#ft. aoife

[hydraschaos]

where: the bastion, during the ball with: @asheslostsaint

She would never admit it to anyone, nor herself, the real reason why this had been the one country she had refused to travel to during the past ten years. When eight of them had been spent jumping from one place to another. Making art, learning, becoming better (hiding, running away from a pain no knife or bullet wound could cause). Narcisse had learnt from a young age to not let anything get in the way, but the force that kept her from coming here was bigger than anything she could battle. Now though, after the death of someone inside The Bastion, someone so important (someone she couldn't care less about), attending this gathering, meant to placate people's unease... it was something she couldn't ignore. The perfect excuse.

And she hated still, the way her heart raced and the pulse quickened at just the sight of her. Narcisse knew she'd be likely to find her here, had hoped, dreaded the possibility. Ten years should've been enough, for the ache in her chest to quell, and the anger ignited in her heart to extinguish. But seeing Aoife once more felt like the very first time, when she caught her staring at her art. And before she knew it, Narcisse was making her way to the other the same way she had that time. "Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes." The words slipped easily from her lips, the accent strong on each syllable as she stood before the only woman she's ever loved. A smirk on her lips and a mask on her face. "I almost didn't believe my eyes... after all, it's been so long."

[hydraschaos]

The amused hum that left her lips was all the reaction Viktoria could give to the light jab. Davika had only mentioned her briefly, like a fleeting thought, and what she had done to make them part so... disastrously. But that had been her wife's doing and job, and Viktoria's never had much of a saving conscience to matter too much. "And stealing other's riches, if I'm not mistaken... I do believe that's what makes most of the Museum, isn't it?." The pleasant smile on her lips was almost taunting, a content expression on her face that almost made it seemed like there was no other place she would rather be right then. Viktoria often found too much pleasure into deciphering things, breaking down a code that'd let her into all the information. She found, she often treated people the same way she would a machine.

The sound of her name doesn't surprise her, if the position the other woman holds should mean something, is that she must value information almost as much as Viktoria does. And that alone makes this all the more interesting. That she'd choose to work for The Table, as a Librarian, after what Davika did, comes as a surprise and something entirely intriguing. "We hadn't had the pleasure, unfortunately, but I'm incredibly pleased to meet you now." A pause, she takes a sip of her drink with her smirk growing sharper around the edges. "I am... a fan, of the job you Librarians do, all that paper must be exhausting."

 It was only years of experience with needing to maintain an exterior of professionalism that stopped Aoifes half smile of greeting from morphing into a sneer of distaste. The edges of her ruby red lips flicked for half a heartbeat before settling back into a veneer of a pleasant smile. There was nothing necessarily wrong with the woman herself, but rather who her darling wife was. The shadow of a women who haunted the darker parts of the Liberians mind. The parts that craved blood dripping off her knife. Her grip tightening slightly on the icy glass held in her palm as images of revenge danced behind her eyes.  Aoife took the time to set her glass down on the bar to center herself. A deep breath through her nose, slowly exhaling through her mouth, letting the fresh air dampen the coiling embers of anger that flickered under her skin. “Ah yes, betrayal , another English specialty besides invading most of the world” Aoife couldn’t help but needle subtly. Hazel eyes flickering over the other woman's face, attempting to gauge a reaction, wondering how much she knows.

Aoife sorted through her mental Rolodex of the inhabitants of the city, trying to pick through for a name to maybe gain the upper hand in the conversation. It was Aoife's business to keep tabs on just about everyone, a name wasn’t hard to remember.  Viktoria. The Irish woman turned her body to face the other fully, tilting her head and offering her free hand to shake. “Viktoria right? I don’t believe we’ve formally met before. I’m Aoife” She introduced herself, baring her teeth in a simile more resembling a wolf's snarl.

[evita-shelby]

An Eva masterlist for all your #Evacore needs

Banner by @cillmequick

Peaky Blinders

#evacore by others

Tommy x Eva

Between the Shadow and the Soul

Nothing more difficult than love (arranged marriage au)

You read me poetry while i wash the dishes (Eva x Tommy oneshots)

A different sort of man( btsats!Tommy and Eva accidentally switch places with season 3!Tommy and a different version of Eva)

An Unholy Alliance (Grace x Tommy, Tommy x Eva)

The Duke of Saxon Shore (two shot where Duke Shelby exists)

A witch and a rose (eva & Rose Coldwell (@justrainandcoffee)

Tommy x Eva x Heaven (@call-sign-shark)

Garden of Eden

tommy x eva, tommy x Lucy Winters( @mischievouslittlecreature )

look both ways

The Wreckage

tommy x eva ft evie shelby( @novashelby )

a tale of two evies

Mr. Chang

Luca Changretta x Eva

Incantatrice

To love and say goodbye(one shot collection)

Not so different ( crossover with @peakyswritings Heart, Body and Soul fic ft Nina Ferrante)

Luca Changretta x Tommy Shelby x Eva Smith

The View from my window

Jack Nelson x Eva

National Anthem

Like an American

What happens in Vegas (modern!Au)

They didn't know we were seeds(Hunger Games Au)

violent delights( 17th century knight au)

