#jointure

[everyitachi]

another win for me... before on the left, after on the right

[fideidefenswhore]

Jane Seymour's jointure included possessions of former lands in Essex, Surrey, and Middlesex, as well as those of Lord Hussey. Rumors spread by people unacquainted with her claimed that she opposed the dissolution of the monasteries [...] however, those that knew her [...] believed that she was willing to accept and dispose of possessions of dissolved monasteries.

Elizabeth of York and Her Six Daughters-in-Law, Retha M. Warnicke

[jade-curtiss]

Le salon dégueulassement inconfortable pour un temps sans selfie. Tout le monde était déçu par cet invest, mais quand le chat a transformé une chaise en maison a chat on a tous ben ri, mais c'était po sécuritaire (shit a ressort en n'sais po quoi on airait dit de la fonte) so on a crissé so au vidange.

[twola]

pls pls pls can we have a little drabble of arthur eating reader out 🧎🏻‍♀️ i can’t stop thinking about him hidden underneath her skirts so she can only feel his lips on her

Ladylike

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

It’s certainly not ladylike, these noises that you’re making - gasping, moaning, wailing-

“Arthur please-”

Begging.

But no, the outlaw beneath your skirts would not give you mercy, licking and sucking and squeezing. He had crawled in between your thighs as the two of you lounged in the mountain meadow, bright red poppies scattered on the hillside.

Your breath hitches as he nibbles at the the sensitive skin of the jointure of your thigh and cunt.

He licks one long, slow stripe up the seam of your body, tongue parting your folds, and a broken sound of pleasure escapes you as your dig your fingers into the dirt beneath you.

He groans against you, thick with arousal himself, and swirls his tongue around that bud of your pleasure, warm and wet and overwhelming.

As much as you want to watch the bobbing of his head covered by your skirts, you have to throw your head back and keen when he moves downward and finally pushes his tongue past the rim of your cunt.

“Shit- Arthur-”

He grunts in response, his hands pulsing on your thighs like a livewire. His chapped lips are rough against the sensitive skin of your folds, as he shoves his tongue deeper into your cunt.

You draw your skirts up, slowly revealing his shoulders, his neck, and finally his shorn hair, you’re unable to stop yourself from running your fingers through those honeyed strands.

His eyes refocus on yours, his mouth fully over your cunt. He stares, those blue pools deep enough for you to drown in, takes a breath through his nose, and without wrenching his gaze away, he sucks.

Your reaction is immediate, a high, keening wail as you come. His hands tighten around your hips as you buck into him.

He draws away, his mouth and chin glistening wet with your slick. You pant, incredulous as you’re barely able to keep yourself upright.

“Perfect little thing you are.” Arthur rumble, a smile creeping across his face. He sits up on his knees.

There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes as he reaches toward the buttons of his pants.

[bethanydelleman]

Greetings! My today's question is: how scandalous is it to elope and marry in Gretna Green? What consequences does the couple face? Edmund's reaction to Julia's elopement seems to indicate that it's pretty bad, though definitely not as bad as Maria's folly: "At any other time this would have been felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing; yet it is an heavy aggravation."

Remember that the Bertrams are on the conservative side of moral beliefs, so they aren't the best meter for judging how scandalous something really is to the wider public.

Here are my thoughts:

Obeying your parents was a big part of the moral system of the Regency and elopement is a defiance of your parents. You are acting without their permission or approbation. Given that "honour your mother and father" is the 5th commandment in the Bible and the first one that applies to how we treat other people, it's a big deal (yes, it's before "don't murder")

It's stupid, so society makes it taboo. As a woman, it's a huge risk. If you elope and never marry, you are ruined (the fear with Lydia). If you are an heiress, you marry without a proper legal agreement (marriage articles) and your husband can steal and squander your wealth (the fear with Georgiana). Marriage articles protected women. Lydia's eventual one gives her £1000 that Wickham cannot touch. That is so important for her! Things like a jointure (basically survivor's benefit) were also put in the marriage articles. For Robert Ferrars and Julia Bertram, the risk of elopement was that they may not be accepted back into their families. Given their financial situations, this wasn't a huge risk, but it would be something that would make life difficult for them going forward. Connections are everything!

Both of these things matter so much because marriage is basically permanent. It's not a mistake you can just undo and make up with your parents. I believe there were post-marriage articles that were possible, but if your husband wouldn't sign, you were screwed. Divorce was prohibitively expensive and the criteria were very strict. So marriage shouldn't be a decision of passion without forethought. It's a big deal!

As Mary Crawford points out, if you give good dinners a lot of people will accept you no matter what, but respectable families may shun you.

So to sum up, it's taboo and frowned upon because it's dangerous. To me, it kind of seems like the way we view smoking today. And I think different families would have varied reactions to it, some may cut their children off forever, some may reconcile after a few years, or they may decide to accept the marriage for social reasons (not losing another child like Sir Thomas or to save their reputation like the Bennets)

[olympic-paris]

Kintsugi

Le Kintsugi signifie « jointure en or » en japonais et permet de restaurer des objets cassés ou abîmés en recollant les morceaux avec une préparation en poudre d'or. Cette méthode permet de mettre en valeur la fragilité et les imperfections des objets en les sublimant.

