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evita-shelby · 7 months ago

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Two souls bound for hell

Or I rewatched Black '47 enough times to give Martin O’Feeney (played by James Frecheville) a happy ending of sorts with none other than my favorite oc ever, Eva, or as it would be in Irish, Aoife.

Cw: mentions of death, abuse , murder, the Great Famine, abuse of power, 19th century social mores about bastardry and abortion

For @kotylynnemerrill

Before he enlisted, he used to spend his days wooing the apothecary’s daughter, a pretty freckled girl whom he loved since he was boy.

His Aoife who used to meet him under a grove of trees on those nights her mother wasn’t busy tending to the pregnant or infirm of their village. His Aoife who had healing hands and would know how to mend him better than anyone.

Last Martin O’Feeney had seen her had been when he asked her to be his wife and took her virtue under the stars. They had said their vows and made up their future together before he went off to fight in foreign lands under the King’s name.

He had been given leave to bury his father, comfort his mother but no leave to marry his Aoife. That had been nearly ten years ago.

It had been spring then.

The boy who married her then had died long ago in a muddy battlefield under a false English name because he was too good at killing.

Feeney wonders if his Aoife is even alive or still the girl who couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving Ireland without tangible proof of her love and devotion to him.

Everyone else was dead or not long off, little Roisin was all he had left by the time he’d escaped the barracks. He had meant to come see Aoife sooner, once he knew his brother’s family was safe and fed, but he hadn’t expected them to be evicted so soon.

He hadn’t wanted to come empty handed either, nor reeking of death and smoke, but here he was knocking on the backdoor hoping no one would see who he was.

His Aoife is cautious, a kitchen knife in her hand ready to attack whoever was at the door. But once she recognized him, he was being pulled inside as she threw her arms around his neck as if no time had gone by.

She is thinner, her dark eyes sunken and her clothes threadbare and yet her kisses felt exactly the same as they had done years ago. They stop when the pain of his injuries and Roisin’s presence prevents them from going any further.

Aoife remains as skillful as he remembered. She had fared better as well, her skills as a healer had ensured she never went without even after her family died and left her alone in the world.

Roisin sleeps in the straw bed in the nook by the fireplace with the ragged curtain shut tight while he took the cot she had for when her patients needed a place to stay and moved it to the back wall in between the doors ready for anything. Martin had intended to stay in the barn on the other side of the wall, but she refused, claiming they’d be in more danger if he wasn’t inside to protect them.

He shouldn’t have stayed. If they had the right information, they would know Aoife and what she means to him. But he had, accepted the food she had to offer after she mended his injuries and didn’t stop her when she crept under the blankets to join him.

Martin cannot remember a time when he has won an argument with his Aoife.

“They said you had been killed this morning.” The witch burrowed into his chest as she admitted her fears for him. He told her about his plans to leave for America, that he had enough coin to cover her fare as well. He doesn’t tell her she and the girl will likely go alone.

“They’ll wish they did when I am done with them.” Martin couldn’t leave without avenging his kin. He’d make sure those skills he learned as a ranger would finally be put to good use. “We will go to America when it’s over, I will marry you like we promised.”

“I couldn’t bear it if you left me again, Martin.” Her hand lingers on one of his scars, one where a bullet came close to finishing him off. She’d been careful with all of them, kissing them knowing how close to death he had been.

“I won’t, Aoife. Never again.” He promised cradling her face like he had all those years, thinking of how he had unknowingly left her with child all those years ago. Ellie had told him Aoife had been wed to a man in town to cover up their sin, but Aoife had been resourceful enough to make herself a widow.

The man had called her a whore to all who would hear when she refused to have his children after forbidding her from seeing her own child even under the guise of being her godmother, but no judge nor constabulary could prove that she did it.

“Ellie told you how Roisin came to be, didn’t she?” she asks, stealing glances at the little girl tucked away on the other end of the cottage. Blood had called out to blood, which was why he’d asked the girl to come with them when they visited his mother’s grave.

Despite how sacred that night had been to the two of them, it was not a true marriage. The punishment for a child out of wedlock would have spelled death for both Aoife and the child even before the famine.

His mother and hers had only done what most would do in their situation. Roisin was raised as his brother’s child with Ellie and Aoife wed to a man who died soon after.

“I figured it out myself, she told me what happened when I left.” The ranger should’ve just deserted them, saved them from the wretched life both had lived after that night.

Roisin was born the same year he left, took after his brother and mother more than Ellie so much so that Martin suspected of it from the moment he saw her. She had attached herself to him so quickly and so strongly that by nightfall, Martin O’Feeney was certain the girl was his own child. Aoife had said their firstborn would be a daughter as she read his fortune that night, a daughter that took after his mother more than them.