Mrs Nelson(original two shot with canon!Jack)

The Two Mrs Nelsons(part two of mrs nelson)

The Wandering (Jack x Eva ft The Wandering Jew!Rose x Alfie(@justrainandcoffee)

Dreams Unwind(inception au)

Brilliant Cheng

Necromancy

Vēnor

The Eva-verse

Devilry dancing in her blood

Eva x Tommy/Alfie x Rose

Forbidden

Strings of Fate (smut 🔞)

Cillianverse

Love's a State of Mind (Robert Fischer x Eva)

The witch and the scarecrow(Jonathan Crane x Eva)

Mr and Mrs Smith (mr and mrs smith inspired Raymond Leon x Eva)

Frecheville-verse

Two Souls Bound for Hell (Martin O’Feeney x Eva (Aoife))

The Locket (reincarnation au)

The First Date (Teeth from the Royal Hotel(2023) x Eva)

MCU

Of Gods and Witches (Namor/Kukulkan of Talokan x Eva)

Moodboards

Brilliant Chang x Eva

Eva ft Megara

Ship in 5 minutes

Tommy x Eva

Jack x Eva

Luca x Eva

A song of ice and fire ft Peaky Blinders

masterlist

[blindspct]

closed starter for @itsrogersandco ft. oliver & aoife!!

oliver meant it when he mentioned that he was going to try harder. he thought she deserved that much. after all, she'd been by his side through thick and thin. what kind of husband would he be if he didn't give aoife his all? he was seated by the pool of their vacation home, a glass of wine in his hand. "dinner was amazing, as always." he paused to take a proper sip. "i can't remember the last time we actually sat down and ate together." that was his fault though and he knew that. "what do you think about a night swim once we digest a little bit, hm?"

[transthadymacdermot]

O'Donnell and his girlfriend/Mary's cousin/Brian's sister Aoife who is mostly with him because she thinks the killing and murdering is sooo hot and who he stays with out of convenience and because she's good at cooking and um. comforting him. whenever his relationship with Kathleen goes under. kinda wish she would kill him ngl but alas. also featuring the inside of their cabin ft. bone collection and the characters eating again for no reason other than I started reading Hidden Ireland by Daniel Corkery today and was inspired by his description of the diets of 18thc Irish peasants... she's eating potatoes with fish to flavour it as seen on Hidden Ireland page 30 and he's eating a whole bowl of uncooked oats #autism

[nonsensical-pixels]

one of my bffs on the simscord, aoife, made a neighborhood and one of the families is literally just sims made from the first steps of this method of creating sims... sobbing while making them over.

introducing dig lett, pookie lett, will lett, and gill lett, ft. fully maxis-match hairs by my beloved @profesionalpartyguest 💕

[burlveneer-music]

Ghost Train Orchestra & Kronos Quartet - Songs and Symphoniques: The Music of Moondog

On "Songs and Symphoniques: The Music of Moondog," Ghost Train Orchestra teams up with the trailblazing Kronos Quartet to celebrate and reimagine the music of Louis Hardin, aka Moondog, the ground-breaking composer and poet who lived on the streets of New York City in the 50s and 60s, and influenced the minimalists Philip Glass, Steve Reich and Terry Riley. A blind composer who moved from Kansas to New York City and built his own instruments and mythology, Moondog's story and music continue to be an inspiration to many. Along with guests Sam Amidon, Jarvis Cocker, Petra Haden, Karen Mantler, Marissa Nadler, Aoife O'Donovan, Rufus Wainwright and Joan Wasser, the two groups explore Moondog's sense of whimsy, wonder and adventure through a cross-section of songs and instrumentals for large ensemble, string ensemble, percussion and voice. The vinyl and CD packages include an essay by biographer Robert Scotto, Moondog's song lyrics, extensive in-studio photographs by Dan Efram, and an interview with Kronos Quartet founder David Harrington and Ghost Train Orchestra founder Brian Carpenter, mediated by music historian Irwin Chusid. Kronos Quartet David Harrington - violin John Sherba - violin Hank Dutt - viola Sunny Yang - cello Ghost Train Orchestra Brian Carpenter, trumpet, harmonica, vocals Andy Laster, alto saxophone, flute Dennis Lichtman, clarinet Matt Bauder, bass clarinet, tenor, baritone saxophones Sara Schoenbeck, bassoon Curtis Hasselbring, trombone, guitar Ron Caswell, tuba Brandon Seabrook, guitar Chris Lightcap, bass Rob Garcia, drums David Cossin, marimba, percussion Maxim Moston, violin Colin Stetson, bass saxophone Guests: Sam Amidon, Jarvis Cocker, Petra Haden, Karen Mantler, Marissa Nadler, Aoife O'Donovan, Rufus Wainwright, and Joan Wasser All new arrangements by Ghost Train Orchestra Dedicated to the memory of Hal Willner

[mangoshorthand]

Thing of the Past- [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Ch10 (Hard Feelings Part 4)

SUMMARY: You can't avoid it any longer: Five has to meet your parents. It goes more wrong than you could possibly imagine, spiralling to bring up secrets he'd rather stay buried.

