother is dead. 

She shrugs, tugging on her right braid and staring out the window, watching a little blue bird hop around in the grass. Her Rabbi doesn’t say anything, he just waits. 

“Excuse me, Lev. Can I have a minute with her?” 

Rabbi Kazansky sits down beside her, in the wreckage of the only life she's ever known.

She falls into her father’s arms with a low sob, “I don't understand!” She cries, twelve years old and distraught, “Why would God take her away too?!”

Her father says nothing, he just rocks her and sings a nigun until her tears run dry. 

—

The day she meets her best-friend, she is Ice. 

Ice Kazansky, the Ice Queen, buries Hadassah and Dassy as far down as she can reach. She smiles with nothing but a mouthful of pretty, perfect teeth as her Academy classmates call her a frigid bitch, something not to be touched, and she shows them just how desperately their performances are wanting. 

She is a flawless pilot and she is ice: cold, and unfeeling until she ends anyone who gets too close. 

“Ron Kerner,” Her fourth RIO introduces himself, all six feet and four inches of smarmy ego that she doesn't have time for. “But you can call me whatever you please, sweetheart.”

She blinks at him, glacial and unforgiving, and on their first hop together: she rolls them, hanging them inverted until he pukes. 

“You really are an icy bitch.” He moans as he spits up on the tarmac. 

Ice just smiles and turns sharply to grab her third cup of coffee from the mess, not a hair out of place, and according to her classmates — barely human. No one speaks to her as she marches past, no one reaches out. 

“I’m sorry,” Kerner tells her later, pushing his plate of bacon towards her as some kind of peace offering. She instantly shakes her head, decades of lessons kicking in before she can stop herself. He looks so damn dejected that she allows herself a moment of — something. She wavers, reaching out.

She takes his dry toast, with a soft, “I don't eat meat.” 

“Oh.” He says, dark eyes wide. “Ever?”

He's inching closer to things that she doesn't want to explain, kashrut and observance, and being an Orthodox Jewish woman but also being everything that an Orthodox Jewish woman is not. How, in her community, she would have already been married with a baby on each hip — how that was a life she had wanted so badly for so long… until she was told it was all she could ever have. 

“Ever.” She says instead, hating the lie. 

“I’ll remember that, Kazansky.” He hums with a smile that makes him softer, kinder. He has warm eyes too and honey-brown hair that curls up at the ends, her RIO with his awful callsign — Slider. 

“Ice,” She corrects, even as he goes red at the memory of his insult.

“Ice.” He says and she finds that she likes the sound of her cruel epithet in his mouth. 

—

The day she falls in love, she is the Queen. 

The little gremlin has no idea how close he is to hitting the nail on the head — she is Hadassah, but also anything but. 

“Icy!” She somehow hears over the throng and almost rolls her eyes behind her shades, recognizing that lackadaisical voice and the only person in the world who calls her Icy. 

He's a memory, an old friend, a first kiss and the first of many hefty guilt spirals at eighteen, in a world so different from the one she had grown up in. He had been three years older than her then, still was, and had seemed so much wiser than her at twenty-one. But now, at twenty-six, she knows how young they both were. 

Still, the last she heard, Loosey Goosey Bradshaw was off getting married and having a baby, not frequenting the O Club in Miramar. Her cold eyes sweep the crowd and she only narrowly finds him, waving at her from the bar — lanky and jovial as ever. She doesn't smile, but she could have. She's missed him. “Hey! C’mere, I got someone for you to meet!” 

She follows her marching orders, letting his voice wash over her as it starts being audible over the pounding pop music. 

“Here she is, the best of the best — Ice Queen Kazansky. It's how she flies, Mav: ice-cold, no mistakes and I'm just warning you now, pal. If you get bored and do something stupid, she’s got you.” 

He's bent over double, giving a life lesson to the short, stocky young man beside him. Ice has half a foot on the boy and that's being generous — he’s tiny. He smiles from ear-to-ear when he sees her though, full of lust and ignorance, and she thinks of that one film that Slider’s been making her see at the drive-ins every few weeks now: Gremlins. 

“She could have me all the time if she wants.” The little cowboy drawls and Ice ignores him completely, only to raise an eyebrow at her old friend, no wedding ring in sight.

“Hey there, Bradshaw,” She intones, flat and bored, but Nick knows her well enough to pick up on the undercurrent of amusement there. “Odd place to hang out for a married man.” 

He goes a little red at that, flushing up to his eyebrows and she steals his Budweiser to cast her eyes over the crowd again as she sips, “Slider should be around here somewhere, I think you just missed him on the way to his latest crash and burn.” 

The little guy clears his throat, for what must be at least the second time, if his uppity attitude is indicative of anything specific. 

“Goose,” He announces, all bluster and no bite with those big teeth of his. “I think the Queen’s lost that lovin’ feeling.” 

Beside her, Ice’s old friend blanches bony white. “Nope. No, Mav. She hasn't, she really hasn't.” He's making slicing motions across his neck and for a moment, she's concerned about his blood pressure and the vein twitching at his temple. “Mav,” He hisses, so low that she almost misses it, “No.” 

“Actually, Goose.” Those bottle-green eyes fan over her, assessing for some soft spot that she doesn't have. She lets him try. “I think she has.”

The little thing grabs Nick by the wrist and drags him in the direction of the jukebox. Ice merely hums and lets them go, sipping on her free drink. 

She doesn't expect the serenade, nor does she expect the way her heart bottoms out or the way her lips tremble against the cold glass of her bottle. 

You never close your eyes anymore when I kiss your lips…

This maneuver is not recoverable and she can't eject.

Pete Mitchell is going to destroy her entire life, or maybe — he’ll give her a new one.

—

He does give her that new one, three years after they get married — Golda Helen Mitchell, named at a Zeved Habat for his mother and hers. 

— 

Glossary of terms:

Zeved Habat — naming ceremony for a baby girl

Hadassah — Hebrew name for Queen Esther

zeeskeit — Yiddish term of endearment similar to sweetheart

Kashrut — kosher dietary laws

Rabbi — a leader, both religious and otherwise, in the Jewish community and a teacher

Aron — a casket

Tichel — the head covering of a Jewish woman after marriage

Bat Mitzvah — the coming of age for a Jewish girl

Shul — synagogue, Jewish place of worship

Alte Makhsheyfe — Yiddish insult meaning old witch

Alter cocker — Yiddish insult meaning (annoying) old person

[ninjastormhawkkat]