“She thought I cursed her for refusing to give her back to me when your mother died, came begging me to make it stop and told the child the truth before she left.” Aoife revealed with a heavy sigh, hating how she’s blamed for everyone’s misfortunes even if she didn’t have the power to curse like her mother had.

Aoife hadn’t caused Ellie’s suffering, she was too soft hearted to do it, he tells her so and his woman shook her head with a bitter laugh.

“I murdered my husband for calling me a whore and regularly unburden women of their unborn children, even the Protestants refuse to offer me the soup, Martin.” And with that she tells him, not ask or suggest, that she will be helping him avenge his family. “If you’re bound for hell, so am I, dear husband.”

A day after Beartla O’Naughton and the judge pays for their crimes, and shortly after the priest declares them married in truth, Aoife and her daughter are served the best portions of the soup by her husband. They do not need the soup, between Aoife’s coin and his they had better at home, but they sup on it to the Reverend’s anger.

He had called his now wife a witch, a whore and a murderer when they recognized her. Martin had made them take back their words with his fists daring them to speak ill of his wife again.

Aoife had laughed, a beautiful sound he had almost died fearing he wouldn’t ever hear it again, as the reverend’s wife begged for mercy they wouldn’t give. So many dead because they played judge with people’s lives.

Please, please, I will do anything! Same words Aoife had said when she begged her for food and the woman had denied her saying her sins were too unforgivable to receive it. Aoife smiled like an angel as she repeated the words they had said to her, “What you did is unforgivable, even God cannot help you.”

It was the best wedding any bride could’ve asked for; his wife had said after giving into their desire for each other. Couldn’t have a proper wedding night without a good fuck, he had to admit.

Martin’s next acts do not require her, the last one will. She could get close to Lord Kilmichael and help Martin evade his guard. The girls who worked for him visited her for the tea that expels his bastards from their wombs, or their fathers and husbands did, or so he learned. One of them was bound to help them get close enough to kill the man.

She takes Roisin on her rounds, wears a knife at her belt for her safety and lies about his whereabouts when asked. Martin leaves no sign he was ever with her and yet takes his place between the doors most nights.

Only it does not fool the Englishmen.

“He married me to stop Roisin and the next one from being bastards, left before dawn and I have not seen him since.” She puts on a good display of appearing disdainful of her husband knowing they wouldn’t believe a word she said. The witch could almost hear Martin snorting at her words.

But Hannah knew better than to catch her on the lie and kept assuring the blond Captain she was harmless on account of being a woman. Martin spoke well of him; he had been the one to vouch for him when it was discovered his identity was false.

After saving Hannah in Kabul, he had given command of his own section as a Corporal, the highest rank an noncommissioned soldier could achieve. When Hannah was made to retire, Martin’s commanding officer decided Martin’s loyal mick had to go as well.

He had been a Corporal, commanding his own men and paid almost three shillings a day. Martin was told he would be given permission to wed her and take her to India with him before his commanding officer revealed his true colors. Martin O’Feeney has never been a man to hold back his anger and deserted before he could be arrested and hanged for breaking the man’s jaw.

As long as Hannah is there, Captain Pope cannot do anything to them. She will rest easy when he is dead, and they are far away from here.

Martin doesn’t come that night, keeping his distance for their safety. Aoife feels his absence as she prays his seed takes root in her once more.

He had taken her last night again and then this morning against the barn wall while Roisin slept in. She wanted another child, wanted the motherhood denied to her the first time.

“They’ll be four of us next winter, husband.” Aoife had then kissed him goodbye as he went off to kill the land agent.

Only Lord Kilmichael remains on their list.

Once he is dead, it is over.

Days pass as Martin bides his time and the anxiety of not knowing when he’ll return to her has her watching the flames in hopes of deciphering their meaning.

After Cronin’s death, Pope sends men here thinking Martin would be foolish enough to come here. They do not bother her, something she attributes to Hannah’s meddling than Pope’s supposed good nature.

She lays on the straw cot exactly where Martin had put it that night and those after careful to keep Roisin from knowing they are in danger. It gives her a good sight of the fireplace where she watches her own future hidden in figures and symbols dancing about the flames.

Aoife doesn’t see hear him come in from the door separating the cottage from the barn, barely sees him enter as silent as a shadow despite his burly form until he is lying with her on the bedding with only his shirt and breeches on.

“What do you see in the flames, witch?” his beard tickles the skin of her neck as he tried his best not to disturb her in her trance.

Her concentration broken and too distracted by the need for him, the witch turned her face and kissed him in greeting. “Pick a name for our son, come next autumn you will be a father once more.”

