#The scold's bridle

[rosalie-starfall]

Dr. Sarah Blakeney

The Scold's Bridle - 1998

[hood-ex]

I'm reading about prisons for women in the 17th-19th centuries, and since women would be confined to male prisons (where they endured horrific abuse), I'm now thinking about sending Dick and Donna to prison together so they can protect the women from the men.

[kukushkakukushka]

German Scold’s Bridle

The mid-16th century saw the emergence of the German scold’s bridle, a brutal mechanism intended to chastise and mute individuals considered overly vocal. Constructed from iron and designed to encase the head, this painful device symbolized severe punitive measures.

[moocha-muses]

This one is also for @dunne-ias, and it's still about tongues.

The burning and drowning and stoning of witches had been forbidden in his own small corner of the world. It was a sop from the local leaders, suckling greedily at tit of Rationality to pretty themselves up, to whore themselves out to Logic as though Superstition had given them one too many vicious slaps. Witches were not real, and you could not bury an unreal thing in stones. And, in fact, he found himself in agreement with them. The idea that the Devil, having power to give away, might give it to women- frivolous, vicious, stupid, slatternly women? If there were any true power to be dosed out, surely it would go to- Well. The powers that were might refuse to believe that a woman could consort with the Devil, or give the Evil Eye to a cow, but even Reason's most eager sluts would admit that women did have tongues and that they did surely abuse them. And they did agree that the Scold's Bridle was a device of ingenuity and charm but wasn't it sometimes a chore to look upon women disfigured thus? Wasn't the community itself being punished by locking pretty faces up behind iron bars? Surely there had to be some more efficient way, some way that would leave these hateful gossips just as pretty. Just as long as you never looked inside their mouths. And do you know? Once again, he agreed.

[ambimoon]

scold's bridle

[alanakarsch]

If you ever wonder why women (and anyone in a marginalized and/or racialized body) is fearful of speaking up, being their true selves, being noticed...Here's a visual for you.

This is a scold's bridle. It was used as punishment. Women were to wear it on the street as passerbys watched. The bridles were often made of iron, encased their head and face, and depressed the tongue, sometimes with a spike. Sometimes there was a leash attached to lead the woman down the road and further humiliate her.

We carry these stories in our bodies, and they still have an impact now.

What do you feel when you see these images, and read about this act of abuse?

[like-butterflies-and-glitter]

gwen and ianto only ever making the most appropriate use of objects found around the hub.

[piraterefrigerator]

what's a very obscure fact you know ?

I'll go first - the separation of plants into fruits, veggies, nuts, berries, herbs etc differs from a botanical and culinary perspective, which is why you hear so often that "tomato is a fruit" (botanically) or that bananas are berries (again, botanically)

OOO THAT'S NEAT!

I have many obscure facts but uhh- here's a fun one!

Some time last year I was doing research for a whumptober fic and looked up methods of pirate torture, and this lead me to spend the entire day researching medieval torture methods

So one that I found really interesting is called the scolds bridle, some gruesome shit below the cut

This is the devil in question. It went on a woman's head and the protruding bit there stuck in her mouth to hold her tounge down, preventing her from talking. Some of them had spikes on the mouthpiece so that if the woman tried to talk she'd have her tounge ripped to shreds.

They were locked on and the woman's husband or father typically had the key, and were often used on women who "gossiped too much" and things of the sort

This turned into less of a fact and more of an unsettling ramble so forgive me

[masquenoire]

Roman is very much an avid reader, especially when it comes to historical methods of torture. The Judas Cradle, the Iron Maiden, the Wooden Horse, the Brazen Bull and more are all methods he’s tried recreating from time to time but mainly sticks with his ‘tried and tested’ original methods he’s come up with over the years. Scaphism is one particular method he’d love to try out sometime, to prolong his victim’s suffering and see how long it takes for one to die in Gotham’s considerably cooler climate.

[maretriarch]

my (feminist) ponysona, feedbag

[batrogers]

THREE: MUZZLED [Four Swords Adventures. Rating: M]

Vio was glad it was him and not Red who fell for that trap.

