#scarlet imprint

[spiralhouseshop]

New in the Spiral House Shop!

September 2022

Femme Occulte magazine Issue 3 - Autumn 2022

Fiddler's Green 8: Idyl Hearts

The Nearly Perfect Necromancy of Lady Mondegreen: A Practical Guide to Malaprop Magic (from Fiddler's Green)

Tomten The Lore of the Christmas Gnome (from Fiddler's Green)

Spell Jar Book for Beginners: 60 Enchanting Spells to Focus Your Power and Unleash the Magic by Paige Vanderbeck

Critical Thinking Card Deck (This deck of Critical Thinking Cards will help you spot manipulation, dodgy logic, propaganda and persuasion techniques from advertisers, politicians, the media, and your own brain. For education? For being roasted if used for divination)

Mystai: Dancing out the Mysteries of Dionysos by Peter Mark Adams

The Red Goddess

Star.Ships: A Prehistory of the Spirits by Gordon White

Ani.Mystic: Encounters with a Living Cosmos by Gordon White

Apocalyptic Witchcraft by Peter Grey

Upcoming 2022 Vending Events in Portland, Oregon:

September 18 - Columbia Willamette Pagan Pride Day

September 30-October 2 Critical Thinking Witch Con (virtual)

October 22 - If the Broom Fits Season of The Witch Market

(We have applied for a few more events so we'll keep you posted!)

[thenietzscheanwife]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐞𝐧 𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥, 𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐜𝐡 & 𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐲, 𝐩.𝟏𝟑

[coldalbion]

Oh hey, the book review I did a a couple of months ago for Frater Acher's HOLY HERETICS is out. "Perhaps this is why he is able to quote prog rock stalwarts TOOL via the lyrics of Maynard James Keenan, and bring in Mike Mignola’s Hellboy – while also giving us translations of Theologia Germanica, Paracelsus, and discussions of Hildegard von Bingen?"

[hadit93]

Scarlet Imprint, Peter Grey, and Gordon White. An Update.

Some time ago I wrote a post about Peter Grey and Gordon White concerning a video for Gordon's course which they released publicly. Towards the end of this video Peter Grey said something regarding the language of division which I still disagree with now. I believe labels should be applied where a certain behaviour is being exhibited so that we can make a judgement about that person and whether we want them around our circle.

This being said, I do believe my own reaction to these words was reactionary and also I have to admit, they were fuelled and inspired by others who had shown the clip to me and it seemed to inspire me to really go into attack mode. Something I take little joy in doing and try to avoid as much as possible. The post got reblogged and it seemed a lot of people agreed with my stance, but also, a lot just wanted to hate on Grey and his work for reasons that were not all that justified in my opinion. I even stated in my post that I quite enjoyed his work, his work is not of issue to me. His words in this video were of issue to me, however, I also did not reach out to him directly and asked for an explanation. I took a short snippet of a conversation and assumed I knew his moral compass from such a small insight into his thoughts.

This is fundamentally wrong to do, I have judged someone prior to knowing their actual stance or giving them a chance to defend themselves. I have engaged in a cancel culture surrounding Grey and Scarlet Imprint and I do not want to be involved in that.

I have deleted the post, however, I cannot delete the reblog. I hope that if anyone who did reblog the post will delete it for me.

I still disagree with Grey on this occasion, however, I apologise to him for my words and quick-to-judge attitude on the occasion in question. And for jumping on the bandwagon at the time. It was wrong of me to do, and also not in line with how I like to conduct myself. There are reasons I was keen to do so at the time, however, I do not wish to go into them as they are personal in nature and were caused by myself rather than any third party.

I would also like to apologise to Gordon White. I still believe his views on the Coronavirus are wrong. But I should not have dismissed his entire work because I disagree with one of his ideas or opinions. I believe his opinion could be damaging, but only to adults who should have the mental capacity to make their own informed choices. In this instance, it is none of my business what he or others believe. Again some of my anger came from reasons such as a family member nearly dying from this virus he was stating didn't exist or 'wasn't that bad'. It has ruined lives and at that time I was angry.

These people have absolutely no idea who I am, probably never read the post in question, and will most likely never read this. However, apologising in this instance feels like the correct thing to do- I can disagree with someone's ideas and still enjoy their work. Crowley being a prime example.

This post is long overdue, I apologise for that too. I meant to address this much sooner. I wish Grey and White the best in their future endeavours.

[arcane-offerings]

Peter Grey. The Two Antichrists. London: Scarlet Imprint, 2021. Belarion Edition. Bound in black bonded leather with slipcase. 128 pages. Limited to 210 signed and numbered copies (#133/210)

Shop link in bio.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Arcane Offerings (@arcaneofferings)

[edgeofthecirclebooks]

[quill-of-thoth]

Letters from Watson, catching up

Study In Scarlet part 1: 1880 I’ve been neglecting my correspondence (emails) and decided to start my Holmes reread today, with some good old fashioned deductive speculation and some context, in case anyone else is also reading along a month late. Please bear with me as I neglect to commit to either a Watsonian (these are real people who we can learn biographical data about) or a Doylist (remember this is just a book and we should just relax) point of view. If your mental image of Holmes and Watson are either Robert Downey Junior and Jude law, or Jeremy Brett and David Burke, you will probably be surprised at how young these two probably are.