The Fall of Fair City - Chapter 23

Everyone in the courtroom gasped with shock. "Wait what?" The Butcher and Mrs. Botsford said simultaneously in utter surprise. "Y..yes. Well I looked over the evidence again and there are a lot of..inconsistencies, uh..contaminated evidence, problems with witness statements." Judge Homesfield justified, all the while twiddling his thumbs under his desk. He then looked more composed. "The point is I looked over the evidence and it appears The Butcher should be let go. I'm sorry for wasting the jurors and everyone else's time with this trial. Butcher you may leave." Judge Randall Homesfield banged his gavel which made his proclamation final for those in attendance. The Butcher just blinked in surprise at the judge. "So your letting me go now, no charges." The Butcher stated. Judge Homesfield nodded. "That's correct. You may leave." "WOOHOO!" The Butcher exclaimed in excitement as he stood and pumped his fists into the air. "Thanks judge. I'm free! See you around Mrs. Botsford. I'm a free man!" The Butcher cheered as he elatedly walked out of the courtroom and into the city streets. He didn't take noticed of the shocked looks everyone was giving him. The Butcher was happy for this stroke of luck and was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He didn't fully understand that phrase but knew it meant if something good happens to you, just embrace it. Back in the courtroom, Sally Botsford finally snapped out of her stunned shock. She turned to Judge Homesfield with a look of confusion and outrage. "What in the world was all of that about Judge Randall Homesfield? All of the evidence that was collected at the bank clearly proves The Butcher was responsible for the bank heist a few days back. The evidence was strong and flawless, this should have been and open and shut case that would punish The Butcher for his crimes." Randall ignored Sally's statement indiscreetly picked up the vanilla envelope and stuffed it's contents back inside. He then got up from his chair. "I'm sorry Mrs. Botsford but you were given flawed evidence. The Butcher is freed from his alleged criminal actions at the bank. That is my final say so please drop this topic. Now if you excuse me, I plan to return to my chambers to catch up on other important matters in privacy. Good day." Judge Homesfield exclaimed in a commanding tone before turning his back to the stunned and appalled district attorney. "Wait Judge Homesfield!" Mrs. Botsford called out, but the judge had quickly retreated to the direction of his chambers before she could stop him. Judge Randall Homesfield raced quickly but with composure back to his private chambers passed his secretary Elena who had worked for him for more than 20 years. He hastily opened and entered the room before shutting the door behind him with a quiet thud. Homesfield's panicked and horrified expression returned as he pulled out the contents of the envelope once more. He shakily placed them on his desk. He stared in silence at photos of him and Elena together at what he thought were discreet and private locations where no reporter could get too. There were photos of him and Elena together having a candlelight dinner. One was where he and Elena stayed in a singular room he booked at private hotel. Another was of him kissing Elena in his own private chambers! 'How could someone get all of these photos in just a few days?' Homesfield couldn't help but wonder. His eyes then landed back onto the letter that was attached to the photos. The letter that may have costed him the biggest blunder in his career as a judge. "If you don't want your family and Fair City to see what you and your secretary do after hours, pardon The Butcher from his crime. Make up an excuse to let him go. - PT" @melodythebunny @dualnaturedscientist

[general-kalani]

Fucked up idea I have to drop before I go to sleep, but what if Joseph was actually the child of an affair and that's why he's the only one with abilities.

Which would ALSO be a whole mf thing because his mother clearly died, for one reason or another, and he's the only one with these abilities.

I really do love fucking things up for him huh-

[damagedward]

♚ Backstory will be posted below

♚ Will be updated / added to frequently but sporadic

♚ Dark Mature & Triggering Themes Present

*** ⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️ ***

*** ⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️ ***

The following triggers are present in what you are about to read :

tw:abuse , tw:physical abuse , tw:mental abuse , tw:adultery , tw:affair , tw:non consensual sexual relationship, tw:non consent , tw:rape , tw:arranged marriage , tw:imprisonment , tw:animal abuse , tw:magical creature abuse , tw:mention of death , tw:background character death , tw:abusive father , tw:abusive parent

She was born just a month after spring came , and she was his pride and joy — that was at first . Before she was born at least , or one could say even when she was but that lasted all of five minutes and then the announcement of the Queen’s having bled out reached the King’s ears .

The baby girl was no longer a cause for celebration , no now she was a reminder of his wife , now she was the reason his Queen was dead .

And so his hatred for his own flesh and blood began before the child even opened her emerald orbs to see the world .

By her fifth year the nightmares had begun to plague her , the fires without explanation , the explosions of vases around the castle always seeming to coincide with when the young princess grew angry .

Magic .

Uther knew what it was .

And now that the Queen was dead it was easier to blame her for the curse , to blame her for the magic that infected his child . The entire time never offering Morgana any explanation for what was happening to her , instead yelling , hitting , hurting her for the things she couldn’t control but he told her she could .

He took a mistress by the time she was seven and on her birthday the following year they announced she would have a baby brother — or so they hoped sometime the following summer .

Their hope paid off . And when little Arthur came to survive his second year , as she came to be ten she was sent away , beating her senseless was no longer enough to keep her magic at bay nor her tongue as she had developed a smart mouth by now too . Uther had decided so he sent her elsewhere to let someone else handle the problem , a nunnery , one that didn’t shy away from harsh punishment and heavy hand .

In the meantime he focused on his bastard son , working to legitimize him and in making his mistress into a Queen .

When she returned home on her 18th birthday her father greeted her with a suitor , a husband to be , explaining to her that she needed to produce an heir if she hoped to carry on any form of title and inherit anything from him .

She lost it . Her magic flared as her emotions did , she destroyed half of the forest and took down a turret that was luckily no longer in use at the far end of the outer wall . She ended up in chains that night , in a tower guarded by some of her fathers own personal guard , and in the morning both her father and her betrothed had visited to assure her she would be married by weeks end .

She was forced down the aisle and sure enough into bed . Luckily for her one of her ladies had slipped her a dagger which she had placed into her garter when she had a moment during dressing prior to her walk . He met his end before he could touch her , she had stabbed him in the back and then just kept going once she’d rolled them afterwards to be sure .

Afterwards she had fled into the woods , in just her bloody torn nightclothes , she looked a mess . Her freedom didn’t last long before she was chased down and caught by her fathers men .

They were cruel when they caught up to her in words and action — they took what her dead husband had failed to , her dagger not there to help her this time , and she outnumbered .

She spent the next two weeks in chains that kept her magic at bay in that same tower she spent time in before her dreaded wedding night . She received constant visits from her father in which he would tell her each and every way she had disappointed him .

Then —

The day he released her . He disowned her . Disinherited her and tossed her out of the kingdom . To fend for herself .

Her magic was known , magic was envied still by some , hated by many , and others just wished to hold something with it . Her power was known , to have someone with power on your side was always a plus and she was still young . Her beauty was known and men liked pretty things , and she knew and learned the hard way already what they did when they found and wanted them even if it wasn’t returned . And then even if Uther had thrown her out and aside her kin was known and that could make her valuable in coin .

She was on the run and never staying anywhere long for the first year . She heard too many whispers of the runaway princess disinherited but missed . She found it hard to believe that Uther actually wanted her back .

The second she found a tower to stay in . It was somewhat funny to her at first to think she spent so long trying to get out of a tower only to seek comfort and find a home in one now . She found her little dragon there , her one and only friend , her Aithusa . The one light in her life . The two had nearly a year together alone , just the two of them , learning one another . Bonding . Magic and flying lessons . It was a glimpse at what life could be , what it should be . Magic and dragons free to live . To exist . To be . It should’ve lasted forever .

But after a terrible storm that forced them out of the tower she was caught by Sarrum and his men . And her hell began anew — or rather her true hell began because she had thought Uther bad but Sarrum became her number one enemy .

The man had been at odds with her father and tried to use her to demand a ransom of sorts when that hadn’t worked he had begun to try and extract information from her about Camelot .

The man threatened her dragon and she wouldn’t let him do that . She gave the information of the kingdom that betrayed her and disowned her . She thought that was all he wanted for the safety and protection of her precious dragon but she was naive in that .

He was just another cruel man , like her dead husband , like her fathers men , he would be another to want more , to take what wasn’t his to . Only this time she would break in the end and let him because she couldn’t let him hurt Aithusa . The poor dragon was already hurting enough being unable to fly around daily anymore .

One night , emerald orbs flew open , she peered over at the little white dragon , she had enough , she decided she would get them out of this . And so when he had been dragging her off to his chambers she had just grabbed for a dagger from his belt , slashed for any part of him she could reach and ran once he collapsed and stopped moving .