Well, any of them would've been stupid enough but he'd been the more rash of the group from the start so it was probably not much of a risk anyone else would've fallen for it. A pretty witch girl, a promise of dinner, and a little adoration and... Now, he was kneeling somewhere in a closed room across from a table with no chairs, half dressed with no clue where his sword was.

It was stupid. This was stupid.

"You just look stupid," he said aloud, and the sorcerer turned and glared. Vio smirked back.

"I did not ask you to speak."

"Didn't think an invitation was necessary."

"When your brother's arrive, they will find whatever I see fit to leave of you and if you do not desist..."

Vio smiled widely. "No, no finish the sentence. I can't rate you on a scale of scariness if you don't. Like, if you're just gonna punch me what do I care?"

He did care; he cared a lot, in fact, but he knew even as the man stalked up to his face and grabbed him by the hair that doing nothing would not hurt less than doing something. He (they) had learned that lesson a long time ago.

"I can force you to shut up, then," he snarled.

Vio bared his teeth.

Deep within the sorcerer's hood, Vio watched the shadows of his face contort, moving from annoyance to rage. The man dropped him, then backhanded him across the face. The stones on his rings cut him, but even as the blood began to trickle down his face the man stalked away.

"Pathetic," Vio snapped.

"Be still!" The man turned and a blast of power hit him where he knelt.

Vio froze. He couldn't breathe. This didn't scare him initially. He'd be fine; he'd done this before. He had to let him go eventually, right?

Except... he didn't. The man turned away again and left the room, and left him frozen like that as his lungs struggled; struggled and failed. His vision blurred (worse than normal, that was) and then black and red spots began to dance across his vision. They grew wider and wider, until, suddenly, the whole world went dark.

He woke up choking. He struggled, trying to push himself up but his hands were tied now to his feet. There was also a metal frame around his head. The side of it pressed into his cheek on the floor, but the worst was the metal bar against his tongue. He moaned and tried to slide his tongue free.

He tasted blood instead; a metal spike dug in and he had to fight himself into freezing, not biting down, not screaming. He couldn't do anything but force himself to remain perfectly calm.

Thankfully, he could still swallow before he had to let the blood run down his face. He focused, isntead, on the bindings on his wrist: those were less well done. He breathed carefully through his nose and focused on the slight give on his wrists. His hands were small for his age, and he'd been tied up like this loads of times before.

The sorcerer turned and he went dead still. He opened his mouth slightly around the bit and let some of the blood run out, dripping onto the floor. He couldn't quite make himself cry, but he knew if he kept his face blank enough he'd look deadened, uncaring, and defeated. Carefully, he didn't meet the man's eyes.

"I had to look all around town for one of those, you know," the man said, as though this was normal conversation. "They're not as popular as they once were. People put up with too much chatter now. If you keep your tongue in check, it won't be cut again."

Vio nodded, eyes still low and the man turned back around.

His hand slipped free of the ropes, skin burned from the wriggling but it didn't matter. He slipped it off his other wrist and started carefully untying it from between his ankles. He had no idea what the man was doing but it didn't matter. It wouldn't be good; it probably would only hurt him more, and while the iron bars around his face were uncomfortable and heavy, he could handle that, at least once he was free enough to confirm that wasn't tied down either. He didn't think so. He tucked his head forward, as though in shame, and it moved freely in that way.

The man didn't even turn around at the sound of the metal on stone.

Fucking useless ass.

[twinkandwink]

I've not seen Wych Elm for a while, in fact the last time I saw them I and quite a few others got Covid after the gig and ended up isolating that Christmas. So determined to see them again as for some reason or other I've missed some of their recent gigs, I went down to The Lanes freebie offshoot of Simple Things Festival.

Pics & vid - tracks - Scolds Bridle

Wych Elm - The Lanes, Bristol 24/2/24

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon, abuse of power, Christianity, blasphemy, medieval times, corrupt priest, torture devices, abuse, punishment, misogyny, public humiliation, execution of non-named characters

♡ FEM reader

A scold's bridle, sometimes called a witch's bridle, a gossip's bridle, a brank's bridle, or simply branks, is an instrument of mirror punishment utilized by the church to publicly humiliate women who speak out of turn.