Preliminary evidence: Our Friends’ ages

- Watson was wounded at the battle of Maiwand, fought July 27 1880, ill for months, plural, and the journey back to england took a month. At the very earliest he started looking for lodgings in November 1880 - He would have been at medical school for at least two, probably three years before finishing in 1878. It is unlikely, though not impossible, that he would have started his course of study significantly before reaching his twenties. For historical comparison, Dr. James Barry, also an army surgeon with a degree from a British medical school, started his course of study at the age of approximately twenty, and became an army surgeon at about 23. (Although Dr. Barry died in 1865 it’s unlikely that there would be a huge difference in how long their courses of study took.) People seem to have gone directly to medical school instead of doing other university courses first.  - While he could be older, could be slightly younger. Watson is probably around twenty five. - Holmes is still taking university courses, erratically, and although we don’t get any timeline of his studies, he’s probably not older than Stamford, who was a surgeon’s assistant when Watson worked with him at St. Bartholemew’s Hospital, and presumably still works there given how much he knows about Holmes’ use of the chemical labs. “Young” Stamford is likely a few years younger than Watson.  - Like Watson Holmes probably started his studies in his very late teens or early twenties. The age of getting a degree could and did vary during the 1800s from our current conception of who’s the right age to be in college (with people somewhat more likely to be sent off to secondary education slightly younger than seventeen or eighteen than they are now, and also plenty of instances of people starting college later than we usually expect from someone who is headed directly there after their childhood studies and before their first adult career) but the important thing here is that Holmes appears to be in charge of his own finances, and the age of majority for Victorian men was 21.  - Holmes has pretty much got to be somewhere between 20 and 25. My money is on him being 22-23 (because he does already have a reputation, as we shall see, he has completed at least a year of study during the time he was friends with Victor Trevor, and because he appears to complete, or give up, his coursework between the end of Study in Scarlet and any other case Watson witnesses) and on Watson being 24-26. - For context, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote this story at age 27 in 1886. It’s not unreasonable to assume that, despite timeline weirdness (He was born in 1859, as Holmes might have been, but he will obviously always set his writing in the past), Holmes and Watson are going to age more or less with him.  - I have only vague memories of the Baring-Gould chronology for this series but I think it agrees with me in that regard. Baring-Gould thinks Holmes is about two or three years older than I think Holmes is, though. 

Conclusion: My sympathies to Mrs. Hudson, these boys are going to be the death of a decent amount of your furniture. 

[o-be-swift]

just remembered that The Antlers got ruined for me in a really pretentious “song lyrics as poetry” class in undergrad (it was terrible, the teacher just wanted to be a milf and only called on the dumb hipster boys. 0 people of color or women wrote any song we analyzed). we interviewed the singer over zoom and he revealed that he’s a “ted hughes was right and sylvia plath was a psycho” guy which is in my top 10 worst possible sins

[gogogodzilla]

day 4, cock warming

charlie swan x reader warnings: nsfw 18+, slight dirty talk, unprotected sex, slight almost getting caught, brief handjob, domestic charlie swan kinktober ☠︎︎ main masterlist ☠︎︎ read on ao3

Sundays meant game day. They also meant Bella would be out of the house hanging out with Edward or one of the other Cullens. This also meant that you and Charlie got some much-needed alone time. The sun was setting, the last of the sun’s rays dipping behind the horizon. 

You padded into the dimly lit living room, cold beer in hand. The soft glow of the TV allowed you to make out your path. Charlie’s team had begun to lose horribly, and his eyes were beginning to glaze over. 

You set the beer on its designated coaster and approached his position sprawled out on the couch. Wordless you crawled on top of him, taking him by surprise. You rested your head on his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat

“Hey there,” he said, affection and curiosity evident in his tone. 

“Hey,” you replied softly, wrapping your arms around him. 

He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into his chest. Your sleep shirt left little to the imagination, and the bare skin was tantalizing. His hands drifted downward, and you forced yourself to focus on the game. 

You dragged yourself upward, making sure to grind against the imprint of his length. You disguised it as reaching for a blanket and covering the both of you. Charlie eyed you, the game completely forgotten, and you felt him twitch under you. 

His hands drifted under your sleep shirt and moved to cup your ass. Charlie sucked in a breath when he realized you weren’t wearing any underwear. 

“Whatcha up to, darlin’?”

You looked up at him innocently, “I’m just watching the game.” 

“Wanna explain where your underwear went?” 

You sat up to straddle him and grin. The blanket falls, splayed against Charlie’s thighs.  “Are you gonna search me, Chief Swan?” 

He dragged his fingertips along your bare thighs, eyes dancing across your features. “I think I might have to, miss,” he responded, donning the tone he used when he was working. 

Your smirk turned devilish as you slid your hand in between your bodies and palmed him. Charlie jutted his hips upward and met your movements. He leaned up to kiss you, his lips moving languidly against yours. 