She and Aithusa had been lost for nearly two days after their escape as she had teleported them in a panic to simply get away , not having had any destination in mind , so it had been disorienting .

They realized they weren’t too far from Camelot and they became their destination .

When she returned to Camelot she found herself instantly greeted with chains , she found herself pleading her case with her bastard brother of all people , the one she blamed for everything in her life up until now besides her father .

It somehow worked , but when she then tried to bring a blade to Uther’s throat that night she was the cause of the sounding of the warning bells and had to escape into the night .

It wouldn’t take long before she succeeded in taking her fathers though and then she would return to Camelot to fight her brother for her throne . One day maybe she would succeed in taking her rightful place on the throne .

Authors Note :

this puts Morgana to be a late 22

at the end of this

[smolvenger]

Stella of Essex, or The Vicar's Wife Betrayed- Prologue: Red Carnations

Summary: The Essex Serpent is reimagined and told from the perspective of Stella Ransome. And with a new ending. Stella must come to terms with not only her mortality but her husband's heartbreaking affair. A portrait of a woman who became The Ideal Lady her time and marriage required her to be. A picture of a marriage of love and bliss torn apart by a husband's infidelity. And Stella herself in the center of it all, torn between a wife's duty and her own quiet but present rage. Where in the midst of devastating heartbreak she gains her strength, finds her voice, and dares to seek freedom, hope...and even revenge.

Pairings: To a Degree Stella Ransome/William Ransome, with a focus on the tragedy of their marriage, and eventually Stella Ransome/Male OC.

Word Count: 614 (Pretty Short)

Let me know if you want to be tagged!

A03 Link

If you liked this, consider buying me a Ko-Fi!

Warnings: Good For Her Cinematic Universe, First Person POV, Bye-Bye Canon, This Fic will eventually have an Eventual Major Character Death towards the end, Cheating, and its consequences are discussed, children, marriage, We are very anti-W*lliam and anti-C*ra in this fic, so you have been warned. Sexual content but not smut or anything titillating. Angst. COMMENTS AND REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED.

┈┈┈┈┈❀┈┈┈┈┈

"Your children's mother, You see won and afflicted,

Made sad by you, And proscribed by you.

You know how once I loved you, cruel one,

Once I was dear to you, cruel one!

I am alone here, without love, driven away..."- Medea by Cherubini, English Translation

“What I did not know was that I had hit upon a truth of womanhood: However blameless the life we lead, the passions and the greed of men could bring us to ruin, and there was nothing we could do.”- Jennifer Saint, Ariadne.

My husband fingered another woman against a tree.

I saw it. I saw it from my window. I watched them like God watches us all.

What little breath I already had was knocked out. I blinked. Wondering if this was a dream. A bad one. And I would wake up again. Maybe I would wake up and feel him next to me. To feel strength in my legs, hunger in my stomach, the fresh air in my lungs, and the chatter of the children and the dog yelping from outside. That I would turn over and see him smile, pat my hair, and sleepily say “Good morning, my Stella, my star.”

Their moans and releases were silent. But I felt as if I could detect the rumble of them like an animal feels the rumble of the floor of an approaching predator.

Perhaps I should have stopped them. But what could I do? Slam the window, yell with my weak lungs? And even if I could, by the time I looked it was too late.

Perhaps it wasn’t him. The man who did that very act to me on our wedding night. It wasn’t the man who swore to love me. The man who promised to forsake all others, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer until death did us part. The man who weekly went to the pulpit to preach of The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. The man who preached studied and discussed the Ten Commandments, including the seventh one. The man who fathered my children. He was downstairs writing his sermon or drinking coffee. It couldn’t be it couldn’t be it couldn’t be it couldn’t be it couldn’t be.

I saw on his head the same hair as my two sons.

No, our two sons.

There was no denying it was him. And there was no denying what they were doing. Pleasuring her. Her. Her. Her. And I could see her mouthing the pucker and the slight drop of the jaw to create his name silently-

William. William. William.

I walked carefully to the wall, hiding. Maybe it was a vision. I looked at the blank brown of the attic, and then back again. To the light where dust fell as snow.

They were still there. And still making love. Trading our wedding bed, soft, carefully carved from the local carpenter as a gift of thanks to his minister on his wedding day, with sheets washed on Thursdays for some ancient, dirty, sharp oak among the thorns, branches, leaves, and snakes.

They never noticed me. And they might tell you they never noticed me.

But I saw them.

I am so sorry. I do not normally speak like this. Speak of such lewd, unspeakable things. What must you think of me? I fear you think I am some base thing. That this is a tale of forbidden desire and lust fulfilled in a moment of passion.

This is not that story. If you think it will be that you are mistaken.

Leave and fulfill your desire to be The Woman somewhere else.

Everyone wishes to be her. They wish to be the glamorous mistress whose beauty led a man away from the bed of his plain, boring, dumpy wife. They don't want to be the wife. No one wants to be. They don't wish to speak of me. People do not wish to acknowledge me. Or tell my story. They don't want to see themselves as me. Dull Stella. Frumpy Stella. Scorned Stella. Plain Stella. Passive Stella. Poor Stella. Unwanted Stella. Undesired Stella. Rejected Stella. Betrayed Stella. So they never speak of me. They don't want to see themselves in my position. They don't want to imagine that the ones they love most might betray them for another. They'd rather be the darling who men obsess over to break their holy oaths.

And yet it still happens.

I tell you this because before my story begins, you must know that this will happen. Because it was the most painful moment of my whole life. I must tell it now or I will be overcome with my own heartbreak as I recall the happy years of my marriage with William to recount it.

This is mine. Not The Woman against the tree. The one who was left watching. The wife who was left behind. Mine. And I cannot remain silent. About that, or before, or after.

And it must be said, read, and listened to.

[oh-katsuki]

flamingo crumbs >:)))

[stardomiscalling]

Do you ever think cheating is considered excusable?

No. As a person who made the egregious error of cheating on a loved one (out of spite), I can wholeheartedly say that the act of breaking someone’s trust (and heart) is utterly inexcusable.

[raine-hearts-art]

@qin-su-week Day 6: Jinlintai & Hurt/Comfort

Wherein the widowed Jiang Yanli tends to the needs of her neglected sister-in-law.

[itsdefinitely]

caught.

[reylokisses]

I was thinking about what @iwannaplaybg3butimbroke @kityana and @timkontheunsure said about my Beatrice Horseman/Stella Goetia post, and on second thoughts, you’re right - Octavia definitely didn’t know about Stella’s abuse of Stolas.

In the brief glimpses we see of Stolas and Stella’s marriage before Stolas had an affair with Blitzø*, Octavia isn’t around when Stella is cruel to Stolas:

Stella probably didn’t want Octavia to know that she (Stella) was abusing Stolas, so that Octavia would think well of Stella and not turn against her.

Octavia’s line in Loo Loo Land points to this, as she says that, when she was a child, her parents “didn’t hate each other”.

Originally, I assumed that Octavia had to know about Stolas’ abuse, because otherwise the writers would be throwing her under the bus and blaming her for not sympathising with Stolas, but now I see that it’s the other way around.

Octavia remains sympathetic if she doesn’t know what Stolas has gone through. If she still blamed Stolas for breaking up the family even though Octavia knew how miserable Stolas was, that would make her selfish, but since Stolas and Stella have been keeping the abuse from her, then no one can blame her for that.

I’m defensive about Octavia, because I hate how some writers stereotype teenage girls and dismiss their pain and problems as trivial.