[wonder-worker]

“Women's efforts to provide for their younger sons and daughters often brought them into conflict with their oldest sons. As heirs, eldest sons frequently resented provisions for their siblings that reduced or burdened their inheritances. Mothers' efforts to provide for their younger children were particularly threatening to their eldest sons when they were heiresses and had power to dispose of their own property, but men's provisions for their widows also caused trouble between women and their sons. Indeed, husbands' provisions for their widows usually represented a much heavier burden on the family's estates than their bequests to their younger children. Furthermore, widows' dowers and jointures often interfered with the heir's power over his inheritance for years... Disputes about the provision for widows and women's efforts to secure the welfare of their daughters and younger sons often became intertwined when women served as their husbands' executors.

All of these factors played a part in the bitter quarrel between Cecily, dowager marchioness of Dorset, and her eldest son Thomas, the second marquess. In 1504, Lady Cecily, who was her father, William Lord Bonville's, sole heir and the executor of her husband's estate, announced her intention of marrying Lord Henry Stafford,  the duke of Buckingham's younger brother. Stafford, who paid 2,000 to Henry VII for permission to marry her, obviously expected the match to be a profitable one. The young marquess was understandably concerned about the effect the marriage would have on his inheritance, given the legal rights his mother's new husband would acquire over her and her property. The dispute escalated until Henry VII intervened. The settlement they signed after appearing before the king's council permitted Cecily to continue as her first husband's executor despite her remarriage. Under the terms of his will, she would receive the income from the estates he wanted set aside to pay his debts. However, she would not receive her dower until the debts were paid and she had turned the property over to her son. In addition, the council severely limited Cecily's power to dispose of her own inheritance: after her death, she had to bequeath all of it to Thomas; until then she could grant only lands worth up to 1,000 marks a year, and then only for a limited period of years. The obvious intention was to prevent the marchioness from permanently endowing her new husband at the expense of her eldest son. Her rights as an heiress were severely limited in his favor and, in a larger sense, in favor of the institution of primogeniture.

  By 1522, Lady Cecily and her son were openly feuding once again, this time about provision for her younger children. As a result of Cardinal Wolsey's mediation, they signed another elaborate agreement. Each of them promised to contribute to the dowries of the marquess's four sisters, while in addition Cecily agreed to create annuities from her estates for three of her younger sons.”

- Barbara J. Harris, “Property, Power, and Personal Relations: Elite Mothers and Sons in Yorkist and Early Tudor England"

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 18, 2 mai 1896, Paris. Notre patron découpé (Grandeur naturelle) Corsage froncé. Bibliothèque nationale de France

Détails et explications du Patron découpé:

Ce modèle se fait en étoffe fantaisie, le devant froncé à la taille; le dos, plat, avec plis de chaque côté formant bretelles. (This model is made of fancy fabric, the front gathered at the waist; the back, flat, with folds on each side forming straps.)

Ce patron se compose de cinq morceaux. (This pattern consists of five pieces.)

No. 1. — La doublure du devant avec pinces. (Front lining with pleats.)

No. 2. — Le devant du corsage, froncé à la taille; des crans indiquent les fronces. (The front of the bodice, gathered at the waist; notches indicate gathers.)

No. 3. — Le dos coupé double, droit fil au milieu, sans couture; un cran à la couture du dessous du bras indique le raccord au devant; le pli est indiqué à l'encolure et au bas de la taille par des crans. (The back is cut double, straight grain in the middle, without seam; a notch at the underarm seam indicates the connection at the front; the fold is indicated at the neckline and at the bottom of the waist by notches.)

No. 4. — Le poignet de la manche, faisant jointure sur le dessus. (The cuff of the sleeve, joining at the top.)

No. 5. — La manche, très froncée dans le haut, forme un jockey, froncé à 15 centimètres de distance de l'emmanchure; un cran à chaque extrémité de la manche indique où se font les fronces. (The sleeve, very gathered at the top, forms a jockey, gathered 15 centimeters from the armhole; a notch at each end of the sleeve indicates where the gathers are made.)

Métrage: tissu, 1m,50 ou 1m,20 de large.

[paradises-library]

Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world.

Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen

[thatscarletflycatcher]

Hello! Austen ask 24, please! Thanks

Hi!!

24. Favorite supporting character

The last two times I answered I mentioned John Knightley and Miss Bates, so now it is time for Mrs Jennings! Yes, she's vulgar, yes, she's irritating and meddlesome, but consider: she's living her best life. A widow with ample jointure. Has gotten her two daughters married well. she occupies her time doing misguided charity, but, hey, she's trying! And she stays to care for Marianne when she gets ill!

From this ask game.

[fideidefenswhore]

When Dame Alice Clere, daughter of Margaret Butler and Sir William Boleyn (and aunt of Queen Anne Boleyn) died in 1538, she held over twenty manors as her jointure. Before she died one of her main concerns was to endow her youngest son, Thomas, with sufficient land and money befitting his class. Included in her bequests to her son was a pair of gold beads with precious stones given to her by her niece, Queen Anne Boleyn [...]