His hands began to wander over the soft expanse of your back and eventually to your chest. He kneads your breasts and extends a thumb to glide across your nipple as you kiss him, eliciting a soft moan from the both of you. 

You pulled away and hooked a finger into the waistband of Charlie’s sweatpants and tugged, revealing what you’d been aching for all evening. You wrapped your hand around him and pumped it slowly, teasing him. He released a shaky breath as he bucked his hips. 

You lifted yourself up and swiped his cock through your folds, eliciting a gasp from the both of you. Slowly, you lowered yourself onto him. His large hands grip your hips and helped you down, watching as your dripping core swallowed his cock. 

He hissed as he bottomed out. “So fucking tight, baby.” 

The sound of jingling keys into the lock of your front door caused you to jump, your pussy clenching around Charlie. 

You were quick to grab the edge of the blanket and cover the both of you. Your head nearly collided with Charlie’s chin in your hurry to lie down and act inconspicuously. The pounding of his heart reverberated against the shell of your ear as you rested your head on his chest. He twitched inside you, nervousness mixing with excitement. You’d never done anything this risky before. 

Bella’s footsteps neared, and you prayed she couldn’t see the scarlet dusting your cheeks. All you could focus on was just how deep Charlie was inside of you, and it was making your mind hazy. 

“Hey!” Charlie called, attempting to keep his tone even. “You’re home early.”

You lifted your head slightly to look at the teenager. 

“Yeah, we have a test tomorrow. Edward wanted me to have time to study,” she said nonchalantly. Charlie nodded, feigning approval. “Enjoy the game, guys,” Bella waved her goodbye and headed for her bedroom. 

Once you heard the familiar sound of her door clicking shut, you breathed out a sigh of relief. Charlie let out a soft groan. 

“That was close,” Charlie murmured, shifting his hips slightly. You nodded, your core still fluttering around him.

“Too close.” 

“How ‘bout we watch the game in our room?” 

You grinned before sliding off of him, biting your lip to prevent yourself from moaning. Your arousal was nearly dripping down your legs as you stood, and heat rushed to your cheeks at the sensation. 

Charlie quickly tucked himself back into his sweatpants before standing up from the couch, the imprint of his erection still very evident.

You held out a hand to him. “Don’t wanna miss too much of the game.” 

“No, we don’t,” he answered, lacing his fingers with yours and leading you to the bedroom.

[scarletspider2the2ndpower]

“The Scarlet Thread,” Point One (Vol. 1/2012), #1.

Writer: Christopher Yost; Penciler: Ryan Stegman; Inker: Michael Babinsky; Colorist: Marte Garcia; Letterer: Joe Caramagna

[astraystayyh]

inhale, exhale.

model!hyunjin x photographer reader. mutual pining and tension and flirting. friends to lovers.

prequel to Breathe, so i highly recommend reading the second part if you haven’t already hehe. reader is wearing a dress/heels.

hyune gives me photoshoots and i give you brainrots in return it is the natural circle of life.. i hope you’ll enjoy this one too 🥹 feedback is highly appreciated as always <3

Hyunjin’s eyes are piercing, locking onto your figure with an intensity that seems to capture you in place. He’s leaning casually against his sleek black car, one leg crossed before the other, arms folded over his chest, unmoving as the sound of your heels echoes against the cobblestone.

Instead, he tilts his head ever so slightly at your approach, his eyes tracing the contours of your silhouette, setting ablaze the scarlet fabric of your gown with their fervent scrutiny.

It was those very brown eyes you first noticed when Minho showed you Hyunjin’s portfolio. You now know that he is drowned in a sea of accolades regarding his physique— his sculpted proportions, the tantalizing curve of his lips and the seductive caress of his fingertips against them, and above all, his alluring aura and the way he works the camera as if it as an extension of his being.

But it is his eyes that have drawn you in first. Piercing, even through a stack of printed photographs in Minho's hands, burning through paper to ensnare your attention. Even more so, when these same eyes found you for the first time, in an outing your best friend Minho organized— an aspiring photographer shaking the hands of an established model, it was a match made in heaven, per se.

Though heaven was the last thing to grace your mind as you looked at Hyunjin, at the way he carried himself with a grace, and a slight cockiness that only comes from knowing your worth.

You caught his eyes multiple times across the dinner table, your knees grazing his underneath it. You returned home with his perfume imprinted into your skin from the lengthy hours you spent talking over drinks, long after Minho went home to his lover, and three cats. You knew then that Hyunjin could never be just a friend to you.

You are even more sure of it tonight, a fleeting four months later. Minho, the heir of your country’s biggest talent agency is hosting his parent’s annual party, gathering photographers, models, and artistic directors alike, a chance to network and score deals you wouldn’t find elsewhere.

Hyunjin insisted on picking you up.

You pause barely a few inches away from Hyunjin, close enough for him to behold the glitter gracing your eyelids, shimmering beneath the moonlight. Smelling his perfume feels like coming home, and you close yourself for a millisecond longer, allowing yourself the electrifying pleasure of being a mere breath away from him.