Divorce is traumatic, being a teenage girl is traumatic, and being emotionally neglected is traumatic as well.

The above scene is -so far- the saddest scene in all of Helluva Boss to me.

Stolas, Stella and Octavia are sitting down to eat together as a family, but they’re completely disengaged from each other.

Stolas is reading a book and ignoring Octavia, Octavia is listening to music, and Stella is ordering a hit on her own husband.

It’s interesting that neither Stella nor Stolas tell Octavia off for being rude and listening to music at the dinner table - either they’re so caught up in their own affairs that they haven’t even noticed, or they know how unhappy Octavia is with their family life, and they’re allowing Octavia her music as a coping mechanism.

I hope that Octavia and Stolas reconcile and are a happy family again eventually!

(*not that I blame him for it; he didn’t owe his abuser any loyalty, and Stolas wanted to divorce Stella right after his and Blitzø’s first encounter.)

[thatsprettylane]

Favorowdy + What Are We?

[fuwushiguro]

Turning Diamonds Into Snow

Tetta Kisaki x f!reader Genre: Smut Notes: I know a lot of people hate Kisaki (me included lmao) and he isn't very popular but I hope some of you guys enjoy this Warnings: 18+, dubcon/noncon, smoking, age gap, adultery, model!reader, sir!kink, cocaine use, substance abuse, stockholm syndrome, coercion, degradation, restraints, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, daddy kink, dumbification, slapping, breeding, creampie. Words: 3k

3am.

It’s 3am and you’re alone in a random diner, little hands clutching onto a steaming cup of coffee. You’re dying for it to cool. Not so much that it tastes disgusting, but enough that you can drink it and stop the tremors wracking through your body. People are staring, though it’s nothing new. You suspect they are likely glances of pity.

Because, truly, you look pathetic.

There are a group of boys from another booth looking over at you. Not boys, actually… men. They’re all in suits. They’ve been asking the waitress for coffee refills since you got here two hours ago.

One man is staring more intently than the others. He’s wearing round glasses. His hair combed over to one side, black and blonde streaking through unevenly. You can’t help but notice the tattoo on his hand.

Sin.

You think he might notice you staring when he puts his coffee cup down. Quickly you look away, but soon enough he’s picking it up again. This time with the other hand.

Punishment.

A bolt of fear strikes through you as you realise this group of men may not be ones you should be stuck in a diner with at this ungodly hour.

“I recognise her.” Hanma states, earning a scoff from the group he’s with.

“No shit. You’ve been staring at her since she walked in.” Kisaki explains, shaking his head and fishing around for a cigarette in the pocket of his expensive looking coat. The waitress approaches with the intention of forbidding him from smoking inside. However a deathly glare from the three men in front of her soon deters her. “Who is she?”

“Dunno. I just feel like I’ve seen her somewhere.” Hanma adds, lighting a flame for Kisaki to ignite his cigarette with.

“Probably a hooker,” Mikey chimes in, too busy focusing on his phone to be fully engaged with the conversation. Hanma rolls his eyes and returns to focus on figuring out who you are.

“That sounds right. World class hooker, hah?” Kisaki joins in with the teasing.

World class.

The words unlock something in Shuuji’s mind. World class…

“Oh fuck. She’s famous, boys.” Hanma states. It’s enough to fully steal Mikey’s attention as he raises a sceptical brow and looks in your direction. Kisaki can’t help but do the same, all three of them staring at you as they wonder if there is any truth to what he’s saying. “Give me your phone, I’ll show you.” Hanma asks.

“Huh? Use your own.”

“It’s dead. Hand it over.”

Kisaki sighs and hands his phone over to his friend. Soon enough he’s on the Instagram app and typing in your username. He places the phone down flat on the table to let mikey and Kisaki look through your profile.

“Cute.” Mikey speaks, weakly.

“She’s a model? Very cute.” Kisaki adds.

“See, look, magazine covers and runway stuff too. Not just an Instagram model, she’s a real one.” he tells them, almost as if he’s defending your honour and life choices.

Kisaki stubs out his cigarette on the table, shuffling out of the booth and standing to his feet. He folds his coat over himself. “Thanks for the tip.” he winks as he walks towards you. Hanma groans, furious he didn’t act first when he had the upper hand.

You stiffen when you notice this terrifying man is actually walking towards you. He smiles, you think he might be trying to ease your nerves. But his smile isn’t sincere, that much is clear. You feel even more scared, if anything.

“Need a refill, sweetheart?” he asks you.

“U-Um…” you can’t answer before he’s signalling the waitress to come over. “Thank you, sir.” you smile, hoping it doesn’t look too forced.

Sir, huh? Oh… he loves the sound of that.

“What are you doing out so late? Been partying… or fall out with your boyfriend?” he wonders, attempting to figure out your situation. He wants to know why you’re alone. If anyone will be asking where you went or if anyone will actually care if you don’t go home tonight.

“Y-Yeah… uh, my… boyfriend.” you stutter, flailing over your own words as you try and get them out as quickly as possible. Kisaki waits for the waitress to top up your coffee, tipping her and winking his thanks as he watches her walk away. He’d rather not have any prying ears, if possible.

“You’re not a very good liar.”

“What?”

“There’s no boyfriend, is there?” he tells you. He takes note of how uncomfortable you look and snickers, trusting it will be enough to lower your high guard. “Don’t worry, I know we look shady but I promise we aren’t.”

“I didn’t say that…” you object, feebly. It’s clear you’ve made a judgement about him before even speaking to him. And if he’s being honest, you’ve likely read him like a book.

But he’s not going to tell you that.

“We’re just off a late flight from a business trip. Trying to get some down time before we go home to our families.” he explains.

That should settle your nerves. Hearing that he’s a businessman with a family. Family will most likely translate to a wife and a few kids in your mind. And you’re not wrong about that. You can see the wedding ring on his finger. He’s even willing to show you his brood of brats if you feel the need to question him about it.

“Where was the trip?” you ask him, curiously. Travel is a weakness of yours. It’s something you’ve always planned to do and would still love to do, if circumstances were different.

“Germany.” he answers, plainly. “See how easy it is to answer questions? Don’t be shy… tell me why you’re here.” he insists. You look around, wondering if it’s the right thing to do. But, really, what’s the harm? It’s not like he can use it against you.

“I had a fight with my family… so… I just wanted some space.”

“Families are tough, babe, I understand.” he nods in agreement. He’s a master manipulator, unbeknownst to you. Offering faux sympathy and mimicking your body language to set your mind at ease. And, Christ, wouldn’t you know it? It’s working. “What was the fight about?”

“I— I’d rather not say…” you tell him. Ah. This should be good.

“C’mon.” he encourages you. He leans over the table, hoping you’ll do the same. “It can’t be that bad.” he whispers.

“W-Well…” you start, quietly, doing as he wished and leaning your face closer to his. “I like to party… but they don’t like the way I party.” you tell him in hushed tones.

“Ahhh, drugs, right?”

“Mhmmn, I like coke.” you smile, almost shyly. Would you look at that. A bona fide cokewhore. “S’not a big deal… y’know? They just don’t get it. They like to overreact, my parents are dumb strict.” you tell him.

“How old are you? You could get your own place.” he suggests, but you shake your head in response.”

“I’m twenty-five. And, yeah, I make a bunch of my own money so I should be able to move out, right? Nope… my psycho fucking parents have control of my bank account.” you explain. This is the most you’ve talked to anyone about this, and he’s a complete stranger. You have no idea why you’re telling him all of this. But it’s simple, really. You’re under his spell.