There is hope for them, something he doesn’t believe anymore and pretends he does to keep her from worrying.

“Kilmichael will be in Pope’s room at the inn, if you go back for Hannah, it is you who will find death that day.” She adds seeing a noose around the inspector’s neck.

He'd die to save the man; he saved his life once and would do it again even if it means going out on a blaze of glory. Especially because he thinks he is already damned.

Still, she gives him a good enough sedative to put Kilmichael under and newly mended plain clothes and a thick coat to match. Most who had heard about Martin’s deeds, had agreed to help in what ways they could.

One of them used to have a son about as tall as Martin, a son who was hanged by Bolton as well. The old woman had wished them well and thrown her own crucifix in a pocket for good luck.

Only time would tell of Martin Feeney could cheat death one last time.

With Aoife’s aid, Kilmichael’s kidnapping goes better than expected. Hannah had known where he’d go, and Martin wastes no time in offering a chance to escape with him as he refuses to shoot him.

His horse cannot fit more than two riders, but Martin had managed to free Hannah’s mount in the time it took him to break through the defenses Fitzgibbon had laid out and reach Kilmichael’s room. Hannah had known he’d make a fool out of Pope and yet didn’t shoot. After all, Feeney had saved his life in Kabul, a life debt isn’t something you could easily set aside.

Aoife says death will come for him should he return for Hannah. Same Hannah who knew a firing squad is what Pope and Fitzgibbon will pay him for his service in the morning.

His former comrade is as tired as he is of this life, and yet Martin refuses to let him die for him. Just as Aoife refuses to let him give up on thinking he has a life waiting for him in America. Martin had made his peace, said his goodbyes and accepted the clothes anyways.

Aoife would do better in America without a husband to weigh her down, she was practical, and her trade assured her a job anywhere. Her gift of foresight would pave the way for a better life without him.

Or with him, he thinks as he changed out of his clothes and forced Kilmichael to don his coat at gunpoint.

The clothes included a leather vest made from a blacksmith’s apron. The young man who once wore the coat the old woman gave him had been a ribbon man, one who had read of the man in Dublin devising bullet armor by the looks of it.

It wouldn’t stop a bullet but slow it down enough to give him a chance. Even the old woman who’s name he can’t remember wanted him to live as badly as Aoife did, as Hannah did as well.

Martin O’Feeney has never won an disagreement against Aoife for as long as he can remember. If she said there would be four of them next autumn, then there would be four of them next autumn, the man can’t help but smile knowing even know Aoife refuses to accept defeat.

They speak English in America; she had said when he told her of his vow to never speak English for the rest of his life. At home we will not speak a lick of English, she had amended his promise before sending him on his way.

In the ensuing fight the next morning, he starts to believe she might be right.

The bounty hunters turn against Fitzgibbon once Kilmichael is killed in his place, Pope cannot rally the men to keep control and go after him and Conneely has no loyalty to them anymore than Hannah did.

Then Pope gets that last shot at him, a fatal blow he knows from experience. The leather cannot keep it from penetrating his side, and these sorts of wounds are difficult for even the most experienced medics. Aoife’s healing hands may not be of use here.

And yet she is there, runs to him when he collapses on the side of the road. He can’t stop her from trying to save him, she won’t listen anyways.

“They'll come for you now. Don't fight them. Go to America.” His injury makes it impossible for him to speak and yet he spends his last words on entrusting his wife and children to Hannah. If anyone would care for them in the new world like he would, it was Hannah.

Martin O’Feeney lets himself rest knowing he will be able to answer for his sins with his head held high. Expecting hellfire when he next wakes up, Martin O’Feeney finds he’s been unjustly rewarded instead.

Aoife’s words come true a year later when three month old Michael Feeney only stops his fussing when his father sings him to sleep after a long work shift. The Feeneys do not speak English the moment the door shuts behind them, Martin and Eva Feeney are adamant that not a word of it is said in their home.

Hannah, who most believe is Martin’s father to the point they no longer fight it, is the only exception to that rule.

A/N: someone in December 1847 mentioned in a Cork newspaper about wanting to create a bulletproof vest, its plausible for a makeshift one to come into Feeney’s possession.

I also amended as to why he was in Afghanistan and India when the Connaught Rangers were in Malta and the West Indies, and yes soldiers had to ask permission to get marriee and on average were paid a shilling a day and had to pay for their food and clothes etc from their own paycheck. As a Corporal (the highest rank a nom commissioned soldier like Feeney could ever have) he was paid about 2 shillings a day.