Aristocratic Women in Ireland, 1450-1660: The Ormond Family, Power and Politics, by Damien Duffy

[jeanniebug623]

Tu peut poster un extrait de silent as shadows s'il te plait?

Bien sûr! J'espère que la traduction n'est pas trop mauvaise! Je suis désolé s'il contient beaucoup d'erreurs. 💙💙💙

(Keep scrolling for English, I hope the translation doesn't suck too bad)

Le moment de méditation de Rey'ka fut interrompu lorsque Toruk secoua la tête et qu'une main douce se posa sur son épaule. Son amie d'enfance la plus âgée sourit et salua les guerriers Omatikaya qui avaient débarqué et attendaient avec impatience qu'elle s'adresse à eux. Une partie d'elle se demandait pourquoi ils étaient si... excités? Était-ce le mot? Spider lui a tout raconté sur le précédent olo'eyktan et ses incroyables exploits sous le manteau de Toruk Makto. 

Alors que la majeure partie d'elle était encore en train de s'adapter à tant d'attention, le reste de Rey'ka se retrouva à ne pas aimer ça. Elle était tellement habituée à être négligée ou mise de côté à cause de sa 'malédiction' qu'elle n'a jamais appris ce que c'était que d'être si importante pour quelqu'un. Eh bien... il y en avait quelques-uns. Son père. Calme. Et son frère. 

Elle leva le menton un peu plus haut et suivit ses anciens amis.  Elle regarda le Samson comme s'il allait prendre vie tout seul et l'écraser dans des mâchoires métalliques. Mais elle s'est ensuite arrêtée net lorsqu'elle a vu les gens sortir de l'avion.  Encore des gens du ciel!

Pas beaucoup, mais un seul suffisait pour attirer son attention. Plus d'alliés. Finis les humains qui ont choisi le peuple. Spider lui avait raconté tellement d'histoires sur ses amis ; elle savait qu'il y en avait davantage parmi les Omatikaya. Quelques Na'vi portant des vêtements de skypeople étaient également avec eux. Rey'ka regarda les chefs de clan alors qu'ils se saluaient, puis revint vers un Na'vi grand et mince, vêtu de vêtements beiges ressemblant à des humains et orné de ce qu'elle reconnut immédiatement comme des bijoux de style Olangi. 

Rey'ka se souvint des histoires que son père lui racontait sur la dernière grande bataille des Olangi. Même s'ils n'étaient pas partis, le clan dans son ensemble a été grièvement blessé en combattant pour Eywa. Lorsqu'elle repensait à ces histoires, surtout lorsqu'elle et son père étaient restés chez les Tayrangi, Rey'ka sentit quelque chose se serrer dans son cœur à la pensée de ce qui s'était réellement passé toutes ces années auparavant. Oui, elle n'avait que 8 ans. Mais son peuple était là... les Olangi étaient là... les Tayrangi... Omatikaya... qui d'autre...?

Le grand et mince Na'vi s'approcha d'elle avec sa main descendant de son front pour la saluer. Avant que la main de l'homme ait fini son mouvement, la main de Rey'ka tendit la main et attrapa sa main. Personne ne l'a vu et l'homme s'est figé dans un mélange de surprise et de peur.

Tout le monde se fige. Qu'avait fait cet homme pour insulter le septième Toruk Makto...?

Les oreilles de Rey'ka se retirèrent et sa queue remua rapidement. Elle regarda la main de l'homme entre eux, la tournant et appuyant son pouce sur sa paume jusqu'en dessous des jointures jusqu'à ce que les doigts s'étirent sous la pression. Un...deux...trois.... 

Les yeux de Rey'ka levèrent vers ceux de l'homme; le sien est rempli d’incertitude. Ce regard perçant qui hantait Qauritch depuis des mois et des mois. Des yeux qui voyaient dans les gens, recherchant des choses qu'ils ne montraient pas à la surface. Four. Quatre doigts. Le grand et maigre Na'vi qui se tenait à côté de l'olo'eyktan de l'Omatikaya avait quatre doigts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Question: Can you post an extract from silent as shadows please?

Answer: Of course! I hope the translation isn't too bad! I'm sorry if it contains a lot of errors.

Rey’ka’s moment of meditation was cut short when toruk shifted his head and a gentle hand landed on her shoulder. Her oldest childhood friend was smiling and waving her hand back to the Omatikaya warriors who had landed and were eagerly waiting for her to address them. Part of her wondered why they were so...excited? Was that the word? Spider told her all about the previous olo’eyktan and his amazing feats under the mantle of Toruk Makto. 

While most of her was still adjusting to this much attention, the rest of Rey’ka found herself not liking it. She was so used to being overlooked or pushed aside due to her ‘curse’ that she never learned what it was to be this important to someone. Well...there were a few. Her father. Quiet. And...her brother. 

She lifted her chin a little higher and followed her old friends over. 

She eyed the Samson like it was going to spring to life on its own and crush her in metal jaws. But then she stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the people who exited the aircraft. 

More sky people! 