“I mean… c’mon, kiddo. Probably ‘cause of the coke habit.” he laughs. You sigh in response. “Don’t be like that, baby. I get it.”

“What do you know about it? You’re old enough to be my dad, your partying days are long over.” you respond, rudely.

“Ouch, princess has a bite, hah?” he laughs. He reaches into his coat pocket, his eyes fixated on yours. “I suppose you won’t be interested in this, then.” he grins, showing off a small bag of coke to you as discretely as he can.

“Hah, no way. What does your family think about that?”

“My family can have an opinion when they pay the bills.” he laughs, almost like he’s joking despite being deathly serious. “Interested?” he wonders. You bite your lip, fighting the urge to take his hand off at the generous honour.

“What’s the catch?” you query. With guys like this; offers like this, there’s always a catch.

“Come home with me.”

“Hah. That’s low. What about your wife?” you ask, genuinely curious how he plans to explain this away.

“Baby, I’ve got all the coke either of us could want and I’m taking business trips all over the world just for the fun of it. You think I don’t own more than one home?”

All the coke you could ever want.

It’s an enticing offer. And the more he dangles the bag in front of your face, you know you’re too weak willed to decline. It might be the worst decision you’ll ever make. But… you just can’t say no to the siren call of white powder.

And then, you’re nodding.

He smiles. An entirely evil toothy smile. But you’re already grabbing your jacket and your bag before standing up. He holds out his arm to you, offering you to link with him. He escorts you out. But not before winking at his friends with pride.

“Do you love me?”

It’s a question he’s asked every single day since you met so many months ago. He didn’t need a real answer.

Not at first.

You’d respond with a giggle. Or a boisterous laugh. Sometimes you’d answer his question with a kiss which always created a pathway into you fucking each other until the sun would rise.

Truthfully, you don’t think you’ve ever been so happy.

It’s unconventional, sure, but still you find yourself smiling every day without fail. It’s easy being with Kisaki. It’s easy being his little secret. No one knows where you are, except him. He doesn’t like it when you leave the house. He doesn’t like it when he doesn’t know where you are.

You can’t leave.

You can’t leave him.

He takes you out sometimes. He’ll blindfold you and make you lie down in the backseat of the car so no one can see you and you have no sense of direction. He always takes you to sweet yet secluded places.

The beach.

The mountains.

Eerily beautiful places that you know could be your last destination on earth. Places where he could push you to your demise or drown you so that your body gets lost at sea.

No one would know, just him.

But so far, it hasn’t come to that. He’s good to you, he is. Kisaki knows how much you love coke, so he gets it for you. He keeps you coked up to the eyeballs and sometimes you feel like a whore.

Maybe because that’s exactly what you are.

You fuck him as thanks for your coke.

You’re a coke whore.

“I love you.” you whisper, feebly, with an award winning smile after snorting a line. He grabs your face in one hand, puckering your cheeks and forcing you to look at him. Kisaki looks so serious, always. His eyebrows and constantly at a scowl and you think he has to force himself to rectify that about himself.

But he doesn’t while he looks at you.

At your lips.

He looks between your eyes and your plump, inviting lips until he can’t resist you anymore. He tilts his head and his lips meet with yours.

“I love you when you’re high.” he smiles, muttering words between kisses.

And you laugh, kissing him back so sweetly.

“I love you when I’m high.”

And just like that, you’re weightless. He picks you up by your thighs, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He drops you down roughly onto the dining table. His body weight on top of your is intoxicating. The way he kisses and alternates to nibbling your lower lip while he tries to undress all at once is dizzying.

You watch him as he throws his shirt across the room and he starts to work at his belt.

“Arms up.” he instructs, and you obey. You hold your arms above your head together, knowing full well what he’s about to do. “Such a good little whore, aren’t you? Do anything for me and your habit.” he laughs.

You giggle at him, he likes it when you entertain how mean he can be to you. You’ll accept anything he wants to do to you, because if you don’t you know he can cut you off.

So of course you don’t mind that he wants to bind you with his belt, your wrists restricted and trapped by the leg of the dining table.

You watch him carefully as he circles back around you, climbing on top of you and studying your body beneath him. He grabs two fistfuls of your little vest and rips it apart with ease. Your breasts exposed to the chill in the air and bouncing freely. He cups one, fondling the nipple and almost salivating at your bare flesh.

It seems he wants to suck them, but for whatever reason he’s holding himself back.

“Tell me how bad you want me.” he demands.

“Mmpf, Tetta I’m— ‘m so wet. Please, I need you. M-My panties are—”

“What?” he smirks, “Your panties are what?”

You look away, feeling shy. A rush of heat flocks to your face and you can’t help but squirm under his stare. He hooks his fingers into your shorts and yanks them down in one fell swoop. He can’t stop smiling at the way your legs are wriggling and writhing against the table.

It’s him.

What he does to you is unspeakable.

You can’t decide if you want your legs open or closed. So he just watches in fascination as you try to decide. Though eventually it grows tiresome for him. When your legs are open, he keeps them open. Slapping your inner thighs near your pussy and strictly instructing that you keep them open. He runs a line over the fabric between your pussy lips from your sopping hole up to your clit.

“Oh you little slut. You are fuckin’ soaked.” he speaks, his eyes filled with lustrous malice. He puts his head between your thighs after moving your panties into the crease of your thigh. He repeats what he had done with his finger but with his tongue, and you can’t help but shudder and moan, clamping your thighs around his head. “Oh, no, babe. Your treat was the coke. This pussy is for me. You’re gonna give me a treat now.” he reminds you.

He frees his thick cock and lines it up with your dripping slot. Fresh tears roll down your eyes as he slowly plunges inside of you. It’s good…

It’s good.

It’s so fucking good.

“Dirty coke whore aren’t ya?” he laughs, thrusting in and out of you at a hurried pace. “Say thank you, right fuckin’ now, say ‘thank you, daddy.’”

“Mmpf, thank you! T-Thank you, daddy!” you wail, biting your lip over and over between moans as he ploughs inside of you. Your head is moved quickly to the side. It takes you a moment to register what happened until you feel the familiar sting of his striking palm.

“Stupid cock drunk girl,” he grins, “What are you even thankin’ me for? Do you know, baby? Use that cute li’l head of yours to think about it.”

“I— I— f-for letting me stay here… w-with you!” you tell him. He smiles, raising his eyebrows as if he’s looking for more. “Thank you for the coke, daddy! I love you! I l-love you s’much!” you sob, almost screaming through how perfectly he’s ruining your precious cunt.

“What else? C’mon, gorgeous, you’re happy right now because of daddy, yeah? So say thank you.” he commands. His cock throbs aggressively and the sight of the little gulp you just took slithering down your tiny throat.

“Thank you for fucking me! I love your cock, daddy, I do! T-Thank you for giving it to me!” you explain.

He grunts at that, picking up the pace of his thrusts as he humps into you, moving you further and further up the dining table. You can see a prominent vein bulging in his forehead as he fucks you with a vengeance.

“So tight, so fuckin’ tight baby.” he tells you. “Cumming soon, yeah? Can feel how close you are.”

“Can I, daddy? Can I p-please cum f-for you?” you groan, desperately.

“Yes, baby,” he nods, “Cum on daddy’s cock.”

You only wish you could cling onto him while you unfurl around him. You wish that you could rake your fingers down his back and break the skin. It’s a desperate need as you keep cumming and cumming for him. There’s no way to steel yourself. You have nothing to grab onto to ground yourself and keep you on earth with him. You are in ecstasy, moaning and clamping around him as you get through your high.