And you’ve unfortunately been deemed one of them…

You can only regret it now—wish you’d kept your mouth shut—wish you’d just held your tongue and spared yourself the poetic justice. You’d even been warned—that’s the dumb part, the part that makes the regret even more bitter. You’d been told gossipping would only land you in a world of hurt, and you, brave-faced and foolish, had ignored the advice. And now you’re facing the consequences.

Branks, an awful contraption, act as a muzzle in an iron framework, caging the head—quite like a helmet—a heavy helmet. Tight and trapping, it’s enough to make your head ache after a mere minute of wear. But that’s not the worst part. No, the worst part is the bridle-bit—a metal wedge about two inches long and one inch wide in size, of which they slide into your mouth, pressing down on top of your tongue—silencing you entirely. 

But being unable to talk is only the first and least of many discomforts—as it also makes your jaw cramp up, and makes a humiliating amount of drool run wild down your chin—making you look like some or other rabid street mutt that’s ben muzzled for its own good.

The chunky metal collar you’re made to wear doesn’t help negate that imagery, nor does the bell attached to it—drawing in the crowds to the town square where you’ve been put on display, fastened to the tron for public judgment and ridicule.

Oh, and they are full of it today.

Standing there, an army of justice—warped faces and pointed fingers. The kids throw rotten fruit, and the elders fouler words—calling you a Jezebel. 

At least you’re not alone up there but sharing the burden with a handful of other miscreants. One’s bent over in the pillory beside you—another three stand next to him up on the gallows, shaking in their piss-soaked boots, noose loosely around their necks—soon-to-be hangmen. 

Thank God the worst things are thrown their way—at least they’ll be set free of it soon. 

The poor sinners hang there still as the sun starts to set and most of the crowd’s gone home for the day, crows picking at the jelly of their dead eyes while the town’s church officer leads you away by leash.

With your hands and arms bound behind your back, you stumble barefoot and gracelessly through the streets—yanked along all the way from the town square up the hill to the church at the top for your final ruling. 

You’re made to kneel on the cobblestone where the clergyman chains your iron collar to the wall.

You’d always pitied those put in the jougs, though you’d also thought them deserving—never knowing you’d be one of them someday. Now you know first-hand what being deserving means. In a town as small as this, where word travels as quickly as you can speak them, only a few ill thoughts will turn everyone against you.

Everything is in a state of discomfort, but at least you’ve finally escaped the town people’s heckling—now secluded in the peaceful quiet of God’s house to reflect in solitude. 

Or… at least, that’s the standard procedure for such offenses.

“Alright then, little magpie,” the church officer announces while unscrewing the cruel headpiece.

It’s surprising. You’d for sure thought he’d leave it on. It was your understanding that it’s common for the scold to wear the bridle until morning and only then be freed. 

But in any case, be it by pity or mercy, you’re ever grateful nevertheless and won’t complain. 

But then, promptly after freeing your mouth from the bit, the man takes hold of your exhausted jaw and gives you a grave warning in its replacement, “Speak out of turn again, and it will go back on for another day in the tron.”

Goosefleshed and ashen from the spoken threat, you do your best to abide by it and remain quiet like the other church mice.

To which the father hums pleasedly, “Nod your head for me if you understand now, magpie.”

You do, looking up at him obediently—hoping he’d see it as enough and deem your punishment fully served, maybe even remove your bonds and collar as well.

“Good.” 

He smiles knowingly, then drops your head. Scoffing loudly, “But of course… a bitch will always prefer being free from the muzzle… Don’t necessarily make ‘em well-behaved.”

You flinch at the words, eyes wide, looking up into his gaze, feeling small under the weight as he leers down his nose at you worse than that of the crowd earlier. 

But what really makes your stomach curl are his ringed hands and how they move to his robes.

“Let’s see if this newfound virtue of yours is true and not just another one of your brazen tricks, shall we?” he suggests, leisurely undoing the knots to his drapes.

“When I’m done, and if you have managed to hold your tongue, I’ll consider you disciplined enough to return home,” he explains, dropping his attire unceremoniously by his feet before taking hold of your chin again. “If not, the bridle will go back on, and we will continue the lesson in the morning and every day onward until your mouth is as honest as if in the confessional.”

Your eyes flicker between his and peaking forward, barely withstanding whimpering when laying your eyes on it—the thing below his belly nearing your face.