Not many but even one was enough to draw her attention. More allies. More humans who chose the People. Spider had told her so many stories of his friends; she knew there were more of them among the Omatikaya. A few Na’vi wearing sky people clothing were with them as well. Rey’ka looked to the clan leaders as they greeted each other then back to a tall, skinny Na’vi in beige human-like clothing and adorned as what she immediately recognized as Olangi-style jewelry. 

Rey’ka remembered the stories her father told her about the Olangi’s last great stand. While they were not gone, the clan as a whole was heavily wounded fighting for Eywa. When she thought back on the stories, especially when she and her father stayed with the Tayrangi, Rey’ka felt something tighten around her heart at what truly happened all those years ago. Yes, she was only 8. But her people were there...the Olangi were there...the Tayrangi...Omatikaya...who else...? 

The tall, skinny Na’vi approached her with his hand coming down from his forehead to greet her. Before the man’s hand finished its motion, Rey’ka’s hand shot forward and grabbed a hold of his hand. No one saw it and the man went rigid in some combination of surprise and fear. 

Everyone froze. What had this man done to insult the seventh Toruk Makto...? 

Rey’ka’s ears went back and her tail swished quickly. She stared at the man’s hand between them, turning it and pressing her thumb up his palm to the underside of the knuckles until the fingers stretched under the pressure. One...two...three.... 

Rey’ka’s eyes lifted to the man’s; his own wide with uncertainty. That piercing stare that had haunted Qauritch for months upon months. Eyes that saw into people, searching for the things they didn’t show on the surface. Four. Four fingers. The tall, skinny Na’vi who stood beside the olo'eyktan of the Omatikaya had four fingers. 

[duchessofferia]

We three, we're not a crowd. We're not even company.

“Hands on his hips, [Edward VI] would imitate Henry’s straddling pose, and emit ‘thunderous oaths’ in his high, imperious voice. By calculated displays of wrath and coldness, he sought to make men fear him as they had his father. By now a fanatical Protestant, he was fond of lecturing those around him in the articles of his faith, a role which sat oddly with his youth. His councilors and courtiers were already in awe of him. ‘He will be the wonder and terror of the world if he lives,’ declared Bishop Hooper that year.”

“A strong feature of Star Chamber cases brought by female plaintiffs was the accusation that those supposedly charged with keeping law and order were in fact undermining it… Elizabeth Barnardiston brought her case to Star Chamber because the man she accused of orchestrating the disruption to her property at Grafton – a parcel of her jointure – was Sir John Seymour of Wolf Hall, the current sheriff of the county, who had a reputation for being overbearing.”

“As queen, she made a point of distancing herself from her inferiors, and could be remote and arrogant, being a stickler for the observance of etiquette at her court. Chapuys feared that, once Jane had had a taste of queenship, she would forget her good intentions towards the Lady Mary, but his fears proved unfounded. Jane remained loyal to her supporters, and to Mary’s cause, and in the months to come would endeavor to heal the rift between the King and his daughter.”

[twola]

Seven Deadly Sins - V

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Because if one thing is true, it is that Arthur Morgan is a sinner. Pure, organic, non-GMO smut. A continuing series.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Low to Medium Honor Arthur (and all that entails)

Wrath: strong vengeful anger or indignation, retributory punishment for an offense or a crime.

➵ AO3 Link

➵ Previous | ➵  Next | ➵  Fic Masterlist 

“The reason you need me on this job is…?”

Arthur chuckles, a deep rumbling laugh through his chest. “Always good to have sticky fingers like yours when robbin’ a homestead.”

You roll your eyes, leaning over and rubbing the horse’s neck as the mare slowly walks down the trail. He’s in a better mood after leaving the stifling heat of the swamps near Shady Belle - and getting out of Lemoyne altogether. Things had settled down from run-ins with Angelo Bronte and jobs in Saint Denis - and Arthur had come to you with a homestead he wanted to hit up in the Heartlands - far away from everything the gang was mired in fetid and humid south Lemoyne. 

“And the reason you’ve got me ridin’ like this?”

Ah, now that is the better question. You sit astride the saddle, atop his mare, settled in tightly against him, one of his large hands splayed across your belly. Your hips press against his as the two of you sway with the movement of the horse.

“Want you to be comfortable, of course.” He replies, matter-of-factly. His other hand winds tightly around the reins.

“Course.” You laugh, leaning back against him comfortably, stealing a bit of shade that is cast by his worn leather hat.

You’d be just as comfortable sitting on the horse’s rump behind him, but by the way that his fingers clench and rub soft circles on your stomach through the fabric of your skirts, you don’t think he’d approve.

“So what’s the plan for this one, Mister Morgan? Rollin’ in with guns blazing? Distracting the menfolk with my womanly charm?” You ask playfully, knowing what exactly would rib the man into annoyance.

“Mm, little more simple. Supposed to be empty, owners on a holiday.” He replies, nudging the horse a little faster with a jolt from his spur.

“Oh… y’really didn’t need me for that.” You trail off, squinting into the distance. The late afternoon sun reflects off the mountains in the distance, far off in Ambarino.

“Sure I do, need ya for this-” His hand slowly moves down from your soft belly to cup at the jointure of your thighs. Through the layers of your skirts and bloomers, he presses against your folds, moving his fingers in slow circles.