And once you finally finish, he can’t help but watch you in awe. The way the aftershocks wrack through your body and you’re spasming on his cock. He pounds you with every single bit of body weight he has behind it, flooding your walls with his white and creamy cum.

He kisses between your breasts and sucks on your tits while he spurts load after load of himself into you, not wanting to waste a drop of his essence. It belongs inside of you.

He belongs inside of you.

When he eventually pulls out, his cum can’t help but throb out of you. With each pulse of your aching pussy, his sperm is forced out. He fingers it back inside, lovingly, rubbing his thumb over your clit at the same time.

“Mine.” he tells you, eyes focused on yours.

“Y-Yes, daddy.”

“I cum in this whenever I want, so it’s mine. And you are mine.”

“Yours, daddy, always.”

“Do you love me?” he queries.

“I love you.”

“Do you want to leave me?”

“No, daddy, I’ll never leave you.”

He smirks at that.

You say it like you have a choice.

© 2022 fuwushiguro

[hashtagartistlife]

hoo. um. blame ro for this 

[smolvenger]

Stella of Essex or The Vicar's Wife Betrayed Series. Chapter 7: Purple Hyacinth

A Fix-It Fanfiction Series of The Essex Serpent

Pairing: some Stella Ransome/William Ransome but focusing on the tragedy of their marriage, eventually Stella Ransome/Male OC

Series Summary: The Essex Serpent is reimagined and told from the perspective of Stella Ransome. And with a new ending. Stella must come to terms with not only her mortality but her husband's heartbreaking affair. A picture of a marriage of love and bliss torn apart by a husband's infidelity. And Stella herself in the center of it all, torn between a wife's duty and her own quiet but present rage. Where in the midst of devastating heartbreak she gains her strength, finds her voice, and dares to seek freedom, hope...and even revenge.

Chapter Summary: In Which, Stella mourns her husband's affair with The Woman. And makes a decision.

Warnings: Eventual Major Character Death, Discussions of Adultery and the Trauma of Being Cheated On, Female Rage, Mentions of Suicide, ANGST, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Illness, Victorian era Marriage laws, Religion, Mentions of death and the almost death of a child- but the child doesn't actually die. Greif and Betrayal and Stella grieving and being sad and angry about William cheating (she has every right to be), being Anti-William and Anti-C*ra so if you like them or this pairing you have been warned. Good For Her Plotline

Ko-Fi

Ao3 Link

Chapter Word Count: Less than 5K

Prologue//One//Two//Three//Four//Five//Six

“And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, That suck'd the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh; …O, woe is me T' have seen what I have seen, see what I see!” - Hamlet, Shakespeare, II.I.132

GILDA Ah, these are the loving words... ...the scoundrel spoke once to me!

RIGOLETTO (to Gilda) Hush, weeping can do no good, etc.

GILDA O wretched heart betrayed, do not break for sorrow.- Rigoletto, English Translation

“Such was her affection for him, that she loved him in all places, and was desirous of doing anything for his convenience, credit, and comfort…How much more commendable was the behavior of these women than that of those who rail at their imprudent or incontinent husbands, and by their conduct render that home which before was undesirable, quite hateful, and insupportable!”- Alexander Walker, Woman Physiologically Considered, as to Mind, Morals, Marriage, Matrimonial Slavery, Infidelity, and Divorce.

“And (God) said…Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat? And the man said, The woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.” Genesis 3:11-12, KJV

I remember shaking.

They finished. they smiled at each other and kissed once more. William and The Woman wandered further into the woods, clutching hands.

My legs gave in beneath me. I caught myself. Doubting everything I saw. Wondering if I was in a nightmare. But it was when I looked down and saw how my knuckles were clenched and I saw the last tail end of William’s tan coat vanish that I knew it was real.

Pulling myself onto the windowsill. Everything seemed to spin as I returned to my- no- our bedroom.

I went to the bookshelf and grabbed one of my journals, one of the older ones. I turned it to the page with the gardenia from years ago. The one William gave to me. His very first gift. The one that gave me hope that maybe he loved me. Keeping it open, I clutched it to my heart.

I couldn’t cry. I hugged onto it tighter on the chair and ducked my head down, squeezing my eyes shut. Then opening them.

I used to love this room. That sacred space where so many beautiful memories and moments. How bitter, sad, dusty, and dark it all looked. The blue walls seemed grey in the dim light. The fireplace was cold and dark. The plates and pillows I decorated looked ugly and gaudy. It was all bitter and haunted and disgusting.

I went over and sat down on the bed. I placed a hand over the covers sweeping through them. It crumpled into a fist as I buried my face into the blankets.

This bed was mine and William’s. The centerpiece of our beautiful little world. It was the bed where our marriage was consummated. Where he used his body to tell mine it loved it. Where our five children were created. The bed where we had our own quiet oasis at the end of each long day. Now it was tainted and abandoned. Once it was dented from his weight and soft from the pressing of his body. Now it felt like a rock, even the blankets felt cold to me.

Did she know everything he promised to me? That he gave me flower seeds and wrote me love letters? That he held my hand as we watched Julianna’s small casket lowering into the ground? That he stayed up late rocking little James to sleep when he cried at night so I could sleep? Did she know what he said to me? That I was his star, his angel? That he made vows before none other than the regional bishop and all Aldwinter that he would be my husband. That he would be mine until death did us part. And he was still alive, and so was I. Sick, weak, dying, but alive.

I turned my face up and saw that we had decorated some of the walls and bookshelves with photos. I traced my hand over the photo of our wedding day- me looking down demurely in a white lacy dress with a bustle and William, then with only a hint of a beard.

There was a photo of me holding little Joanna on the day of her christening- christened by her father! The man who represented and lead none other than the church! Who spoke of morality, what was right and what was wrong, and how to avoid sin.

Then, finally, there was a photo of the five of us- of our three surviving children and us. I and William were seated, Joanna and John in the back and James on the side as the dog sat obediently next to us.

All those happy, peaceful memories and moments were for nothing!

I set down the photos and staggered into his study. His room. The very place where he learned all about how to be a Christian Man and preach it to others. On his desk were the piles of papers. I blinked, and then picked them up, reading them. I found they were not any drafts of a book. No, they were letters. Letters from The Woman. And drafts of letters to The Woman. The dates on the far-left corners were all recent. As early as the week she arrived here.

I read them word for word. There were discussions. Discussions of the Serpent. Of Leviathan. Of the Aldwinter beach. Of Joanna’s antics and Frankie’s. Of faith and science. Then it changed.

The letters were of love. Love. She returned his feelings. The drafts were all confessing the longing in his heart and body for her.

Not for me. Not for his wife. For her.

One letter from her wrote how she noticed how longingly he would look at her at dinner. That she noticed his glances and stares. It was at the very dinner where I made the roast, vegetables, and biscuits in her welcome. I wasn’t even sick then. And I was present.

The letter fell from my hand and I became dizzy, falling onto the chair and clutching onto its arm of it for support. I felt a lump in my throat, but not from blood.

Oh, God! Oh God, what had I done! It was all my fault! I thought it was at most a harmless infatuation, a small thing, nothing more! I had permitted him to dance with her the night of the party! I thought dancing with her would make him happy for a little while after seeing his torment in my condition.

Once, he had a great passion for me. Once, we were making love at the rate of twice a day. Once, we continued to regularly bed each other after the births of five children. Had he…no longer wanted me? Had my ill body now disgusted him? Was that the real source of his grief?