#martin feeney #black '47 #james frecheville #evacore #martin feeney x oc

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funnyexel · 1 year ago

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imagine being on vacation with agent 47

The familiar click clack of the front door woke you from your tired state. A burst of energy shooting threw you as you peel yourself off the confines of the couch and shuffle to the quiet sound. You watch as he locks the door behind him, electricity flowing through you in pure excitement as you wait eagerly. Studying how precisely he took off his jacket, rolled off his gloves and loosened his tie with a small sigh. Opening his arms to you, you practically throw yourself at him. Burying your head in his chest and holding him tightly. His musky, powerful scent fills your nostrils as his arms travel around your waist and return the embrace. He got used to you waiting for him even though he repeatedly told you not to.

“You slept on the couch...”

He utters, adjusting the bottom of your nightgown. In an attempt at shielding the soft flesh from the cold draft. His fingertips slyly dusting over your ass.

Humming softly, you realize it doesn’t take a genius to see you’ve been camping out on the couch in anticipation for his arrival. Feeling his icy hands slide down the curve of your back, ass and stopping at the backs of your thighs. He grabs handfuls of your flesh and hoists your legs up to cross around his waist. A faint whine leaving your lips as your arms wrap loosely around his neck. Effortlessly holding your body around him as he swiftly moves across the living room to ascend the stairs.

Laying you down on the plush bedding, his fists are balled at each side of your head as he looks down to you. Looking up to him with eyes full of wonder and virtue, he uses his knuckle to delicately caress your cheek. As delicately as he can. Moving your head up, you eye his lips and kiss him, sucking on his bottom lip and he lies your head back down. Roughly holding your chin in his palm to keep you close.

Kissing each other feverishly, your movements are rushed and hasty compared to his as you impatiently unfasten his belt.

Your moans quickly fill the room as he drives his hips into you repeatedly. Fisting the back of your nightgown as he forcibly pulls you backwards to meet his ferocious thrusts. He may initially have more restraint than you but when he is nine inches deep in your wet pussy he can’t help but brainlessly abuse your cunt.

“m’wanna hear you...”

You moan desperately, knowing he is suppressing his noises because of how jagged his breathing is. Arching your back so that your ass is right by his ‘V’ line, you wiggle your hips against him. Effectively earning a moan from him, albeit soft but vocal enough to satisfy you. Pushing your rogue hairs out your face, your toes curl at the excessive poking his tip is doing to your cervix. Shouts escaping your lips as his movements become more sloppy and brutal.

Pounding you to the point where the dominating sound is the roaring sounds of your ass clapping against his pelvis.

Panting to catch your breath, you sneak your hand down to his stomach as you lay on his chest. Your head wrap fucked all the way up and dried up tear stains on the corners of your eye as you look up to him.

“I've been thinking....”

You whisper to him, your voice threatening to break if you speak any louder. Gazing at you with neutral eyes, he nudges you slightly to hear you continue.

“we should get away... like a vacation.” You say in the sweetest voice you can manage.

“A vacation?”

You hum with a quick nod of your head. A small smile on your face, “everytime halloween comes around you get so paranoid. it's just a thought, you don’t have to agree.”

You’re shocked it was so easy. Usually he would need a whole lot more convincing but the next thing you know, you’re in Tahiti double fisting margaritas in a sexy swimsuit. All the while enjoying the sunset with your man in a hot tub.

He can’t stop staring at your body as you straddled his lap. You can never get enough attention from him.

“I don’t think these drinks are strong enough.”

You exclaim to him as you finish your fourth margarita of the evening, knowing you’re at the point in your drinking where the cocktail is starting to taste more like juice. As you put the glass aside, your eyes widen as you feel his finger playing with your swimsuit bottom. Stretching and snapping the flexible fabric onto your skin.

Pulling your bottoms to the side, he easily slips his cock inside you, the bubbles materializing in the hot tub covering up your indecent act.

“you’re wet.”

He states in your ear, loud enough for you alone to hear. Whining in his lap as he guides your hips to bounce on his dick. Holding his shoulders you move against him, sitting down on him and rotating your hips in a circular motion before moving up and down on his cock. Your cunt squeezing him so tightly. Letting your moans fly freely, you the slaps of your skin are suppressed by the splashing of water surrounding your bodies.

Luckily for the both of you, no one else would use that hot tub except for you but a good few happened to hear your moaning. Your loud, hot, horny and desperate moaning.

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#agent 47 imagine #agent 47 #agent 47 x reader #hitman #hitman 2 #hitman 3 #black fanfiction #fanfiction #short story #freaktober #kinktober #Smut #suggestive cw #agent 47 headcanons #agent 47 x black girl #agent 47 x you #agent 47 x y/n #agent 47 x black y/n

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