“ What -” you squeak in surprise, “are y’doin?”

“Just mindin’ the time. A while yet’ fore we reach Valentine.”  Arthur states as if he isn’t digging through cotton to touch you.

You buck involuntarily as his finger presses the seam of your bloomers against your clit. Your hand flies back and squeezes his thigh, right above his knee as you clench your teeth.  He rubs his fingers faster, knowing he’s found that spot. You gasp, your head falling back against him as you grip the pommel of the saddle for dear life.

“Y’good there, sweetheart?”

“ Stop .” You grit out.

He does, drawing his hand away from your core, and a flash of worry shoots through him.

It’s assuaged quite quickly when you press backward into him, with a roll of your hips, your rear grinds against his already hard cock.

A groan rumbles from his chest before he can try and stop it. You respond with a sweet, needy sound of your own and roll your hips into his again. His hand presses against you once again. He digs through the layers of fabric to rub at your core shamelessly.

“ Oh… ” you whine in the most beautiful sigh he’s ever heard. He could drown in the dripping sweetness from your mouth.

“Mmm… stop the horse and fuck me.”

Oh, what an order. What a request. He’d gladly shackle himself at your feet to be able to serve out anything that falls from your lips.

He’s yanking the reins hard and swings himself from the saddle and is pulling you down in one fluid motion. Stumbling, falling, you pull his lips down to yours and press your hand against the bulge in his trousers. He grunts as he rights you, and you step back from him with that look in your eye, that look that gets him every time.

Christ , he’s stopped the horse in the middle of the goddamn road, in the rolling hills of the Heartlands, high above Flat Iron Lake. By some work of serendipity, just off the worn trail is a large outcropping of rock, which you giggle and back up out of his embrace toward. Moving around to the other side of the stone, you beckon him closer with a curl of your finger. Seems that now you’ve caught the playful mood as well.

You lay down in the soft prairie grasses of the Heartlands, barely shielded from the road by the rocks as you draw your skirts up your thighs. Your creamy stockings give way to bare skin above your knees.

Arthur’s gun belt clatters to the ground. He’s starting to love the noise it makes when it does so.

His suspenders hang loosely at his hips as he sinks to his knees between your legs. He unbuttons his pants as you raise your hips to slide your bloomers down, revealing your cunt as your knees fall open, the glistening, dewy folds of your core on display for him.

Arthur curses under his breath as he tosses his hat to the ground before shoving his pants down his thighs. He splays his body over you, settling himself between your hips.

You giggle, “Hopefully the next traveler on the road doesn’t get a full view of your pale ass.”

“Shaddup, you little minx ,” he leans further and nips at your bottom lip playfully, “fore I strip you naked and fuck you in the middle of the damn road.”

“Mister Morgan. ” You smile, and it’s like he’s been shot in the chest, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

He groans as he presses his cock between your folds and slowly sinks in, loving the first clutch, the tightness of your body when he parts you for the first time. The sweet moan you let out as your hands grab at his shirt. The playful rubbing he had started this all with has made you more than wet enough to take him easily.

His curls tangle with yours as pubic bones meet. He looks down at his pelvis, cock completely hidden from view, and swears aloud in pleasure.

“Mm, Arthur.”

You’re going to kill him. It’ll be a sweet death, one he’s entirely undeserving of. He deserves to be hung or catch a bullet between the eyes. For all the things he’s done, for all the things he’s yet to do, he is completely unworthy of a death where he would find himself in your arms.

And yet…

He’s found himself longing .  Not since his ill-fated relationship with Mary Gillis fell apart has he wanted more than to just sate his desires. Even then, he wasn’t one heading to the brothel in every cowtown the gang stopped in. This was supposed to be just one of those things.

Well, this was supposed to be one of those things. A simple, transactional relationship. Now he’s dreaming of keeping you in his bed for more than just sex.

A gasp from your throat pulls him from his wandering thoughts as his pelvis rolls into yours. He knows, now, after many times, that little gasp of yours is a cry for more. More speed, more force, more movement… more of everything he can give you.

His hips roll desperately as he covers your lips with his own, pressing his tongue into your mouth. Only when he has to gasp for air does he move back from you.

“ D-deeper.”  You whine, pulling hard on the fabric of his jacket. The heel of your boot digs into his lower back as you try to get him to push in further.

“ Shit , girl.” Arthur’s hand presses the back of your thigh to his shoulder. The yaw of your legs widens and you let out a shriek as he throws his weight into his hips and parts you in a way he hasn’t before, reaching deep within your core.

The cry you give comes from your chest, bursting up your throat, a wanton sound of pure pleasure as Arthur braces his knees and leans further over you, tilting your hips back as he thrusts - the angle and your leg thrown high over his shoulder, you’re so loud and couldn’t even bear to be any quieter.

Of course, that goes straight to his throbbing cock as he slides it in and out of your drenched cunt. He feels the tightening in his guts, the telltale sign that he’s going to come imminently.