It then struck me. He had made love frequently and passionately to me. The whole time I thought it was for me alone due to its frequency, that I was his wife, and that he loved me.

Oh God, all those years, and now it struck me how naïve I had been! How come I not realized something about William this whole time? Fourteen years of marriage to him, and yet it never struck me the truth about him!

His weakness was lust!

That was his sin. That was the one closest to his heart and the one that made him twitch and struggle. That was his Achilles Heel.

Had I realized that sooner, I would not have allowed him an inch near The Woman. I would object and insist he avoids her partnership to search for The Serpent. I would not have sent him to the dance with her. I had given a hungry wolf a key to a den full of plump and injured sheep without thinking he would bite into one.

I crumpled the paper beneath my hand and set it down. I bit down on my tongue to keep from screaming until I tasted blood from it.

Were there more letters he was hiding from me? All this time? Had there been others before she arrived?

She, she, she, she…I never considered myself an angry, spiteful person. Not until now. I knew now how it was to truly hate. I had not a single redeeming thing I could think of The Woman. I wondered if I could even have the heart to look at her. I hated every bit of her. I felt a wave of anger and pure hatred I had not dared feel in ages. Even if Joanna admired her. Even considering her past, even if her husband beat and choked her, I felt no pity for her anymore. Cruel fantasies entered my mind. I wished that her husband killed her long before she set foot in Aldwinter. I wanted to slap her pretty face until it bruised. I began thinking of the truly awful, horrible things I could scream and hurl at her.

Yet I sat there, hands shaking.

I opened another drawer of William’s desk. I pulled out papers, scanning to see if there were any more letters or letters from any others before. And in the bottom of the middle drawer, I found a small hunting pistol. And bullets. I put it in my hands, filling one bullet into the gun.

Perhaps I should end it. End my suffering. Stop waiting for the consumption to take its final toll and get it over with. I should let him be free. Let him be happy. Let him finger her against a tree as many times as it pleased him. Let them walk on beaches and dance and father her children and live in his house in his bed and go to church and cook and clean for him as I once did.

3. Support him in his emotions without complaint

Or perhaps, this was the wrong method. Maybe I should pick a suicide more poetic. One only he would know of so he would know the severity of his betrayal. I would leave a note pinned to me and then fill my pockets with heavy stones, find his secret pond, and keep walking into the waters.

But…maybe if I did, then there was the risk that I would go to hell. Then, for all my work, devotion, and sacrifices for William, I would be damned, and he would get away with it and continue his affair now that I was out of the way.

Why should he be the free one and not I? Why could he take a lover and I could not? Why could he destroy our marriage vows and not I? Why should I be the one sent to hell after a life of faithful service and him the one to survive in sin?

Most of all, why should he be the one to live and I the one to die?!

I placed the gun down on the desk.

I opened the window for some air. And in a distance away-I saw him. Her son. The Woman’s son. Frankie. Sitting on the grass, Quietly looking out into the sky and the view of the town.

I picked up the gun and felt the gunpoint out the window at him.

Yes, part of me whispered. It’s perfect. He is right there. Frankie.

I could easily do it. One small movement of a finger and everything would change. If that is what William could do- move his finger and ruin everything, then so could I.

It would be worse than killing The Woman. Worse because She would live to suffer through it.

And oh, after such pleasure, she would suffer. Yes, she would suffer immensely. Her choice would bring her suffering for her sin, rather than the mercy of death. If she stole William from me, then I would steal Frankie from her. William proved my deepest, most silent fear true. She was better than me. Everything I could not be. But in this, The Woman and I would finally be equal. She would know the pain I felt in losing my husband with the pain she would feel for losing Frankie. In blood, she brought him forth and in blood, I would take him back.

I slowly walked closer. Frankie never noticed me and kept on picking at the weeds in the grass, face turned away.

My finger reached for the trigger. But I could not pull it. It trembled in my hand. I found tears were starting to flow from my eyes and my teeth were gritted.

Frankie turned around to look at the sky, his face in profile. Such bright, curious eyes. My children have bright curious eyes.

I lowered the gun and returned it to its drawer, shutting it. I closed the window.

How could I? How could I even consider such a horrible thing? What if someone did that to James, Joanna, or John? It was as if I almost murdered one of my own! Why should Frankie, an innocent boy, be the one punished for the sins committed by his mother?

I walked down the stairs. Not even the dog was around.

Without William, without my children, without my parents, without my siblings, without the clergy, without the people of Aldwinter…who was I?

I was alone. Truly, truly alone.

I then walked outside. My garden was dead and bare. Nothing but brown dirt and withered plants.

I walked around the house and off to where the woods began. I could see the attic window high up. I knew which tree it was. I had a feeling. I walked across the small field and into the woods. I approached the tree. The tree where they made love. I took off my blue ribbon and tied it around a branch on the tree.

As I walked further, I kept thinking of her- her with her red dress, her pale skin, and most of all her hair.

That was what William wanted! He didn’t a woman like me at all he wanted someone like her! Like her! Even with hair like her!

In a fury I ripped off the pins of my hair and threw them to the ground, loosening my hair, making it loose since that was how she wore it! If I had only worn my hair like hers, let each strand fall, perhaps William would have never strayed from my bed!

I hated it- I hated my hair, it wasn’t hers. I hated my sick body- it wasn’t her healthy, open, available one. I hated my character and interests- it wasn't her character and interests. I hated everything about myself- because it wasn’t hers. I hated myself since I wasn’t her.

I kept walking down, feeling my hair free and moving with the small breeze, not caring for the bitter cold. I embraced it. Anything was warmer than William Ransome’s marriage bed. I staggered onto a tree, out of breath, holding onto the branch, clutching it.

I let out a scream. I had not screamed since I was in labor for James. Birds flew away. I wondered if anyone heard me. But no one came.

Then finally, I sobbed. Not the quiet tears I had over almost murdering Frankie True, big, loud, violent sobs. I cried and cried

I then let go of the branch and collapsed onto the grass and dirt. I curled up into it like an animal or a child. And I cried more. Cried and cried and cried and sobbed and wailed and cried, face hot, tears everywhere, my body shaking from how deep they were. I was gulping for air in between sobs only to cry some more.

I cried for William, the generous, kind, handsome, open-minded, gentle, religious, and loving husband I met, knew, loved, and married. The William who made little jokes. The William who took morning walks and would show me the pebbles he found after. The William who spoiled me with gifts swam with me in a pond and said he loved me. How I thought that since he was a priest, he was a good man.

I cried for the old William I missed and this new William I just discovered. I cried for how this side of William was always there inside him only I was too stupid to realize it.

I cried about our wedding. I cried for our dances. I cried for our holidays I cried for the church, his church, his ministry, and the years I poured into helping it and its people for nothing.

I cried for the five children I brought into the world from him and yet despite the years of having them inside me and the great pain of labor and the risk of death on my part just to bring even them into the world, that that wasn’t enough for him. I cried for how the surviving children would have to learn that their father no longer loved their mother but someone else.

I cried for how I was now abandoned to die of consumption. I cried from how unfair it was. I cried for our dinners, the laundry, the meals, the garden, the list I followed, and everything I did for him and how it was all in vain.

Most of all, I cried that I wasn’t enough for him.

I felt the last sob escape me. Then there was no urge to cry. There was silence. Only the birds and the rustling of the trees.

I got up and leaned against the tree. I coughed out a little bit and saw that there was some blood on my hand. I wiped it off onto my white nightgown on the skirt. If a hunter or wanderer discovered me, I wouldn’t care. But what was I even to do?