“Hello, love,” he speaks softly, and his words morph into invisible fingers trailing down your spine, igniting goosebumps in their trail. You’ve never gotten used to this nickname and the way it stumbles so easily from his lips, as if you could, one day indeed, be his love, a reality hovering just beyond your grasp.

“Hi, Hyunjin,” you smile and his placid facade cracks a little, a glint of a grin shimmering on his lips. He drinks you in, his scrutiny deliberate and unhurried, his gaze moving languidly across your form, flickering between all your features as if he beheld time between his palms, and all his seconds could be spent admiring you. It is only when he seems satiated does he speak again.

“You’re beautiful,” he says earnestly, and you don’t miss his choice of phrasing, you’re beautiful as opposed to you look beautiful, as though it matters not what you are clad in, but the fact that it is you wearing it.

Oftentimes, your compliments to him feel superfluous, your words faltering when you think of the many times Hyunjin must have heard the same adjectives describing him. Yet tonight, you cannot conjure a sarcastic retort to drown his sweet words, not before his ebony suit and the satin shirt peeking beneath it, worst of all, the delicate cascade of gold necklaces that glisten mockingly underneath the stars, taunting you, almost, for being able to graze Hyunjin’s skin when you cannot.

So, you settle for the truth.

“So are you.”

“Complimenting me quite easily tonight?” He smirks, and you respond with an exaggerated eye roll, leaning in closer.

“Forget it. You're actually insufferable.”

He mirrors your movement, drawing nearer until your breaths mingle in the space between you both. “I am actually very lovable, thank you very much.”

“Says who?” you challenge, a hint of defiance coloring your words. The kiss he imprints on the tip of your nose comes like clockwork at your words.

“You,” he grins, and you falter, caught off guard by the unexpected tenderness of his gesture. Heat rises to your face, a blush betraying your composure, even beneath your already pink-kissed cheeks, and you curse inwardly at your own vulnerability.

You hate him. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted to kiss someone this badly.

He observes your reaction with amusement, a knowing smile playing upon his lips as he taps the car door once before opening it for you. “After you, love.”

Stepping into the sports car feels like walking into Hyunjin’s essence— the rich cognac and oak notes ricocheting off the interior, the scarlet red cushions echoing the passion Hyunjin seems to carry within him.

And amidst the opulent interior, the small water lilies keychain you brought him seems almost out of place, as it dangles from the rearview mirror. Yet, it makes you feel as if part of you has intermingled with Hyunjin’s being, even in the most simplest of ways.

“Are you nervous?” Hyunjin asks ten minutes into your ride, his fingers drumming along the edge of the steering wheel. Your gaze drifts to the golden rings adorning his fingers, each one bearing the iconic emblem of Versace's Medusa. In another life, he could easily be their ambassador and muse.

Hyunjin’s eyes are piercing, not only because of the flames they dip your body in but also because of the gentle way they unravel your layers, understand your silences more than others grasp your words.

“I am. It’s my first time coming as a graduate, you know? What if I don’t leave a good impression on anyone?”

“Impossible.”

Had someone else uttered those words you would have been inclined to contradict them, but Hyunjin speaks with utmost certainty, as if his words are the only conceivable reply to yours.

“Okay.”

His fingers trail along the shell of your ear, delicately tucking a stray lock of hair behind it. The breaths in your chest ebb and flow more rapidly, you don’t know if it is from nerves or his touch.

“Inhale with me,” he instructs, and you follow his lead, synchronizing your breath with his. His hand glides down your jawline, a gentle caress that soothes your racing pulse. “Exhale,” he murmurs, and you release a breath you didn't realize you were holding, comforted by the weight of his touch.

You know the ghost of his fingertips will remain with you as the night wears on, a reminder that he is near, just around the corner, waiting for you to call him.

“You’ll do well, I’m sure of it.”

The gathering is held in a different location every year, and this time, Minho chose an intimate setting—a dimly lit hotel bar, graced by the warm glow of chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, brown leather seats surrounding glass tables, and extravagant flower arrangements.

For a split second, your back instinctively hunches, a reflexive response before this detailed showcase of luxury. But then you straighten your spine, comforted by the sound of your clicking heels against the polished floor, and Hyunjin's warm palm against your lower back.

You reach for a drink from a passing tray, the glass cool against your fingertips as you swirl the cocktail within. You take note of the numerous guests, as you cast a glance around the room, each one a titan in their creative field. Hyunjin stands at your side, his shoulder brushing against yours, as he too takes his time in assessing the room.

“Seems kind of boring,” Hyunjin remarks, his voice laced with a hint of disinterest as he leisurely sips his drink.

“Seems like your scene,” you tease, flashing him a playful grin, and he arches a brow in response.

“Oh yeah? And what is my scene?”

“An intimate setting with romantic lighting and jazz music,” you explain, taking a step closer and resting a hand delicately on his arm. “And some wine,” you add, though his attention is captivated by the movement of your shimmering lips as you speak. “And pretty people eyeing you all over the place.”

“Are they?” he counters, his hand sliding slowly to your waist, drawing you nearer with a subtle pull. “I only see you.”

