Archive of Our Own ^beta

November, 1915

Tensions were sky-high in Dublin City. It could be felt across the entirety of the Emerald Isle. In a small bungalow between the city and Howth, a young woman tended to the horse in her garden. An Irish Cob, gifted to her by her father. It was a gift she could hardly afford - certainly now that it was just her and her brother in the house. Clothes scattered the skyline, not having time to remove them from the line before the rain came. At twenty-six, Saoirse had little aspirations. Her schooling was cut short by her parents death and she wouldn’t have much of a chance at higher education with the pitiful money her parents did bring in. Rent was enough to make her shun any dreams.

Tensions were beginning to peak. The British Army could sense this, regularly patrolling all areas of Dublin. They glanced at her with disgust - an Irish woman was worthy of little. It satisfied her - her house hadn’t been raided. If it had, her storage of contraband weapons she was using to supply to the resistance would have been destroyed.

Emigration was her only hope; but the thought of leaving the green hills of her home, her flowery language, her people; made the thought hideous. She’d already fled the west - her home and supports ripped away by colonialism. Dublin wasn’t her home, but it was close. It was progressive.

Dublin was angry. So was she. 

-

Winters were intense - only 60 years after the famine, people were still struggling. She only had enough meat for the stew she was serving her brother because she was stabling horses. A career that was waning as she was paid pennies for the work. The sun had come in just after seven in the morning and the only sign of life in the house was the open fire and some scantily lit candles. The clouds and rain would keep the sky dark.

There was a frantic banging at her door and her head swung. Occasionally, lads from the Irish Volunteers would knock at her door, begging for a safe house to sleep in; but they were a lot more discreet than this. Her brother, Liam, was a timid thing, loud noises petrifying him after the execution of their father. 

“Get the door. Whoever he is, let him in,” she muttered, removing a revolver from the mantlepiece. Saoirse was apprehensive - normally she was clued into the movement of fenians. To be surprised like this was abnormal. But the young lad had been let in and shoved inside quickly. 

But there was also something off about this lad. There was no noise outside by the English, which definitely would have accompanied someone needing safe-housing. No one is fast enough to outrun an entire patrol group. Nonetheless, this man was injured and bleeding. 

“Thank you miss, thank you,” he muttered with an accent that sounded bizarre. Not as low as most city residents. It lacked the flatness from the Midlands and not as soft as anywhere west. Liam noticed this too.

“Sasanach?” he asked with fear. 

Saoirse examined him - he looked Irish. He was wearing lay-man’s clothes. Worker’s pants and a vest. Splattered in blood, she also noticed. Hair curled from exertion and blue eyes, he looked like a stereotypical Irish lad. 

“Níl. Is Eireannach é. Did he ask to come in?” Liam nodded. The man below them remained silent. His skin was blistering and raw and there was a gleam in his eye. Kneeling down, Saoirse raised his top lip and was greeted by fangs. Pointed and shiny with blood.

The maternal side of her family was spiritual and superstitious. She always thought it was stupid. Now she was regretting not taking those lessons on board. Saoirse realised that the sun had just risen. “You bastard,” she muttered.

The man in front of her remained silent. The jig was up. He was let in and no man, woman or God could remove him. That acknowledgement hung in the air with the two of them staring at each other. Something else hung between them. He looked like a snared animal; flesh between his teeth and a settled fury beneath his eyes.

Another knock came at the door. More polite, that was certain. And came from someone less afraid of sunlight. Whether he was human or not - he was Irish. And Saoirse preferred betraying the English than her own kin.

“Throw him in with the guns. Anois.”

Saoirse answered the door, removing the shawl that kept her modest. The Englishman in front of her gawked at her as she wiped her eyes, feigning sleep.

“Good morning,” she croaked, allowing the soldier to ogle at her form. She was not typically attractive, not to Irishmen. And not to Englishmen particularly, but these men had likely gone weeks at a time without seeing a woman. The soldier couldn’t have been older than twenty - and she would have pitied him had he not been participating in a regime killing innocent men and women.

“We’re looking for a young man. And I believe he came this way - so I’m going to search this property.” Fucking English, thinking they can get everything they want. She wanted to spit on his shoes, rile him up and infuriate him. Who cares if she got shot in the face?

“Well that explains why I was woken up so early. My horses went mad earlier, you should check out the stables in the back. Or the old abandoned workhouse up the road - I’ve heard rumours about operations there.” Saoirse pointed in the direction of the workhouse, all but shoving her entire body into him. If he didn’t get a gawk before, he did then. He was clearly torn between following orders and getting out of a situation he certainly shouldn’t be in. 

She shut her door, breathing a sigh of relief. Liam and their stranger had emerged.

“Cad is ainm duit?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.

He was wearing new clothes, given to him by her brother. He looked good, much more handsome than his entrance. Strong and healthy. If he were human, a man worth having kids with. Her own thoughts made her blush.

“Remmick.”