Could I go back into that cold bed and stay there? Alone as he would go into the forest and roll around in the grass with The Woman? To pretend that I didn’t know and didn’t care? To pretend I approved? To pretend to my children and the clergy that I wasn’t devastated? To even die like this? To have fourteen years of my life as the wife of a vicar for nothing? To have my final moments be that alone, unwanted, and most of all, unloved by the man I married?

1. No matter what, you must overall support your husband in his ministry, friendship, and partner with him for a loving home atmosphere.

I blinked out of my thoughts as a crow let out his caw above me. Looking down, I noticed there were seven blue wildflowers.

It was still winter. Yet…here they were alive and blooming. Despite the coldness and death, they survived. I plucked one from the ground and twiddled it in my fingers, I placed it in my hair to feel it. Then as I plucked another one, I felt a tranquility wash over me. Just as it did when I found blue wildflowers at Julianna and Josephine’s graves.

I recalled losing my daughters. I recalled the dream I had after their deaths. I recalled what I heard them say.

“Save yourself, Mama.”

I remembered William’s words after the doctor’s fatal announcement. “She always was too good for this world.”

I could be good, saintly, perfect, and die.

Or live.

And I wanted to live.

I now knew what I had to do.

It would be hard. So, help me it would be hard. One part of it would be the hardest of all. But it would be worth it, I resolved. No matter how sick I fell. No matter if this was my last day or hour. I would no longer tolerate this.

I got up, and on the path back to the Ransome house, I passed the tree with the blue ribbon. I stared at it for a second. Before I acted on my plan, there was one thing that had to be done.

I walked to the front yard. The axe was still against the tree stump. I picked it up. It was heavy with my weakened arms, but my fury gave me strength, and resolve tightened my grip on the handle.

I returned to the tree with the blue ribbon. The tree where The Woman and William consummated their affair.

I picked up the axe and slammed the blade against the wood. I kept hacking it again and again and again. A sick, frail woman is no woodsman, but I kept at it. Grunts and even yells escaped my mouth. Let all Aldwinter hear me. I didn’t care. They all would know what he did eventually.

The tree could not be chopped down by me, it was far too thick and sturdy. But now it was marked. Weakened. Made ugly. Enough that when he returned, along with my ribbon, he would know what I thought of him coupling with The Woman.

I returned inside and upstairs. I got a coat and a bag that I slung over my shoulder. Any cash I could find I pocketed.

I was going to leave. I was going to get out of there. I was going to get out of the house and never look back. Even in my sickness, if I had to crawl out, I would do it. I would not stay in this house with him.

I went into William’s study. I took every letter to and from The Woman I could find and stuffed it into my bag. If it was of The Serpent or of Passion, if it was one from her or a draft of how he ached for her, I placed it in there. I would need them. No one would believe my words alone and he would no longer have a scrap of her. Not after he was writing and reading them as I lay coughing blood in the other room.

There was one thing this would mean. It made me tear up again at the thought.

14. Raise healthy, well-balanced children and be present for them.

I had to leave my children with him. They were gone and should they arrive, I wasn’t sure I would take them with me or that they would even want to leave the house. If I had the strength in my body to care for them and carry them off with me, I would. But I did not.

Besides, even if I did, consumption or no consumption, by law, they were his children. Not mine. A swift visit of the police or a lawyer and they would be taken from me to him. It would be a pointless battle.

And yet- I didn’t have to abandon them in my heart or my love. Despite how I sobbed at the thought of leaving them, I knew what the alternative was. And I knew they had a roof over their head, clothes, and food. I may have to forego being a wife, but I didn’t have to forego being a mother.

I took out three pieces of paper from the study. I wiped the tears off my white sleeve before they could drop onto the ink. On the first one, I wrote:

“John, James, My darlings,

I am not staying here. Know I will always love you and care for you. I will always make sure you are fed, clothed, and loved. You shall find your mother at Fanny’s. You may always come there and see me and ask something of me should you need it. Anything!

I cannot stay here with your father anymore. Ask him why.

Love,

Your mama.”

I placed it on John’s bed. On the second one, I wrote,

“Joanna, My love,

Your father has committed the amorous rite with another woman. He no longer loves me; he loves her instead.

I will be at Fanny’s should you need me. But I will no longer tolerate how your father has betrayed me. I cannot stay with him anymore. Your father will not be welcome at Fanny’s, but you and your brothers will be. I love you, my Jojo, and I will always take care of you. Find me at Fanny's if you wish to speak or need anything from me.

Love,

Your mother.”

I placed it on her bed.

Then, I finished one final letter. I walked into his bedroom. I found the journal with the page with the gardenia still on that cold bed. I ripped off the page and placed it there next to the letter.

It was the shortest one. The final letter read:

“Dear William,

My deathbed will not be one shared by an unfaithful husband.

Take care of the children.

- Stella.”

I took off my wedding ring and placed it on my- no, his blue pillow.

I thought of the outside. I remembered our walks by the pond and our swimming in it early in our marriage. Of our picnics and walks by the nearby ocean.

The ocean. The sea. The sea is inevitable. The sea is full of danger. The sea may delight and drown. The sea kills thirsty men who drink its salty waters. The sea never ends in its length or depth. The sea hides and houses the Leviathan. The sea was where had I chosen differently now or been less careful in the past, I could have drowned. The sea destroys.

But what of me? Me floating above- swimming in this and trying not to drown, while I was on land?

I recalled my own name, written down on the first page of the flower journal- Stella. Stella, of course, means Star.

Stars seem so small up in the sky. Glowing despite all the dark. Giving light to the night sky so that any lost traveler can find safety. Their light and dust are said to glimmer. Stars are called beautiful. They seem like such tiny, fragile things. We mimic them on paper and put them on Christmas trees. We paint them. We decorate dresses with them and make jewels in their shapes. We aspire to them and call people we admire after them- "stars." They are there to be looked at. Beautiful, but distant. Miniscule. Weak.

But if I accurately recalled what science I learned from Joanna's reading, stars are not small at all when you look at them. They are actually large. The sun itself is a star too. Even as they die, they become black holes and entrap and vanquish all who cross them. Stars are full of fire. Fire warms. Fire burns. Fire destroys. Fire spreads. Fire does not go down without a fight.

I knew which part of my name I had to become now. Maybe it was always there and asleep until then.

I looked around the house and upstairs. Goodbye house, I spoke silently. Goodbye kitchen was full of many meals. Goodbye children running up and down the stairs. Goodbye family dinners and parlor gatherings. Goodbye attic. Goodbye, the counter's I've cleaned hundreds of times. Goodbye nursery. Goodbye blue collection, my pretty pillows, pebbles, and plates- you aren't mine, you're his. Goodbye chairs and desks. Goodbye bed that was so warm when I first laid down on it and now promised nothing but heartbreak until death. Goodbye morning walks with William. Goodbye, false kisses, caresses, and promises. Goodbye picnics, games, books, questions, mud, scolding, and so much more of this old, lying life!

Above all, goodbye William. May sleeping with her be worth it.

I went downstairs, walked out the door, and left the Ransome house.

Outside, the sun was setting into twilight. I had to go while it was both dark and light.

I forced my eyes forward to town. I didn't look back. I never returned.

[cetra]

SIGNALIS + loss of the right eye

[tuttle-did-it]

Rewatching Pitfall (1948) (starring Dick Powell, Lizabeth Scott, Raymond Burr and Jane Wyatt). Found this delightful IMDb entry.

Well played, sir.