“Remember now, magpie, no making a sound—neither word nor moan. I want complete silence.” 

The grip on your chin tightens, and your eyes dart back up to his. 

“Now open that gossiping trap of yours and accept God’s judgment.” 

His other hand holds it in a gentler caress from your face, giving it a few languid rubs before knocking it against your sealed lips, ordering them to open. 

It shocks you—enough to have you swallow a gasp—almost making an illicit sound that would all but seal your fate with the scold’s bridle for another day of suffering.

“Did you not hear me, girl? I said–” Impatient and roughened by his anger, he lets go of your jaw and deals a sharp blow to your cheek next. “Open your no-good sinning mouth!” 

The hand goes to your hair next, tangling within the tousled locks to give your scalp a hard tug.

Again you’re in danger of making a sound but manage to stifle it by screwing your eyes shut—quickly baring your tongue for the priest and pliantly accepting the salty offering placed upon it soon after as if receiving communion on any other Sunday mass.

“That’s it, magpie—” he says then, softer now in praise. “No more tall tales, no more nagging.” His grip eases up but remains to hold you steady as he slowly and rightfully slides his length down to the very back of your throat. Groaning, “Just be a good girl, now. Close your lips around me and suck—and you’ll soon be forgiven.”

You obey, locking your lips around him, tasting the sweat and tang, withstanding gagging as you force yourself into suckling and swallowing the foreign flavors down. 

“Good. You see?” he sighs out in a groan, pleased while fucking your mouth. 

Tangling both hands in your disheveled hair, he sets a rhythm of pulling you away and reeling you back in close—a tempo more than fair for an amateur throat like yours—only just deep and fast enough to make his weighty balls swing and graze your chin on every thrust. 

“If all a woman does is run ‘er mouth—only using it to bitch and moan—they’ll never learn what it’s truly good for,” he gruffs, sinking deeper and settling there, holding your skull in place from pulling back. “But I’ll show yah—don’t worry.”

Your head soon heats up—bleeding red and thick with it—feeling tight and trapped and in dire desperate need to draw air—or at the very least, make some sort of discomforted sound in lack of it—yet under strict order to remain deadly silent. 

“Good god, girl—I’m going all the way down that tight, hot guzzle—” he drawls, bullying deeper—and deeper. Hissing as he bottoms out, “Just the way God intended!”

His hips stutter, wearing your throat like a holster—lips stretched around his fat shaft, kissing his pubes with your nose buried in his well-fed belly.

With eyes rolling back beneath tightly shut lids, seeing spots of light in the enclosing void, you can’t help but flinch when hit with the glob of spit that falls and splatters between your brows. But at least the laughter that echoes throughout the church hall drowns out the sound of your heaving for air once he finally pulls out and frees your throat.

Maintaining a fist in your hair, he keeps you close—your temple to his hip, nose-kissing his strung shaft—struggling to catch your breath while his chuckles die down into humored hums.

“I’ve never had a throat that deep before,” he scoffs with a cruel smile—yanking your hair once again, pulling it back to make you face up. “One might call it witchcraft.” 

Another hard slap is dealt in the same spot as earlier. 

“Are you a witch maybe, magpie?” 

And a third smack. 

“Do I haf’to tie you to the stake next—have ourselves a roast?

Feeling your cheek sting white-hot, you shake your head—fighting to keep your whimpers at bay as silent tears dampen your cheeks—puffing up and rushing with blood post-strike, dulling to a numb yet lingering ache.

He doesn’t show mercy. Instead, it seems the pitiful display only makes him more rowdy—shoving you down to the cold cobblestone with an evil gleam in his eyes.

“Then let’s see you praise the Father,” he barks. “Bow and kiss his holy floor. I’ll judge whether you're a witch or not.”

You’re leash only barely gives you enough leeway to lower yourself. Hands remaining bound up tight behind your back, balled up and shaking in their knots as you bend over until your lips brush the dusty church stone.

“No, not a witch… but—” he hums, though not entirely convinced yet. “A true Christian would savor the taste of God's house.”

Your brows cinch, but you still do as suggested—producing your tongue and dragging it across the filthy tile—collecting dry silt and larger grains of sand—leaving behind a darkened wet trail on the otherwise ashen rock.