“Remmick,” she repeated, tasting the name on her tongue, “Remmick, by the time the sun sets tonight, I want you out of my house. And you’re never to come back. Understood?”

Remmick smiled, a wolfish grin that almost unsettled her.

“Yes ma’am.”

-

The night was long and though thoroughly unsettled, Saoirse continued on her night. Washing the dishes, preparing food for the morning - all while the demon opposite her watched. Like a judge in a competition. Monitoring, maybe, was a better word. 

“Where’s your husband?”

“Don’t have one, just me and my brother.” His questions failed to get in the way of her cleaning. 

“Bit odd, given your age.”

She smacked the dish cloth onto the table.

“You’ve some nerve talking to me like that in my house.”

Remmick’s eyes glowed, like facing a challenge. This woman wasn’t intimidated by him, which was new. Mouthy and volatile. He wanted to eat her alive. Wanted to turn her and keep her forever.

“Why did you let me in?”

“I didn’t. My brother did. And if you lay a hand on him I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

He went silent. Saoirse couldn’t kill him. Couldn’t even fight him off if he tried to kill her. She didn’t think she would. If he came at her, fangs and all, she’d probably let fate run its course. She’d faced brutality before, the taste was familiar in her mouth. 

Maybe he could sense that. Maybe that’s why he was being so generous with her life. 

Hours went by. The evening would hit soon. He spent the entire time watching her go about her mundane tasks. Liam was in bed. It could almost pass for a family unit. 

Chopping vegetables, her hand slipped and a curse met the air. Before she knew it, there was a hand around a wrist and glassy red eyes meeting her own. The air twisted around them.

Remmick stared at the wound along her wrist. Along the vein. His thumb rubbed along the opening, prompting the release of more blood. The coppery smell made him want to lunge at her. There was no fight from her - he could, if he wanted to. Bringing her wrist to his mouth, he licked along the cut. The stinging sensation was quickly satiated - unlike his hunger and the blood stopped running almost immediately. Saoirse’s eyes were mixed with confusion and relief. The taste wasn’t as strong as it would be directly from the vein, but it was enough as a starter. As he swallowed, the grip on her arm loosened. His eyes twinkled as his gaze reached hers.

The closeness made her feel warm. Fear wanted to worm its way to her core, but she couldn’t express it. Didn’t want to. The final sunrays descended beyond the horizon. Saoirse’s eyes flicked to the window.

“You can leave now.”

-

May, 1916

Saoirse sat on the porch of her bungalow. The summer season was in full swing, the sun setting later and the fields thrumming with life. Her heart was broken. 

The Rising was an utter failure. The public had no time for the revolutionaries, condemning their actions. Hardly any weapons reached the country. Barely anyone knew it was even happening. Just another attempt at freedom that the English will mock over drinks. Many of the people who had any influence would be executed. She hadn’t known any of them directly, but she had read the work of Pearse and supported the philosophy of Connolly. They were good men, good men who could have done something for this country. Intelligent men rotting now in a cell. Men who could have made the country a haven. 

The house was lonely. Liam was nowhere to be seen. No casuality manifest would ever be published, but there was a sinking feeling that he was one of them. It had been a month since she’d last seen him.

He would have died terrified, she thought, they would have laughed in his face while he cried.

One of the horses brayed at her, catching her attention. She went over to scratch his head.

“An mhaith leat? Hmm?” she whispered. She kissed the top of her horse’s head. It was late, much too late for her to be awake but her guilt ate away at her.

“What’s his name?” a voice asked. One that she told never to come back. Her head snapped towards him and she wished she felt anything but warmth. She was lonely - utterly lonely besides the few rebels who stayed with her. Besides that, visitors were few and far between. Alliances weren’t scarce but the families with young children stayed away from a woman loosely known to supply arms.

She should have been scared. She wasn’t entirely sure what he was, but her instincts knew that a predator was in front of her. His eyes glowed like they had before. Sharp red dots in the darkening Irish air. Truth be told, it unnerved her. Not so much what he was - but that he had returned. It had been almost half a year since their run in. She shouldn’t have assumed a man would listen to her demands. 

“I told you not to come back.”

Remmick clicked his tongue at her and walked up. “It would’ve been wrong of me not to thank you.” There was a brown bag in his hands. 

“Draíocht,” she answered. The horse neighed at the call of his name. 

“Haven’t heard a lot of Gaeilge be spoken around these parts.” Remmick reached out to touch the horse.

Saoirse looked inside the bag. Fresh meat and cigarettes. The latter was a luxury she was failing to afford - and she wasn’t fond of smoking from pipes. Her heart bounced in her chest. She glanced over at Remmick again. The glow had softened to a golden ring around his iris. 

“Family’s from Connemara. Out past Roundstone. A lot of it died when we moved to the city. Even more after moving here. Thank you for the… thank you.”

Remmick turned to face her. The moon caught his face and she could admit he was beautiful. It was petrifying. She was aware he had an effect on her - not because of his humanity. Her brain told her to flee but there was an aura around him that tried to settle her nerves. It probably came with the territory of being a human-hunting predator. Fear couldn’t be appetising. He sauntered towards her; a confidence in his walk that unnerved her. He could drag this game out for as long as he wanted.