“Really?” you challenge, trailing a finger tantalizingly slow along his jawline, “Then make sure your eyes never leave me throughout the night.”

His gaze remains fixed on your retreating form, a mixture of bewilderment and desire swirling in his eyes. He mutters a curse at the sight of your backless dress— it seems more than likely that you are a killer sent to end him by the end of the night.

It’s a few hours later, and Hyunjin has exhausted every social bone in his being, each interaction draining his reserves of charm and charisma. All he craves now is rest, and the comfort of his home—it turns out that, lately, it is more and more wherever you are, rather than the confines of his house.

He spots you sitting in a secluded corner, bathed in the soft glow of a solitary candle. A gentle smile graces his lips as he observes you, engrossed in nibbling at the snacks laid out before you.

Do you even realize how beautiful you are?

“You’re whipped,” Minho's voice interrupts his thoughts, Hyunjin does not contradict him.

“Is it that obvious?” he replies with a hint of amusement, his eyes never flickering away from your figure.

“You should see how you look at them.”

“Is it weird that everywhere we go, the world seems to narrow down to them alone?” he admits, a tinge of uncertainty coloring his words. The silence that follows from Minho makes a scorching heat creep up his neck, so he unbuttons his shirt for a bit of respite.

Minho shakes his head, a small giggle escaping his lips, before offering a reassuring clap on Hyunjin’s back. “I’ll see you around.”

Hyunjin quickly strides towards you, eager not to waste any seconds far from you, propelled by a longing that grips him like a second skin. He thinks you’re much closer to his heart than the necklaces brushing against his bare chest.

“Found you,” Hyunjin announces with a grin as he settles onto the couch across from you. Your body relaxes once you recognize him, your smile blooms akin to the first petals unfurling in spring.

“See, you didn’t look at me all night,” you pout teasingly and he chuckles, tipping his head back.

“I actually was. I was looking at you, through my heart.”

“How does that even work?”

He hesitates for a moment before his next words spill forth, unfiltered and raw. “I don't need to see you to know that you are near, I just feel it.”

A moment of silence hangs between you before you smile sheepishly, tilting your head to the side in wonder. “How was your night?”

“Productive but tiring, and you?” he replies, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the warmth of your presence.

“I got a booking, a big one,” you announce with a grin, and his own smile mirrors yours instantly, his happiness following yours as if tethered by an invisible string.

“Really?”

“Yes, and I think I'll need your help. It needs to be in a bathtub and I know you are busy so it’s okay if—”

“I’m all yours,” he interrupts without hesitation, and you nod, heart swelling with gratitude.

It is quiet then, as you rest your head against the corner of the couch, and Hyunjin mirrors your gesture, his gaze never wavering from yours. The soft flicker of candlelight casts a warm glow upon his bare skin, the one unveiled by his unbuttoned shirt. And your mouth suddenly feels dry, and your heart suddenly aches, for him alone.

He brings his hand near his face, his rosy lips brushing against his knuckles, as your eyes trace the contours of his face— it seems to possess an otherworldly radiance, with dark locks cascading like silken strands, as if meticulously arranged by the hand of Aphrodite herself. Surely, she would adore him too, as would anyone who had the privilege of knowing him.

But you believe your adoration surpasses that of most.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your hand reaching out to rest delicately on his knee. “For finding me again.”

In response, his eyes soften, a gentleness that transcends mere words seeping into his gaze. He's no longer just around the corner; he’s right behind the door, both your hands poised on the doorknob. It is only a matter of time before one of you takes the plunge.

“Thank you for letting me find you.”

[spiralhouseshop]

We just added some books from Scarlet Imprint to the Spiral House the catalog!

Mystai: Dancing out the Mysteries of Dionysos by Peter Mark Adams

The Red Goddess

Apocalyptic Witchcraft by Peter Grey

Ani.Mystic: Encounters with a Living Cosmos by Gordon White

Star.Ships: A Prehistory of the Spirits by Gordon White

[fayes-fics]

Comfort

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict comforts his new wife when her courses arrive…

Warnings: mentions of menstruation, non graphic references to period blood. Otherwise, just the fluffiest of fluff.

Word Count: 2k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Thanks to @colettebronte for help with the title. Request fill for anon HERE, where Benedict comforts his new wife when her period arrives overnight. This might be the most saccharine-sweet fluff I have ever written. For my usual smut peeps… err, apologies? Normal filth will resume shortly, I'm sure lol. <3

You stir from your slumber to a dreaded dampness you know far too well. 

Oh dear heavens, no! 

Overnight, your courses have arrived without warning. Or perhaps, with hindsight, there were some signs, but you had assigned blame for the symptoms elsewhere. You had put your tiredness down to the exhaustive social whirlwind of your first ball as a Bridgerton. The dull lower back pain you had felt merely due to traipsing around the extensive grounds the host was keen to show off to all and sundry.

For a few moments, you lay staring frettingly at the ceiling, unsure what to do. You can tell that your nightgown and, likely, the bedsheets will carry evidence of this unwanted early arrival. You had plans to inform your lady's maids to prepare the following night. Trust your body to be at least a day early when you least need it. 