“Where-”

“Inside, god, please , Arthur, come inside me-” you gasp, tears collecting at the edges of your eyes, “ ‘m gonna - I’ll come too-”

Well, that was all the convincing he needed. The stupidity of it, the irresponsibility, it’s all forgotten as those words escape you breathlessly. It only takes him three more sloppy strokes as he throws his head back and groans loudly, his arms locking in a straight line as his hips drive into yours for a final time.

Arthur rumbles out the broken syllables of your name as he comes. You whine in response, a high-keening wail as you dig your fingers into his shoulders, clenching hard around his already pulsing cock. Your leg slips down from his shoulder, shaking with exertion.

He collapses over you, draping himself over your torso as he pants into your ear. He has the energy, at the very least, to weave his fingers through your hair, which has escaped its bindings.

Your hands move from his shoulder, fingers sweeping up his neck. One hand nestles on the back of his head, fingers carding through his honeyed hair. He’s learned that’s one of your favorite things to do, and he’s certainly not complaining. The other trails down his jaw, your pointer finger pushing gently for him to raise his head.

He follows your unspoken request, unable to even think of saying no to you. You look at him, your mouth quirking into a small smile as your hand cups his cheek, skin soft over his short beard. With the smallest of motions, your fingers pull slightly as your gaze falls to his lips.

He happily acquiesces. Your lips are so soft against his own, and as you open your mouth to his, the softest sigh flows from your chest into him.

God, he could die right now. Spent and softening, buried deep within your cunt, none of the jarring coldness of jerkily removing himself from your warmth. Draped over your form with your legs still looped over his hips, not allowing him to move. 

A blooming warmth of affection burns in his chest, knowing you want him there just as much as he wants to be there. God, he’s realizing just how invested he is in this. Idiot. This was supposed to be simple. Uncomplicated. Look at him, Arthur Morgan , thousands of dollars on his head and so much blood on his hands, brought to heel by your soft lips and warm cunt.

You press your forehead against his, and he pulls back from your lips.

“We should make camp, it’ll be dark ‘fore we know it.” You whisper. He nods, pushing himself up off of your form and pulling his hips back from yours, internally cursing as his cock slips from the sweet cradle of your hips. He sits up on his knees, pulling his pants back up over his hips.

You recline on your elbows, your legs still spread around him. In the moments before you scoot backward to pull your skirts down to hide your legs, he stares at your cunt, glistening and wet. You shift slightly and a milky pearl of his spend trails down your folds before he loses sight of it when your skirts cover your skin.

Jesus Christ.

“C’mon there, cowboy. You gonna set up camp or do I have to do everything?” You laugh as you stand up, brushing the dust and dirt from your skirt.

He swats at your rear as you go by, and you stick your tongue out at him as you move back toward the horse.

The tent is up in a few minutes, and you sit on your knees making room for a fire, “What did you bring to eat?”

“Nothin’ great,” he shrugs, mentally kicking himself for his lack of preparation. 

“Mm - d’ya think you have it in you to grab something? Maybe a rabbit? There should be plenty of them out here.” You look up at him with a pleasing smile on your face.

“Why, of course, Princess. This here’s a to-order kitchen.” Arthur drawls sarcastically, with a hint of a laugh as he places his hat back on his head. Winding his gun belt back around his hips, a crooked grin remains on his face.

“Shut up,” you yell, chucking a piece of kindling at him. He swats it away easily, chuckling as he moves back toward his horse, “One jackrabbit, for my lady’s delicate appetite.”

“You better not blow it to bits!” You call out to him as he gets up on his saddle and spurs his horse out into the fields.

It’s not but a few miles ride before he is able to catch sight of one in the waning daylight. He’s able to whip out his game rifle and kill it in two shots, blaming the first miss on the horse’s jittering, of course. He skins the jackrabbit quickly and ties its carcass to his horse’s saddle. 

Arthur knows better than this. He’s goddamn close to forty years old. He should not be getting this excited to get back to the tent. But his cock is ever the immature teenage boy that he once was, swelling against his pants as he thinks of how many times he is going to have you tonight, alone, in a tent, far away from camp. 

No interruptions.

And he would be lying to himself; the one thing he tries not to do, that he would not like to wake up with you tucked in at his side. Maybe to wake you up with a soft touch to your folds, a gentle squeeze of your breast - to slowly work you into a begging mess before sinking himself into your heat. To hear your voice sweetly gasp his name, hoarse with sleep.

His cock is completely hard at this point. It was hopeless to fight it, as he urges his horse to canter back to the campsite some miles away.

The smoke from the fire you’ve managed to make marks his destination over the rise of the next hill. He clicks his tongue and digs his spurs into the horse’s side to gallop up the rise. He reaches the top, and his eyebrows quirk as he realizes that he is not at the campsite. The smoke billowing up into the evening sky was much larger than a campfire should be. The campsite was still several lengths away, and as he squints against the darkness, he curses and pushes his horse into a gallop.

There’s movement in the distance. More than there should be. He unholsters his revolver from his belt as he approaches the campsite. Your scream echoes in his ear, he knew, even though it was far off, he knew it was you. 