⚠️TRIGGER WARNINGS⚠️ Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven/Epilogue

Though Five is rebuilding his confidence, you're starting to struggle with the knowledge.

Can you tell that the author REALLY wants to go to the South of France?

⚠️Please heed content warning⚠️

Chapter Ten: Doing it

The sky is a deep azure as you ride side by side. The sun beats down on the grapevines, seeming to bake the rich, earthy scent from the hills and valleys. You breathe it in deeply. Over several days, more of Five’s confidence has returned. This morning, when he woke you, he’d told you he had planned a day for you both. Hired bikes and cycling equipment waited outside.

His cycling shorts leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. When he’d first emerged wearing them, your eyes had swooped unconsciously down his body; toned calves and thighs, slightly tanned now from the sun. The way they clung to his package was on the borderline of indecency; you tried not to think about what it would look like if he got a boner.

“Yeah, I know I look good in shorts but my face is up here.”

You’d returned your eyes to his face, concerned about making him feel objectified in his current state of mind. Catching your guilty expression, he’d smiled, turned around and given his ass a small slap.

“You're a lucky girl. I thought I'd give you something nice to look at while you eat my dust.”

Now, voice raised over the air whipping in your ears, he turns to you:

“Now this isn’t so terrible, is it?”

His smile is broad and a little dorky beneath his cycle helmet. He looks as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He might be a man who’d never seen the end of the world, never lost family, never been hurt.

You both slow as the terrain becomes steeper, the path climbing you gradually out of the valley and towards the walled village perched on the hill in front of you. You tire sooner than him and he outstrips you. When you have to stop, he looks back once, winks and gives you the finger. You push your bike up the rest of the way.

The village’s heritage is medieval. Twelfth century ramparts in dried cobble stone like that of the resort loom larger the closer you get. Your heart hammers and your legs protest with the effort. Soon, you can see the gates and him waiting for you, leaning against the wall with a smug, self-satisfied look on his face. When he sees your exhaustion, he blinks to your side.

“Come on, dear one.”

He puts his arm around you and blinks you the last 200 ft or so. He locks up both of the hired bikes while you try to catch your breath.

“There’s a café just inside the gates. Let’s get you some water.”

"We-we need to get back to training when we get home." you gasp, "My fitness has gone to shit since Aoife was born."

"I'd like that," he says, laying a kiss on your sweaty forehead, "but all in good time. Just catch your breath."

You can tell he’s enjoying tending to you. He’s trying to rebuild his feelings of strength through nurture. And that’s ok with you.

Your morning’s ramble around the village is a very happy one. The towers offer beautiful, panoramic views down the valley, towards the horizon and sea. The fields stretch out like patchwork- greens of every shade and the occasional purple lavender. Down in the streets, narrow alleys wend their way higgledy-piggledy between buildings, wild wisteria draping elegantly here and there. It’s a place that gives you a sense of forgotten stories steeped in heritage. Five likes to think of himself as an intelligent man, but when he puts his hand on the walls and senses what he’d swear feels like their damn heartbeat, he can’t help but think they’ve seen more than he’ll ever know.

When he and Dolores would look at the stars, he’d found comfort in their dependable celestial course, yet they had made him feel even more remote and alone. These walls, by contrast, seem to have been constructed with no rhyme or reason, (at least to modern eyes) and yet the stones sing with humanity. They put him in touch with centuries, with one people across time. Even after he got back from decades in the apocalypse, he’d been mostly unable to shake the perception of himself as alone in the world- adrift and apart from others. Just walking among complete buildings had done nothing to clear the ruins in his mind.

But now, here he is under the baking Marseille sun. He’s touching walls that feel anchored into the very fabric of this landscape- evidence of human myth-making and endeavour enduring centuries. Now it’s easier to know that no man is an island…and not even his remarkable stories are new. Not really.

He seems peaceful over lunch. You sit on a restaurant terrace, providing you with a beautiful view down into the market square and the church, spire jutting into the sky. The food and wine this entire trip have been exquisite and this lunch is no exception.

The early afternoon bike-ride back to the resort is much easier than the one there. You free-wheel at least half way because of the incline back into the valley. After a couple of glasses of wine over lunch, you let yourself go as fast as the bike will take you. As you whoop with delight, you hear Five’s laughter and shouted warnings.

“Be careful! If you fall into the valley, I am not saving your ass.”

“Shut up, yes you would!” you yell over your shoulder.

He laughs his acquiescence as you continue to shriek with delight. Within a few seconds, he pumps his pedals to bring his bike alongside yours again. Now he’s yelling at the speed too.

You arrive back at the resort breathless and laughing. Five checks his watch.

“Half an hour until our massage. Just in time to shower and change.”

You wore the bikini again. It feels like a small act of support given that he’d persuaded you to wear it the first time. He’s still jovial when you enter the spa and sit in the pre-treatment lounge, sipping cucumber-water, but you can see him getting antsy as the time draws nearer.

“You can still back out.”

“No. It’ll be fine. My back needs it after being bent over on the bike and believe me, back pain will be no joke when your body’s getting towards fifty-five,” he lets out a slightly exasperated breath, “I’m not going to spend the rest of my life freaking out over this.”