Next to you, your new husband of just fourteen days, Benedict Bridgerton, is sleeping soundly. You roll your head to look briefly at his handsome face in repose on the adjacent pillow, then bite your lip in anxiety.

Oh god, he cannot see this!! He simply cannot! What am I to do?!?

____

You had been taught a few things in the run-up to marriage by your Mama. One of them was never to mention or address the “monthly visitor” to your husband—it was a matter for you and your maids to deal with. On the nights you were “visited”, you were strongly counselled to sleep in your room rather than with your husband so he would not have to deal with “such unpleasantness”. This may have been logical advice for a regular wife of the Ton, but your mother probably never considered how non-traditional your husband would turn out to be. 

Hours after your nuptials, upon arrival at your new marital home - a wonderful brick townhouse just a few streets from Bridgerton House - you had politely inquired where your bedchamber was. At first, he laughed, then frowned when he realised you were serious. It turned out he had not made plans for, or indeed, set up a room for you separate from his.

“We are husband and wife now. We shall sleep together,” he explained, drawing you into his arms and planting a tender kiss on your forehead.

“But… every night?” you stuttered, still grappling with what exactly was expected of you as a wife.

“Yes darling,” he confirmed, still sounding vaguely bemused.

____

Since that day, you have shared a bed every night, which has been delightful for so many reasons. Indeed, you have never slept better in your life than in the two weeks since your wedding, falling asleep securely in his arms and awakening to his handsome, smiling face…

…Well, that is until now.

Now, you have no earthly idea what to do. 

You surmise it must be early, dawn breaking, a grey, feeble light peeking around the top of the heavy velvet drape curtains over the windows. Barely enough to see shapes and rough outlines as your eyes adjust. Not wanting to awaken Benedict by igniting a candle, you gingerly push back the bedspread and slide out as quietly as possible. In the mirror across the room, you catch sight of a scarlet bloom, visible even in this low light, so stark against your white cotton nightgown. Turning back around, your fears are fully realised when you see a mirror imprint left upon the sheet where you slept.

Horrified, you fly into a flurry of movements. Wanting to hide both your nightgown and the sheets you have sullied, albeit unintentionally. You slip as silently as you are able to the linen supplies cupboard and gather terrycloths designed for bathing. One, you wrap around yourself; another two, you decide to place upon the bed, hoping it will conceal the stain until your husband leaves the bedroom.  

You cannot wait to bathe but know that running a bath would surely awaken Benedict, the noise of water being poured into the echoey copper, even if across the hallway, being bound to rouse him.

Once back next to your side of the bed, you push the covers towards the middle and start to pull at the edge of the undersheet, hoping to slide a cloth under the stain and one atop, to stop the evidence from spreading. You glance furtively at your husband as you work, who unfortunately is turned onto his side facing towards you, as he often is when you awaken. 

In all heavens, could you not turn the other way just for once, my love? 

You move as stealthily as you can, so very keen to be unnoticed. The most challenging part is trying to wedge a cloth underneath, the sheet pulled taut by your husband's weight pinning down the other side. Just as you are fighting with both hands shoved far under the sullied sheet, you hear a sudden sharp intake of breath.

Oh no! He is awake.

His eyes fly open, and he squints as he takes in the sight before him. Then, a frown passes over his features.

“What on earth are you doing, my love?” his voice is deep and rough with sleep.

You whip your hands out from under the sheet, belatedly realising you are also muttering a repeated “no no, no no” under your breath as you attempt to reach for the upper cover and hide what has happened, but it is just out of reach, kneeling as you are beside the bed.

“Darling,” he sits up slightly, rubbing his eyes, obviously thrown off by your agitated state. “Please, whatever is the matter??” his tone rising in volume and concern.

Your eyeline falls reflexively upon what you are trying to conceal on the bedsheets, and his tracks yours. Unable to handle your embarrassment, you bury your head in your hands and slump backwards onto your heels, certain this will be repulsive to him.

“I am so sorry, husband; I was not expecting this to happen today; please forgive me,” you mutter defeatedly behind your hands, ashamed.

You are expecting a noise of derision or disgust. What you do not expect is a chuckle and then a large, warm hand brushing your shoulder.

“Darling, please get up off the floor,” his ask caring, no rebuke to be heard.

Your head slowly tilts up, and to your shock, he is leaning over onto your side of the bed, not far above the stain, and is observing you mildly befuddled benevolence.

“But, I…” you trail off, even as he reaches for your hand.

“It is fine,” he cuts in, squeezing reassuringly with his fingers. “You are a woman. Such things happen. There is no need for shame,” his eyes are soft with understanding. “I do have sisters, you know,” he adds with a sanguine laugh, a shorthand to explain his knowledge of your situation.

Your mouth falls open a fraction, completely taken aback by his affable, almost nonchalant reaction; it is very different from what your Mama taught you to expect. While you flounder in surprise, he rolls away and gets out of bed, padding around to your side, crouching next to you and drawing you into his arms.