By the time he reaches the fire, he can only watch as you are thrown on the back of a horse, hogtied and gagged, screaming against the fabric smothering your mouth, a dark fear in your eyes as your captors flee north along the road, leaving Arthur behind fending for himself against two of their compatriots.

Hell hath no fury. Not like Arthur Morgan. Not when something of his is taken from him.

Two men move to draw weapons as Arthur swings himself off of his horse with his revolver pulled. He fires two quick rounds, hitting one of the bandits in the shoulder and sufficiently distracting the other one enough to stumble. The man he hit fell to the ground, his revolver skittering along the dirt.

The outlaw moves ahead quickly, slamming into the upright bandit and tackling him to the ground. He slams his revolver across the man’s face. He does it again. And again. And again. Blood gushes from his nose and mouth as his teeth get knocked loose. Arthur just keeps hitting him, far beyond when his head is a bloody pulp. The man is dead for several moments by the time he stops.

Blood covers his blue denim shirt and brown leather jacket, speckled on his face and up his arms like he’s skinned a wolf.

The second man regains some semblance of consciousness and tries to stumble away; he doesn’t get more than a few steps before Arthur points his revolver and blows the man’s knee out. He screams in pain and hits the ground, clutching at his leg as it hemorrhages all over the dry prairie ground. The man is already soaked in blood from the hole in his shoulder.

Arthur stoops down next to the man on one knee, voice low and dangerous.

“Tell me where they’re taking her or you’ll be wishin’ I did the kind thing and killed you straight away.”

“S-Six P-p-point.” The man stutters, tears of pain bursting from his eyes. Arthur presses down on his twisted and bloody knee with his boot, causing the man to howl for mercy.

Of course, these were fucking O’Driscolls . He should have burned that damn cabin down.

Arthur is not feeling merciful. With the speed of a practiced hand and absolutely no reservations whatsoever, he unsheathes his hunting knife and drags it across the man’s throat. After a few seconds, his bellyaching ends as he bleeds out in the dirt.

He wipes the blood off of the blade of his knife on the dead man’s shirt before resheathing it.

The tent that he had set up, along with your bundle of personal items burns as he gives one last look at the campsite. Arthur’s teeth grind as fury pumps through his veins. He stalks toward his horse as the heat of the fire burns away any comfort of the night.

Arthur was on the warpath. Woe be to those who took you from him.

-

Arthur Morgan, at his base instinct, was a simple man. He hurt men, killed them, stole from them, and lived a life of debauchery and sin for his own gain. He could be very indiscriminate with violence.

But this, this was personal.

Fucking O’Driscolls took his woman. If a hair on your head was out of place, he would skin Colm O’Driscoll himself.

His mare has worked up a lather on her coat as he runs her north toward Cumberland. He presses her onward, and tries to stave off the gnawing feeling in his gut - the fear trying to creep in underneath his rage - that he may find you in a different shape than he left you. That those grimy sons of bitches hurt you in any way, put their hands on you - take what belongs to him. Or worst of all, he storms into that damned cabin and finds your lifeless body.

Arthur makes it to the north of Cumberland far faster than a normal man would. He hitches his poor horse to a tree and feeds her an apple while he pulls out his shotgun and rifle from his saddle holster and heaves them over his shoulder. He draws his revolver and chambers three more bullets in it before placing it back in his belt.

With practiced speed and silence, he moves around the trees, stopping at different vantage points as he approaches the cabin. Fortunately, it looked like there were far fewer men here the last time he stormed through. He only counts two outside, the camp relegated to a small campfire in front of the cabin. A soft light glows from the windows, denoting the presence of someone inside.

He lets down the rifle from his shoulder. Breathing out heavily through his nose, he racks the bolt and takes aim at one of the men sitting around the fire. His finger moves to the trigger - done so many times before, and pulls , anticipating the recoil from the rifle and quickly throwing it over his shoulder again as he grabs his shotgun. The bullet found its mark, of course , and the O’Driscoll flew backwards in a gush of blood. His comrade jumps to his feet, looking around, and yells, pulling a pistol from his belt. Arthur moves around the campfire, silent as a hawk, and can approach the man from behind and slam the butt of the gun into his back, causing him to drop his gun and sprawl out on the ground. The man is at least able to turn himself over to his back before Arthur looms over him.

“Where the hell is she?” Arthur snarls, the barrel of his shotgun pressing hard against the man’s chest.

The O’Driscoll, scared shitless, stumbles over words as his eyes bulge with fear.

“I’mma give you one chance to tell me where she is.” He threatens, racking the pump of the gun loudly.

“In-inside, there, swear it. She’s in there.” The man sputters, pointing toward the door of the cabin.

Arthur scowls, pulling the barrel back from the man’s chest. He pushes himself to his elbows, eyeing the door, thinking to run. The barrel shifts upward to the man’s forehead and in an instant, Arthur pulls the trigger. The shotgun roars and the O’Driscoll’s head explodes in a burst of blood and brain matter all over the porch of the cabin. 

Arthur kicks down the door of the decrepit cabin with the heel of his boot, the wood splintering as he foists his shotgun forward, barrels blazing as he pumps a round into the man that was moving to the door. The man’s chest bursts in blood as he slams back against the table in the middle of the cabin and slides to the floor.