You take his hand. He seems torn; annoyed at what he sees as unnecessary solicitude, but grateful for it nonetheless. His eyebrows lower even as he squeezes your hand appreciatively. When you’re called through to the treatment room, you lead him there.

He copes well. He only shows signs of discomfort at the start, (holding your hand between the two massage tables), but after about ten minutes, he relaxes. You hear him sigh a little as the therapist works the tension softly out of his back. In addition to his recent stress, his posture is god-awful, so he gets his money’s worth from the session. Knowing he’s relaxed allows you to do the same.

When you get in bed that night, he pulls you to him. You lie face to face on your sides. His eyebrows raise.

“Wanna do it?”

“Do it?” you repeat, “What are we, teenagers?” you put on a high-pitched gee-golly voice, “Oh boy, are we finally going to go all the way?”

“Are you capable of shutting up?”

“Mm…no.”

He grabs his crotch beneath the sheets, dick already hard in his fist.

“Well. Maybe I got something down here we can use to help with that.”

You hesitate only long enough to raise your eyebrows at him and then burrow under the sheets. He pulls his pyjamas down, cock bouncing invitingly as it’s set free from the waistband. This will be the first time you’ve touched him here in over three weeks. You look up at him.

“Are you sure?”

He doesn’t scowl, he doesn’t roll his gorgeous green eyes: he just smiles gently, eyes for once like tranquil pools you could sink into.

“Yes, beautiful.”

You hold his gaze for a second, half to ensure that all’s well, and half because you can’t look away. Then, satisfied you take him tenderly into your mouth. He gives a contented ‘mmmhh’ like he’s just sunk into a hot bath.

“I’ve missed this,” he whispers.

You don’t reply, enjoying his dick too much. The soft skin against your lips, the engorged tissue beneath, the familiar scent. You bob your head, sucking him on your upstroke. As he sighs again, you withdraw your mouth and tongue the entire length, up and down. When you meet his eyes, the cocktail of love and lust there is stupefying to be the object of. You can't do enough to satisfy the wild, confusing need it stirs in you. You want to cry, scream, kiss him, pleasure him, beg him, be him, worship him, become him: you're torn a thousand ways as his hands come down to lace themselves in your hair.

“Please can I…?”

You nod with him back in your mouth, desperate from within the clouded tumult of need.

“Put your hands on me then.”

You do, knowing from long experience what he means; he wants you to tap him if you need to stop deepthroating him.

His hips thrust forward and he fucks your mouth. You try to take it for as long as you can, just happy to have his dick inside some part of you after what feels like forever. You can’t see his face from under the sheets, but his shallow breathing, occasional grunt and dirty talk is enough to prove his enjoyment.

“Uh, I love you, you little cocksucker. Fuck that’s good.”

You tap him, pulling back, and he releases you. You feel saliva running down your cheek and eyes watering. You catch your breath and find yourself smiling uncontrollably. You’ve never been so happy to be called a cocksucker.

“I won’t last long tonight.” he says, “jerking myself off isn’t the same.”

You rise, almost reluctantly from his dick, "Then fuck me."

He looks down at you, eyebrow raised imperiously.

“That wasn’t very polite, now, was it? Ask nicely.”

“Please fuck me Daddy. I want your cock inside me."

It’s the first time you’ve used this alias since you found out you were pregnant with Aoife. It forces his mock-stern face into a smile.

“Daddy's still too weird."

"Sir?"

"Hm...better. Come here."

You straddle him and lay your torso across his, revelling in the warmth, the closeness. He smacks your ass playfully, making you jump and give a hissing intake of breath.

“Mm…I’ve missed that sound.”

“I’ve missed that feel.” you say, grinding downwards into his crotch.

He laughs softly. Behind you, you feel his hand directing himself towards your waiting pussy,

"Do you want to do it like this?" you whisper into his ear.

By way of answer, he eases his throbbing dick into you, hands coming to your hips, pulling you onto him right to the hilt.

Ecstatic fullness; blissful reunion.

“Ffffuuck” he groans.

He doesn’t hold back, enjoying your body as you’ve both been craving for days and days. This position is particularly good for you. It’s extremely intense, his cock nudging your cervix in a way that toes the line between immense pleasure and pain. He holds your hips firmly, thrusting up into you, giving little, rhythmic grunts along with the push of his pelvis. Your noises become higher and higher with the repeated pressure inside you, building in your stomach.

“Th-this is deep!”

“You like being on my dick, huh?”

"I fucking love it."

You bite your lip, hoping to keep your shrill voice quiet and start to rock yourself along with his thrusts, kissing his throat with desperate, saliva-laden intensity. 

“Ugh- you're so fucking beautiful, darling. You like your husband pounding your little pussy?”

“Yes!” You feel pleasure build all over you, full body electric tingles.

"Yes, what?”

“Yes sir.”

“That’s right.”

His hips snap into you and his nails dig sharp crescents into the flesh of your hips. The sting goes right to your core. Exquisite, beguiling pleasure-pain. He’s close. His breathing is hoarse and harsh.