“You… you are not repulsed?” you stutter as you recover, your brow creasing.

“Of course not, my love. It is perfectly natural, and there is nothing about you or your body that repulses me,” he assures, kissing your cheek. “In fact, it is very much the opposite,” his tone sincere and soothing.

You get lost in his hazy eyes and gentle smile, accepting his doting kisses that make you feel warm from head to toe. It is then he looks down and spies the bathing cloth you have swaddled yourself in from the waist down.

“I assume your nightgown is in a similar state? And that you would like to get clean?” he guesses empathetically as you nod demurely. “Then I shall summon the staff to run you a bath,” he hums, delicately brushing the stray strands of hair that had fallen askew in your scrambling efforts.

“Thank you, Benedict, so very much” you exhale, relieved and still slightly unmoored by his reaction.

His face breaks into that crooked smile that makes butterflies flutter under your ribs. 

“Please, my love, it is literally nothing. We have promised ourselves to each other for life. I expect to see this many more times,” he explains calmly as he rings a bell to summon his butler and presently provides instructions for a warm bath to be drawn and the bedding to be changed by the maids.

“You do not wish for me to sleep elsewhere when I am so afflicted?” you check as soon as you are alone again.

He chuckles as he did before. “Whatever for? You are my wife. I want you beside me all the time. It matters not to me if you have your courses. I still wish to fall asleep with you in my arms.” His sweet sincerity makes your heart skip a beat as he nuzzles your temple. “Although it has been a few short days since our wedding, I have rather gotten used to you being beside me. I cannot sleep soundly without you, my love. Nor would I want to try. We shall share our bed every night,” he adds solemnly.

“But, what if one of us is sick?” you inquire as he helps you to stand up from the floor, pulling you into his arms.

“‘Tis no bother. We shall surely both contract the same, seeing as we reside under the same roof; at least we can suffer in company,” he jests warmly into your ear as his hands rub your lumbar spine with a pattern that soothes the ache you feel there.

“What if you must travel for your art?” you challenge.

“I would be heartbroken if you did not come with me,” he volleys back with a playful pout that you can't help but giggle at.

“What if one day we have a child, and they will not rest without their mother?” your question is almost timid, knowing there is a bloom on your cheeks at the very thought.

He cups your jaw gently and tilts your face to look up into his. His mien is so devoted that the air is stolen from your lungs. 

“Then they shall simply sleep between us, my love. It will be my child, too. You will not be alone. Not when you have your monthly courses and not in the raising of our children. Of that, I promise,” his cadence is lilting and ardent.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe shakily, scarcely able to believe that the man you married is nothing like how your mother had warned. It makes you feel so grateful you cannot stop your emotions, heightened at this time of the month, from bubbling over.

A large, warm thumb blots the tears that gather at the corner of your eyes without comment; he just accepts your state, bussing a kiss onto your forehead.

“I love you, y/n,” he breathes, warm air gusting over your skin.

“I love you too, Benedict,” your reply muffled into his neck as you mould into his strong embrace, remaining there until a lady’s maid taps on the door to convey that your bath is ready.

And true to his word, over the years, you are never a night without your husband. Through many monthly courses, through sickness and health, through children and even grandchildren. It is always his face you see just before your eyes droop closed and the moment they flutter open again. Your safe space. Your comfort. 

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb

[lilac-5ky]

Aftercare (Toji xFem!Reader)

Summary: A little something where Toji takes care of his darling after a rough session.

w.c: slightly over 800

tags: MDNI, mentions of spanking, creampie, overstimulation, choking, deep throating, daddy kink, marking, Toji being a softie

“You fuck me as if you hate me,” you say with voice shaky, completely out of breath and barely of volume as Toji’s final strand of tousled obsidian hair fades past the door frame, the world slowing down just a bit.

And it is true. He’s left plenty of evidence on your body to be accused of such a heinous crime— The swollen folds of your reddened cunt and the gaping hole that dribbles rich ropes of cum (Toji never liked the idea of wasting a good load on rubber), both agonizing over his absence. The glossy eyes and smeared lipstick (You’d worked so hard to look good for your first-anniversary dinner). The rough imprints of his calloused fingers already settling into a darker shade of pink around your throat. The purple bruises that bloom across your skin like debouched morning glories, cascading all the way down to the sore nipples he’d thoroughly sucked, licked, and bitten into this obscene state.

And that’s only as far as your front side is concerned. No need to think about the persistent sting on both your cheeks or the mean palms that relentlessly smacked them whenever you protested you couldn’t take it— Him.

Don’t go back on me now, sweetheart. I know you can. Pussy’s made for daddy’s cock, mm?

Toji really fucked you as if he despised you with every fiber of his being, but all notion of hatred seems to evaporate when he comes back with a towel drenched in hot water and a warm cup of chamomile. He scoops you in his arms so effortlessly, tucking your head below his chin as if it’s the most precious thing to him— and it just might be, with the way he wipes his mess from between your jiggly thighs, nub so sensitive that when his knuckles brush up against it a whimper is coaxed.