“That’s it, magpie,” the clergyman croons with a sneer. “Put that gossipping little tongue of yours to better use.”

You obey, eyes closed, continuing to lick the floor like a dog—fearing worse things would come if you didn’t. Wanting it all to be over and figuring if you just listen, it’ll be done quicker and as pain-free as you could hope.

“But do you deserve it?” he asks then, after a pause of watching you with his cock in hand, tugging it with raspy breaths getting rustier—continuing with a gritty tone, “An unwed woman can only serve the lord if she’s pure.”

His other hand returns to your hair for a third time, pulling you up by the tresses in a stinging grip.

“Are you pure, magpie?”

Goosefleshed by his darkened tone, you cower under his pointed glare. Keenly nodding your head as much as his hand allows.

Still, he doesn’t seem convinced. Huffing, “We’ll see.” 

He drops you again. Now, with a new order, “Turn and bow with your tongue back on the floor.”

You do as he says, though shakily. Gut folding and churning within—throat tight, even under the metal collar, snaring—making your head pound with alarm as you shift on your knees until you’re facing the wall with your back to him, lowering your head down until your swollen cheek neatly squish against the cool stone—tongue splayed out on the earthy rock once again—with your rear raised for the priest’s inspection.

Your nails sink into your palms in the same painful crescents as before while the clergyman lifts your greyed and tattered frock like he’s unveiling a blushing bride—and, similarly to the groom, throws the skirt atop your sloped back, bunched up with the rest of your dirtied dress—leaving your legs and thighs and ass bare to his preying eyes.

He rumbles heavily, pleased by the sight of your pretty little virgin cunt—quivering in the crude and callous open air.

Crouched behind you in perfect level with it, you can all but feel his eager leer rake through you before his finger does—slicing through your pussy-lips and quickly disappearing inside your formerly untouched hole.

You flinch, squirming at the unfamiliar feeling—breaths damp against the ground as you await the verdict.

“It’s tight,” he grumbles, assessing you with a knuckle-deep digit, before scoffing, “But surely… no true virgin is this wet.”

Your eyes widen at the accusation, and he slips his finger out again and stands up with a sigh, “I can’t make sure with a finger alone.”

Then suddenly, he grabs onto of your hanches and lifts your hips higher until your thighs straighten up—and promptly lays his still-hard and hot-blooded member to rest between the cheeks. With his knees bent, a toppling tower over you, he slides through the crevice, rubbing upon your scrunched asshole as he does.

You stir for the first time, but his hold tightens in turn.

“Keep that tongue out, magpie. And don’t you dare make a single sound, y’hear? Or else the branks go back on.”

You fall still—scared in place—eyes screwed shut as his cock falls from the peak of your ass down to your glistened entrance, prodding the small opening with the tip, trying to force it inside, but kept at bay until the narrow ring of muscle finally gave and allowed him to tear through.

“Wheew—undoubtedly a virgin!” he whistles with his head gaining purchase. Groaning at the close fit. “Taut and tight and sensitive—and just perfect for taking seed.”

Meanwhile, you suck in a gasp—tongue still pinned to the floor—only barely managing to suppress the cry that had wanted to follow. 

Choking it down, you nurse yourself through it with a string of deep breaths instead—even as he starts prying further inside—letting your cunt hold the head as he gives it shallow digs, working you open to take his full length.

“That’s it—good magpie,” he moans, pulling you back on his cock by your hips, treading you on like a sleeve. “Take it deep.”

He starts thrusting, and your breath weakens into thin stutters—tongue hanging limply from your mouth all on its own. Eyes glazed, looking toward nothing—rocked steadily as the corrupt priest pounds you like a cheap whore—sore cheek scraping against the stone floor. 

And still, you’re silent—as if having taken a vow.

The only sounds echoing throughout the church are the clergyman’s grunts and the steady fwop fwop fwop of his balls clapping your sopping cunt—almost reminiscent of the church bell’s clangoring.

“Almost there now, magpie,” he chimes from above. “Milk my cock and take my seed in your womb, and you’re forgiven.”

It almost sounds too good to be true. Even as everything aches and you’ve become certain you might just remain mute forever onward, the thought of freedom is enough to bring new hopeful tears to your pitiful eyes. So, as the warmth of his release soils your inside, it’s also joined by overwhelming relief.