As you both reach the summit, you whisper a conversation of sorts: garbled sweet and not-so-sweet nothings: "God, that dick-" "Tight fucking whore-" "-right there-" "-make me crazy-" "-need you-" "-I love you so much." "-Come for me, baby. Fill me with it." "I'm gonna-"

He shouts as he releases, his body honest-to-god vibrating against yours. As he reaches the crescendo of pleasure, his fists ball into the swell of your hips. He yells, thrusts upwards and-

>ffshht<

You’re both on the floor a few feet away, a spatial portal closing behind you. The blink magnifies his upward trajectory, causing him to tip, you to overbalance and he to land on top of you.

“Shit…” he breathes. You feel the last little bit of come dribble out of him, onto your stomach now. He rolls off you and looks around, cock still twitching slightly.

“That’s never happened to me before.” he laughs, disbelieving, “Guess that’s one way to consummate the marriage.”

You hold each other for a while, there on the floor. Kissing and laughing, coming down from the high together with arms and legs around one another. . 

Afterwards, you lie entwined together in bed.

“I think I’m ready to go home,” he says, as much to the ceiling as to you. 

“Me too. I miss our girl.”

You’re both silent for a while, until you speak up again.

“You know it’s not over, right?”

He just looks at you, that brooding look back in his eye.

“All of that stuff; it’s a part of your story. It won't just go away. It will probably hurt again.”

He exhales moodily through his nose, “Well. We’ll see about that.”

“You have to live with it. Take it on. Not just push it away.”

“I coped before." his snappy impatience is back.

“Can you really just go back to ignoring it? And it’s not just The Handler, Five. Everything that happened. The nightmares…you know you still have night terrors too? I just stopped telling you about them.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to do about it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe start by talking to someone qualified to help you?”

“We talked about this.”

“No we didn’t; you just dismissed it. Your powers are quite well-known Five. You can explain what happened to someone bound by confidentiality laws. We can find you a doctor, someone who knows how to treat-”

“Treat me? For what?”

“PTSD, you fucking idiot!”

He looks thunderstruck so you backtrack slightly.

“I mean- I’m sorry- I don’t know. I’m not a psychologist, but you know there’s something wrong.”

He’s silent for a while. His face has taken on the angry, dissociative look that scares you. You let it take its course. His lips disappear, mouth thinning into a single line. When he speaks, his voice is menacing.

“I’d like to see anyone go through what I’ve been through and not be a little fucked up. You have no idea-”

You give a growl of vexation that’s almost a shout.

“It’s not an insult! You’re right, nobody could go through what you did and not get PTSD or whatever it is. The fact you’re even still alive is amazing. You’re right- I have no idea so I can’t help you in the ways you need,” your voice shakes; desperate, angry tears falling without your knowledge.

He looks at you, defensiveness gone in pure shock at your sudden breakdown.

“You think I d-don’t want to just take it all away? To just make it so it never happened? I can’t. Nobody can. I can’t help you and it’s fucking killing me!”

He grabs your wrists to slow your hands’ wild gesticulations.

“You need help and I can’t make you take it. But please; please try. For me; for our baby, Five. Please!”

You dissolve into sobs. For a few seconds, he does nothing, fingers digging into your wrists slightly painfully. And then he holds you to his chest.

“All right. All right dear one. I’m listening. Message received,” he rocks you, kissing your cheek, “just…this is something inside me. Give me time to work it out.”

For once, he sleeps well and you uneasily. The darkness eats away at your mind.

After a final goodbye to the resort the next morning, he'd set the briefcase to allow you to return home. He gave you a gentle peck on the lips as the portal consumed you both. When you broke apart, here you were, back in the Bridal suite at your wedding venue. Now, Five checks the clock complete with date display on the bedside table.

“Just as we planned: it's the day after the wedding, ten minutes after we left.”

“It’s…strange.” you look around, there’s your wedding dress, hanging just where you left it, "did...the honeymoon even happen?"

He smiles mischievously, "Oh, it happened. Look at the marks on your hips from last night if you don't believe me." and then, with a return to seriousness, "You’ll get your head around it. Gotta find a focus point. Shall I go get the baby?”

“Sure. I’ll pack up here.”

He looked down at the kill order for Anita and Ronnie Gill, flower merchants. It was stamped with A. J’s approval but it seemed...

Slowly, he raised his eyes to her face. She watched him with almost-benign interest, tossing her exquisitely curled hair over her shoulder.  

“Execs never go on jobs.”

“Exactly,” she said, business-like, “and I think of that as a missed opportunity. When we lose track of field work we become…disconnected," she tapped her nails on the bar, "this isn’t about us ordering around underlings, it’s about preserving the timeline as a lifeline for all of us.”

“Cut the company shit,” he snapped, “what are you after?”

“Ah,” she sighed, placing a hand on his knee and looking at him with an expression of pity, “always so suspicious, Five. Can you blame a gal for wanting to get back in the field? Feel the thrill of a well-executed job?"

On the word 'thrill', she circled his kneecap with a single finger. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of moving his leg. She leaned towards him, lowering her voice suggestively.

"Perhaps I just wanted to see London town with my favorite assassin. 

“You know I work alone," he muttered, ignoring the latter part of her speech. 