Shhh, he coos, and you feel the timbre of his voice melting in your ears; reverberating in his chest, littered with little crescent moons that trace back to his broad shoulders. You aren’t the one to go down without a fight. You clawed and thrashed your way out of every shuddering orgasm he ripped out, proving the hatred run mutual between the two of you, and at the reminder you smile. A shy smile, not for his eyes, but for his body to feel, as the curl of your lips pressed against each and every kitten claw you could find.

His first instinct is to flinch away. He’s not used to an affection that isn’t packed with pain, but he’s been learning and making steady progress. Because as good as Toji is at hating people to death, he’s come to know that love has ways of killing, too. He feels it every time your eyes meet across a full room; every time your head lifts from your delicate prose to catch him staring rather crudely; every time you welcome him with a grin, even the times when he’s soaked in blood from head to toe, and every time his name leaves your lips as either a moan or a chant, he threads it into a rosary.

The man he once was before he met you is no longer in existence. The wretched, vile, beast of a man who lived for himself and cursed all others. He hasn’t taken on a new gig in months. Hangs up the phone whenever he sees Shiu’s name on it and has memorized all his burner phone numbers. Rejects the heftiest bounties so that your tears, whenever you search for new scarlet strokes on him, remain sheathed behind your eyelids.

He doesn’t want to have to say he’s sorry again. Even if he’s somehow become worthy of your love, he doesn’t think scum like him should be worthy of your worrying. He is an inmate on death row and you are his executioner, and how fitting that is, for he can’t think of a better way to die than from the choke hold around his heart.

He makes sure the towel picks up every last residue of his essence, blows at the smoking cup, and tips it closer to your lips. You gobble it up so fast, dehydrated from the brutal gagging session he subjected you to, and he should be ashamed that seeing you this broken makes his cock twitch again. He still has a few more rounds left in him, but he’ll hold back. As fun as ruining you and reassembling you is, he needs you whole right now.

Once the cup is drained, he sets it on the nightstand and scrubs your jaw with the pad of his thumb. He wonders if the beverage made it down your throat because there’s water running all over your tits. So messy, he hums and reaches for the towel again, and the words that follow, flow so naturally.

“I fuck you because I love fucking you. I fuck you because I fucking love you.”

A/N: brainrot brainrot brainrot brainrot brainrot, h e l p. In the process of writing a proper smut about him. Not sure when it'll drop cause I'm swamped.

[pearlcigs]

⋆ spank me!

her calloused hands were gentle on the irritated skin. soothing over the red imprints of her handprint plastered on you ass from the ruthless amount of times she's spanked you. kneading the fatty flesh, watching the fat tears roll down your puffed out cheeks. "learn your lesson, baby?" she mutters, fixing the waist band of your underwear, smoothing out any wrinkles she could find on the small fabric. you let out a quiet "humph", not wanting to admit to her that you were even being a brat in the first place.

ellie rolled her eyes at your stubbornness, unwavering her stern attitude. her hand raised again, clashing down just as fast on your supple ass. a soft whimper leaves your lips, another set of tears burning down your face. you wanted to be tough, continue with the bratty act just to spite ellie but the sting on your ass was starting to be unbearable. "okay! 'm sorry, el... i learned my lesson, 'm sorry! no more, please, no more." you cried, begging her to stop, despite how wet it made you in the beginning. "aw, poor baby." ellie mocks, quickly moving to sooth the scarlet marks to try and numb most, if not all, of the pain.

you frowned. ellie's teasing was what got you in this position in the first place. your frown didn't go unnoticed. she chuckled to herself before helping you sit up, and helping you lay on the bed. she lays next to you, her hand resuming it's position on your ass. her lips are covering your faces in kisses. "did so good f'r me, mama." she praises in a low voice, her hand inconspicuously moving from your ass to your cunt, rubbing your core through your soaked underwear. your eyes were closed, cuddling into her and letting her slid your panties off, whimpering at the cold breeze.

"sh, sh, sh, baby. lemme make it up to you." she smiles, kissing the corner of your mouth, middle finger circling your clit with ease. you hide your face in her neck, soft moans projecting into her ear. "shouldn't even be rewardin' you right now." she mutters, admiring the sight of you. "i said sorry, el..." you whined, hoping she wouldn't take the pleasure away. "i know, honey. you're so, so sorry, aren't you?" you nodded at her words. they weren't cruel but the tone of her voice suggested otherwise. "bet you think it's all my fault that you were bein' a brat, hm?" you don't respond to that one which earns you a slight pinch to your clit. "what am i gonna do with you?" she sighs with a chuckle.

I NEED ELLIE TO SPANK ME SO BAD OH MY GOD RANDJDKIS

[arcane-offerings]

Frater Acher. Black Abbot · White Magic: Johannes Trithemius and the Angelic Mind. London: Scarlet Imprint, 2020. Hardback edition. 212 pages. Limited to 900 numbered copies in white bonded leather (#221/900). Illustrations of Trithemius, Pelagius and Ramon Llull by Jose Gabriel Alegría Sabogal. 

Shop link in bio.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Arcane Offerings (@arcaneofferings)