A moment or more passes. You don’t take your tongue off the floor, and he remains above you, pumping his load into your deep, dumping it all at depth as if burying some dirty secret. 

At some point, he pulls out—cock now sluggish and spent. You feel its spillage matte on the inside of your thighs—also hidden as he drapes your skirt back in place.

Unbothered with his own clothes, he stands there before your bowed body—now with an accent of full-bellied satisfaction as he pronounces you free of sin in bad Latin—crossing his chest and kissing his knuckle before looking up to the ceiling at the God you’d grown sure he didn’t even believe in.

“Rejoice, magpie,” he mocks while leaning over you to untie your hands. “You’re now free to go.”

But as you lift your head, he still holds out on removing your collar. 

Holding your chin instead, he looks down at you like before, saying, “But it would do you good to remember…” His free hand taps your cheek, softer now but hard enough to make you cringe. “You run that bitch mouth again, and in my church on your knees is where you’ll end up. Understand?”

And just like before, you nod your head for him—still as silent as a church mouse eager to escape the beast’s ugly jaws.

He seems pleased with that and gives you a crooked smile, purring, “Good.” 

He then fishes the keys to your collar from his heaped robes and, at long last, unlocks it from your throat.

And by God, it feels like being set free from hell.

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[stemms]

@haunted-here

I forgor to post this here,,,

[nyxxxx-onepieces-dragun]

Ace Boyfriend HC

A/N: Js a bunch of fluff and random things that came to mind and its quite long but enjoy ;3 Characters: Ace x Fem!reader mentions of other characters aswell this is a SFW HC but I might make a NSFW one so stay tuned for that!

SFW HC:

When you first started dating Ace would love to give you sweet little love letters. It's sweet yet not too much and they would say something like "your my never ending thought, A."

definitely be prepared for the ultimate princess treatment. Oh your hungry? he's already running to Thatch asking demanding it be made for you right then and there, your feet hurt? no problem he'll just give you a piggyback or carry you bridle style.

I think Ace would be too shy to approach you despite his confident and gentleman appearance he just doesn't want to mess things up so instead he asks you out via letter that went along the lines of "Lets flip a coin. Heads, your mine. Tails I'm yours." he definitely didn't have Marco put it on your desk in your cabin

He loves physical touch it reminds him that he's not alone and your like the calm in his storm keeping him there and anchored.

Also if you want him to melt while you both are chilling in his cabin he's on his stomach sleeping soundly just go over and start massaging his back, bonus points if you dance your fingers over his Whitebeard tattoo, now its a daily thing for you and if you don't do it please do it he'll be all whiny and pouty "Y/nnnn~ please can you rub my back?? I promise just for 15 minutes!" you do it for about three hours hehe

He never ever takes you out on missions with him, afterall he is the 2nd division commander and he takes on some serious missions but when you do arrive on a new island you best bet he is right there at your hip keeping a protective arm draped over you and watching out for anyone who might try anything he's so golden retriever please love this man with all your heart

He's great at being big spoon and being your personal heater but he looooves being little spoon it makes him feel safe and calm in your arms as you run your fingers through his raven locks all that day's stress washes away and he feels content knowing that someone will always be there for him no matter what.

One time Ace tried to set up a romantic little boat date and everything was going great the moon was high up stars twinkling in the sky as you both ate fruit together he was sat across from you and before you knew it his narcolepsy kicked in and his face was now in your chest as he snored soundly.

At first you were confused and a bit flustered since he was so...close but you ended up just running your fingers through his hair waiting for him to awake and when he did...this man got redder than a tomato apologizing over and over again.

But the more frequently it happened the more bolder he got and at some point he would just stay there burying his face more into your chest which in return landed him slaps on the back of his head and scolding while you were a flustered mess "so comfy~ OUCH! it's not my fault I fell asleep!"

this is my first time writing I'll try to get better in the future but Thanks for reading this reposts are welcome just credit me! & <3

[the-lazarus-sign]

Whumper who uses historical "torture devices" vs Historian Whumpee who knows that 90% of those devices were never used historically

Whumpee would still be in agony from the torture, yes, but couldn't help but correct as they get a Scold's Bridle strapped on