“You work for me.”

She crossed her legs on the barstool, drawing an admiring glance from the pub’s landlord, nominally engaged in polishing the bar but really watching The Handler with lascivious interest. Five lowered his voice.

“You know full well you’ve got me over a damn barrel. So tell me your game- what harm can it do? Has it occurred to you that I might be able to help?"

"Oh yes," she replied, removing the hand on his leg to take a sip of campari, "I know you're more than a pretty face, but you aren't that much more. You just do what you were born to do: pull the trigger and don't ask questions."

He crossed his own legs, uncomfortably, trying to hide it by taking a sip of the poor-quality porter offered at the bar.

"You know I could work it out anyway, if I wanted to. Don’t I have a right to know why? Considering …” he gave her a significant look.

“Considering what?”

“I feel, given our...history, you could tell me why we're here.”

She raised a single, pencilled brow, "Our history?"

"You know what I mean: what you make me do."

There was a beat in which their eyes met: a moment of unspoken interplay in which something could shift; anything could happen. He needed to hold it, needed to come out on top, finally. With the intensity of his own gaze, he fought against the power of hers.

But then her mouth spasmed and she burst into helpless laughter. She threw her head back and shook with loud, long, guffaws.

“Oh Five! What I make you do? Well sure, whatever you have to tell yourself.”

His hand gripped his pint glass more tightly as she continued to laugh uproariously, drawing the attention of more than the landlord. She bent forward from mirth, as if laughter was starting to be painful, she put her hand on his upper arm for support.

“Oh, I’m going to have to go to the little girls’ room before I pee myself! Wait here like a good boy and afterwards, you and I will do what we came here to do."

She swung her legs off the barstool, wiping her eyes. Just as she moved as if to leave, she bent towards him, whispering right in his ear.

“But don’t tire yourself out too much; we have a long night ahead of us after we’re done. This time I even brought some…equipment to try."

She giggled again as she clacked away in her heels, leaving Five’s stomach to roil.

“I think you’ve pulled, mate,” muttered the barman, suddenly across the bar from him.

Five squeezed the glass so hard that it shattered in his grip.

"Hey, Five?" He comes back to the present with a bump. Diego's stood in their room's doorway, Lila approaching from behind him. He had been unprepared for how seeing her would stir the pandora's box irrevocably open in his mind. With regret, he realizes it's going to take more than a bike ride to fix this.

"Sorry. I was miles away." he tries not to catch Lila's eye- he has a feeling she knows exactly how to account for his odd behavior. 

“No worries, bro," says Diego, "How was it? You got a nice tan.”

“Thanks,” grins Five. “It was…really good actually.”

He lets himself look at Lila, her smile is slightly apprehensive.

“All good?”

“All good. Thanks.” They exchange a nod, one that acknowledges everything that happened between them. He had once called her ‘entirely average’. For a long time, he’s known she’s anything but. Now, she's firmly on his list of favorite people. Shaking off this sentimentality, he cranes around their bodies into the room, returning Santi's cheery wave.

“Where’s Aoife?” he asks.

At the sound of a knock, you think Five forgot his key. When you open the door, it’s your mother, holding a screaming Aoife. She thrusts the baby into your arms and pushes past you into the room. Seeing her unexpectedly has an unexpected effect on you. You place Aoife onto the floor and try to stop the rage building. Your Mom strides into the room and then turns on her heels, her face fixed in the lines of her best tragedy-mask.

"Well I just don't know what to think?"

You don't humor her; the flouncing demeanour is infuriatingly familiar. You could be thirteen again and she fretting over what the ladies in church would think about your loss of interest in Girl Scout meetings.  

“Why are you here Mom?”

“That British woman. She is so rude."

She flops, uninvited on to one of the armchairs, clapping a hand to her heart.

"There she was, holding my grandbaby, and that man who officiated was talking to them. All I did was tell them it was more appropriate that her grandmother looked after her and she used the foulest language! "

"That's because I left her with Lila and Diego, Mom. People she actually-"

But she plows on:

"What were you doing leaving her with people like that? I don’t know what you married into but I have never been more humiliated in my whole life.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

She gasps. The silky disdain your voice silences her for once. She looks as if you’ve slapped her face. Her lower lip pooches out and begins to tremble as she prepares for histrionics.

“You ask what I married into?" you continue, voice still deceptively calm, "It's what Five married into that worries me.”

“W-what…how d-?”

“I KNOW what you did to Five and Diego!”

Aoife’s protests become full cries, scared by your raised voice. Your mother’s wails join hers.

“Y-y-you’ve always hated m-me.” her sobs, designed to manipulate, just cause adrenaline to thud in your ears.

“You know what? I do! I really fucking hate you."

“I KNEW it. Nothing I ever do it g-g-good enough for you.”

You take a step towards her, “And what do you do when it comes to me, Mom? Apart from sexually harass- no- assault my husband?”

“What?”

Her shrill, fake-ass cries cease immediately replaced by anger flashing in her eyes.

“Well what would you call it, Mom? Backing a guy into a counter, touching him. Putting your hand under his clothes?”

She gives a disdainful 'pah' of shocked laughter.