You scream behind a gag at the noise, and Arthur paces further back into the cabin and finds you bound on the wooden floor, your eyes wide and fearful after hearing the multiple shotgun blasts over the last several minutes.

He leans the shotgun against the fireplace and unsheathes his large hunting knife, moving toward your form quickly. Kneeling on the floor on one knee, he cuts the gag at your cheek and then moves to the rope wound around your wrists and ankles. You gasp large breaths of air when the gag is removed, your eyes bloodshot and wet.

“They touch you?”

You don’t reply, hot tears streaming down your face, your hurried, shallow breaths starting to slow.

Arthur sneers, “Tell me, I’ll geld every single one.”

Silence.

He grabs your chin to force you to look up at him, his cold, angry eyes demanding answers, “ Tell me , woman.”

“That all you’re concerned about?  That no other man can say they’ve had me?” You snap at him, eyes red-rimmed and overflowing with tears.

Arthur glares, but his brows falter the slightest bit as you breathe heavily, his hand still on your chin.

“No, Arthur, you’ll be happy to know that my cunt is still yours to do with what you please.”

Blood trickles down your temple to cover his fingertips.

He lets go of your chin, and you turn away from him with a sharp crane of your neck. You scoot backward on the floor, away from him, and gather your knees into your chest, looping your arms around them to make yourself small.

“That’s not… that’s not what I meant….”  He nearly whispers, knowing that in his possessive rage, that is exactly what he meant. He’s caught looking down at you, his hand still in the air, smeared with your blood, hesitating to reach at you again.

“Yes, it was. Don’t worry, Arthur. My virtue remains untouched by anyone other than you .” Venom drips from your voice as you bury your head into your arms, refusing to look at him any further.

The old, dirty floorboards creak as Arthur sits down upon it, and after a moment’s hesitation, he pulls you closer to him, gathering your body against his and wrapping both of his arms around you, tucking your head in the crook of his neck.

Even as angry as you are, with a shuddering breath, you lean into his embrace. Your arms slowly unlace from around your knees and clutch at his shirt, and you’re sure you’re dirtying it with the sticky blood drying on your hands.

One of his hands threads into your unbound, wild hair, cradling the back of your head with a gentleness you didn’t know the man possessed.

“I didn’t… didn’t know what I’d find when I come up here… I was half expectin’ to find you dead.” He whispers, his voice low and gravelly, but missing the earlier malice, “Don’t think I’d know what to do with myself if you was gone.” 

You snort, about to tell him something snide about finding another hole to shove his cock into, but before you’re able to pipe up, he cuts you off.

“I reckon I’m not the best at this, but… this ain’t just bout the…” he stumbles over his words, trailing off.

“Ain’t about how you’re always thinkin’ with your cock with me?” You were able to slide the retort in this time.

“ Christ , woman, I’m tryin’ here,” he interjects, exasperated.

You pull away from him, and he lets his embrace around you loosen. You wipe your temple with the back of your hand and grimace as your skin is stained with tacky blood.

Silence settles between you. Arthur lets loose a bated breath.

“C’mon. Forget the job. Let’s get somewhere and settle down for the night.”

You allow it. Just as you allow him to loop his arm under your knees and lift you into his strong hold. 

He takes you away from this place, carrying you high in his arms so as not to touch all of the blood and brain matter pooling on the floor.

Not to be a part of the carnage he unleashed.

[bethanydelleman]

What would life be like for the widowed Lydia Wickham? It would probably be different if they had kids or not, but did the army pay out to the widows?

So according to this source, she'd get a pittance. £20 per year if Wickham wasn't promoted. That means she would have £70/annum total, since she has a jointure of £1000 (income £50). Also, I believe I read that when an officer dies, their commission returns to the crown, so she can't sell that. Only retirement allows sale of commissions.

That would be barely enough to live on in the gentry, but Lydia would probably either return home or live with one of her sisters, depending on who is the owner of Longbourn at the time of Wickham's death.

However, the epilogue actually states that Wickham survived the war, so there's that: Their manner of living, even when the restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the extreme.

[yvettevickers]

"When the King delayed over paying her jointure, Mary, quite reasonably, expected her father to back her up, since it was in the dynasty's interest that her status as a royal widow should be recognized. Yet six months later matters were no further forward, and Mary blamed her father for this. In a letter to him written in January 1537, she wrote that all she had received thus far from her father's suit was 'no effect but wordes.' She asked, as she had 'oftymes' asked before, that her father would 'grante me lewe to com up and sue myne owne caus...[I] do not dowt bewt wrapon the rygthe ther of hes hyeghns shuld be mowed to have compasyon on me.' In short, she did not believe her father had done his best for her, and she thought she would be more successful on her own, though she was careful to couch her letter in traditionally dutiful terms... Norfolk, indeed, was indignant, and wrote to Cromwell that 'in all my lif I never comoned w[ith] her in any seriouse cause or nowe, and wold not haue thought she had be suche as I fynde her, wich as I think is but to wise for a woman.'"

- Nicola Clark, Gender, Family, and Politics: The Howard Women, 1485-1558