"Am I supposed to like that? Am I supposed to be grateful?"

“You're being RIDICULOUS," she spits, "You always were dramatic."  she stands, shoving her chair backwards as she does: it upturns, hitting Aoife on the floor behind it with a glancing blow.

You barge past her, all but vaulting the chair to take Aoife into your arms. She's shrieking, bright red in the face. You hold her head where a bump is already forming. Your mother, unfazed, continues her diatribe.

"You, your father: both of you. I don't know what I did wrong. All I ever did was love you!-"

You're not listening. You kiss Aoife's head, casting your mind around desperately for something to use as a cold compress. She's fine, quieting even now as the shock of the blow subsides. 

"-And whatever Five's told you. It's just nonsense! He's exaggerating-"

You feel as if you’re floating. Red mist descends. Delicately, you place Aoife down on the floor beside the overturned chair. The thumping in your ears and the buzzing in your limbs take over. Your conscious mind all but switches off. You feel your teeth bare. 

"-It's not my fault if he's dirty minded!"

You look around the room, hands going into your jean pockets. No fire axe here. What a shame.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves, @rorygi1more, @jamiebower88

Masterpost

Alternatively, join me on A03.  Here is a link to the whole series

Look, I uploaded on time! Please reward me with reblogs and comments. Likes are lovely but they don't mean anything algorithmically on Tumblr.

[paissa-brat]

some aoife art from the last year(?)!!!! (ft one singular maeve bellarose)

[finelythreadedsky]

I love the unquiet grave and love discovering to new versions of it! Care to share the ones you know or some of your favorite versions?

my current collection of unquiet grave recordings is joan baez, kate rusby ft. aoife o'donovan, the furrow collective (on the 2016 bbc radio 2 folk awards), jean ritchie, steeleye span, the dubliners, shirley collins, solas, the morrigan, the ghost quartet cast in concert, and there's also a version on the penny dreadful seasons 2/3 soundtrack that i really like even though i've never watched that show

and i'm always open to more recommendations!

[fangsforfree]

so fun fact: i’m actually still on my first full run of bg3! i’ve been spoiled for a lot of the story and dialogue, but every so often i get a piece of dialogue that i miraculously haven’t seen before and it absolutely ruins me. tonight’s case:

does neil newbon WANT me to engage in a parasocial relationship with a fictional character? stop making me feel unique it HURTS

ft my paladin drow Aoife who i adore with all my heart

[jowanoodles]

happy new year !! here's my first art of 2023 ft Aloys & Aoife ! forcing my way thru artblock and the cold aaah 🤧

— ✦ personal art & oc ! please do not use/repost anywhere, thank you !!

[songsofprotestpeacerevolution]

Aoife O'Donovan - Over The Finish Line ft. Anaïs Mitchell

The subtext of the song is a plea, and an encouragement, to register and then actively participate in the upcoming vote because, O’Donovan implies, it will matter.

[evita-shelby]

The Locket

Jack Nelson x Eva Smith, reincarnating soulmates au ft Two Souls Bound for Hell, National Anthem, What Happens in Vegas and They didn’t know we were seeds

Tag list: @justrainandcoffee @emotionalcadaver @call-sign-shark @peakyswritings @zablife @thegreatdragonfruta

1847

Once he made the decision to return home, marry his Aoife and start over in America, the corporal visits the peddler who is known to sell jewelry stolen from both the living and dead alike.

He had saved enough to settle any debts his family would have, have a small but proper wedding and leave for America before the English hang him for his desertion.

Martin had been careful with his coin even after his promotion to Corporal and after a small gift by Hannah, he had decided he could spare some for a trinket to give to his soon-to-be bride.

He sees it amongst the pendants, an old locket somewhat dirty and scratched with a human heart surrounded by flowers carved into it. Gold, or dipped into it by the way its quality can’t be hidden by the lack of care.

The peddler had said its previous owner had received it from her husband and wore it until the day she died mere minutes after him. The old woman was apprehensive to sell it for it could bring ill luck to its wearer.

My Aoife will find the story romantic, she believes in fate and magic, he had said in response while still offering his coin and the old woman gave him the chain for free muttering some sort of blessing just in case.

Martin O’Feeney keeps it in his coat pocket and waits for the right moment. He had despaired when he heard she had married, rejoiced to know she had been widowed and felt the stirrings of hope in his dead heart when they wed that night.

She wears only that when they celebrate their wedding night up in the loft of the barn, the stolen treasure bounces against her chest as she rides him as if it was always meant for her.

The locket holds a lock of auburn hair from Roisin and baby Michael’s dark curl tied with a string and rests on the swell of Aoife’s breast come hell or high water. It is the one thing of value they still own those first harsh years in America where poverty is bad but not as terrible as it had been in Ireland.

They live well once things become steady for them to have a third, Hannah, and own their own home where Aoife runs her medicine shop. She wears it always even when they grow old and gray.

The only time he ever sees Aoife remove it is when he is on his deathbed and watches her leave it on their dresser to join him and leave this world together.

The year is 1892 and somewhere in a dingy tenement block in Boston, Martin O’Feeney is reborn as John, son of Rosemary Nelson wife of Roisin’s eldest son, Edmund.

1926

Jack knows his woman has a thing for the magic and old things.

The locket had belonged to an Irish Midwife who had come to America with her husband who she loved so much she died the same night as him. They had three children going by the three locks of hair inside it.

The woman dabbled in magic, the shopkeeper had whispered, no one has been able to buy it without being cursed with bad luck because the old bat hadn’t wanted her daughter to sell it.

And because Eva knows magic and curses, Jack Nelson pays double of what the old man had said it cost. He’s got money to burn and knows whatever curses it has aren’t strong enough to hurt his woman.

She burns the locks of hair, hair as dark as hers and one lock as red as his mother’s had been, and lets the wind spread its ashes as part of the removing the curse. The name of the previous owner was also Eva, well, Aoife, or so his wife had learned as she did her magical shit to break the curse on the locket.

He had a great grandmother called that; his dad’s witch grandmother come to think of it. His grandmother had been named Roisin like the owner of the ginger lock of hair too.

“Rather romantic, don’t you think? A gift from her husband whom she loved so much she couldn’t live without it or him.” Evie murmurs against his chest later that night.

“Would you love me like that, Evie?” he asks having grown fearful of losing her to their mistress, Gloria, or worse, death.

“I already love you like that, Jack.” The witch laughed softly as she reassures him of the strength of her love for him. She’ll end things with Gloria, they’ll have the baby Jack’s dreading to have, and she’ll even eschew heaven to follow him into hell.

The witch loves that locket to death, will wear it at home and whenever she can pair it with her clothing on outings. Wears it on their anniversary, their kid’s birthdays, their weddings and when they cheat death fate had in store for them.

His children never die like the visons of death that plague them since childhood claimed they would. Jack could now say his children had ended the curse that plagued his father’s bloodline as he and Eva ready themselves for bed one last time.

They know their time is up, a strange feeling they’ve had for some time now. Jack is ninety-nine and Eva ninety-five when they leave the locket on the nightstand and are found dead by their nurse the following morning.

It is 1992, in a hospital in Boston Jack Nelson is born to Rose Nelson ---of no relation to the infamous Nelson Family--- and Eva Smith is born in an ambulance outside the Sistine Chapel to Isabel Riley.

2019

Asking Eva to be his fake girlfriend was the best decision he ever made.

He loves her, he’s sure of it.

She looks beautiful in anything. The locket he gave her for Christmas two years ago does not look out of place even in the cheap wedding minidress she rented for their elopement.

He loves her, there’s no doubt about it.

Another Jack and Eva who will have their picture in that locket.

The faded photograph he’d taken out of it when he bought it said Jack and Eva 1919 on the back. 100 years ago, they had gotten married and put their picture in the locket and now in 2019 it witnesses another Jack and Eva getting together.

“The shop lady said every owner who had it lived happy ever after with their husbands, says it brings good luck to its owners.” He tells her when he stops her from taking it off as they fuck in the pink car as husband and wife.

“I’d like to live in love with you for the rest of my life.” His girl said tearing off his shirt not giving a shit that the buttons had come off.

And they do, through seemingly infinite horrors and joys, the Nelsons live through all of it as in love as they were when they got married just as they promised in the back seat of their car.

They are on a road trip to Las Vegas the moment it becomes safe to revive their anniversary tradition when Eva loses the locket outside a gas station in Colorado. While both are disappointed in their loss, the young couple knows they’ll still love each other forever even without it.

“Maybe a different Jack and Eva will find it and continue the tradition.” Jack says as they give up their search for it and resume their drive.

And they do.

The locket is said to be several thousand years old, something that had survived and been cared for by those who love ancient shit.

It is a pretty thing, a human heart with flowers carved on the front and the letters J and E on scrawled on the back.

Jack had paid full price for it and couldn’t wait to see Eva’s face when she opened his gift for her. His wedding gift to his wife and mother to his baby boy.

“They say it brings good luck to new couples.” The curator says and dismisses it as nonsense. No one believes in romance and magic anymore, at least outside the Capitol.

But Eva does, has a deck of cards she says tell you the future and thinks fate was what brought them together.

“Maybe it will.” Jack thanks the guy anyways and prepares for his secret wedding.

Eva looks stunning with it, says it was meant for them going by the letters on the back.

It holds a picture of Laurie in her arms with his wrapped around hers, you couldn’t tell it was his arms and would give them plausible deniability should anyone ask. She wears it always, at home and at the Capitol.

Takes it with her as her token when she is called into the arena once more and keeps on wearing it even if it goes against the dress codes of District 13.

“It will only come off when we’re dead, mi amor,” she promises as they affix a new photograph once the rebellion ends, and the Hunger Games become a part of history never to be repeated.

“I’ll hold you to it, Mrs. Nelson.” Jack kissed her temple as they hold their newborn daughters, Isabel and Atia.

[hannahomp]

another concept piece for one of my classes. not my best background ever but tbh it was kinda (very) rushed. i like the clouds tho ft. aoife

[brightbluesage]

Aoife O’Donovan ft. Allison Russell – Prodigal Daughter