“You’re not frightened of me,” he mused. He caught a strand of her hair between his fingers, playing with it idly. She wanted to lean into the touch. 

Back west, she had witnessed atrocities unlike anything before. Stories about the Wolfe Tone rebellion and the Famine. Seen children beaten in the fields for speaking their language. Watched women offer themselves so their husbands would live another day. Watched those same men later be shot. Starvation and poverty ran rampant. Liam was dead and she lost most of what she was living for.

“I am a little. I’m a little scared of a lot of things.” He stood a good six-inches above her. If he wanted to, he could lean down and drain the blood from her throat. For a good thirty seconds, it appeared that’s what he wanted to do. He nosed along her throat, following the path her blood took. He was facing a dilemma - two highly opinionated sides of his brain fighting for dominance. One part of him - an animalistic and starving part of him, wanted so desperately to sink his teeth down into her skin, feel her blood rush into his mouth and down his throat. He could either turn her or leave her body for the army to find and be done with it. The consequences mattered little to him. If he felt particularly merciful, he’d get it over with quickly.

But another part of him resisted; a nostalgic and relentlessly humane part of him wanted to keep her alive. Remmick had a moral code of sorts - not feeding on or turning the Irish, his brethren, unless he had no choice. That code was difficult to abide by. The English presence had broadened and it was difficult to get any of them alone. Regular weapons couldn’t kill him, but if he was weakened enough then they could do a lot of damage. They often remained in their barracks at night or watchtowers and unfortunately those buildings did require permission to enter. The only other option was to have someone to willingly drink from - and naturally that was almost impossible to come across. He would have drained both siblings that first night had she not risked her life to “save” his, knowing it didn’t matter either way.

“Would you let me?” he mumbled against her throat. He could feel her swallow. Remainders of a pulse thrummed through his veins.

“Maybe. If you needed it.” Saoirse moved his head from her throat and looked into his eyes.

The red eyes of the devil himself gazed back at her.

-

Christmas, 1918

Saoirse lit a candle for her brother on Christmas day. A revolver laid on the table next to her. A foreign man was due to visit her, his origins mattered little to her. What mattered was that he was her link to a series of modern weapons potentially entering the country. 

He came and went, and the deal was done. Compensation came in the form of ending the British regime and presence in Ireland. Her country had become a charity case - but a violent one. She could have secured funds from the new IRA, could have asked the big bollocks himself for funding. Enough countries had been at the receiving end of the same treatment and were willing to throw a bone. 

The English called them cockroaches, the rest of the world called them revolutionaries. It was the best present she could have asked for.

-

She fell asleep briefly at the table, awoken by a rapping knock at the door. She was surprised to see Remmick when she opened the door. With whiskey. Saoirse couldn’t afford much - most of her income went to corresponding with foreign nationals with connections. She’d drool if it wasn’t so impolite. Neither of them said anything. The same question lingered over their heads - why did you come back?

“You’ve been invited in already. Why bother knocking?”

He shrugged. “It’s polite. Can I come in?” Saoirse gave a quick nod and he passed her. If her neighbours saw, they’d call her a whore. Two men in a short period of time. And she wasn’t married. It could be the scandal of the century in their village if they weren’t petrified of what her profession was - what associating with her could do to their families. Her and Remmick’s last conversation came into her memories.

“You want… you want to drink?” The question came out clunky. Remmick let out a soft laugh, blue eyes flicking over to hers. They held less intensity than previously, but still reminded her of her position on the food chain. But she’d seen cats and rabbits live in harmony in some fields in the country. He made her want to fawn - to cosy up to him and prove herself.

“You’d know by now if that’s what I wanted.”

“Then what do you want?”

Remmick mused over the question like he didn’t know how to answer. Because he didn’t. He could justify it as playing with his food, extending the kill. As it happened, he didn’t think he’d ever kill her. You can’t kill a woman on Christmas Day, he settled on in his mind. You shouldn’t kill a woman who has lost everything already. He walked past the GPO on April 29th. He remembered that young boy’s face. His fingers strummed against the neck of the bottle. That’s what he respected about his people - they just got over things. 

Saorise took the silence to look at him; really look at him. He was well defined, although it was hidden well under clothing. As something inhuman, she supposed he didn’t need to use brute strength to kill; especially if he had a compelling aura. His body was young but any time she got a glance into his eyes she felt years of pain. How many years can one travel alone before they let the elements take them? How much loneliness can one person handle, human or not? 

“Wanted to spend Christmas with a pretty lady,” Remmick finally answered. He didn’t look at her. The truth shamed him, weakened him. It had been too long since he had indulged in mundane - no, human - activities.

The words soured in her ears provoking her to scowl at him. He’d made himself comfortable in her house, rooting through cupboards to find glasses. After pouring each of them a generous glass, he gestured for her to sit next to him.

“You needn’t flatter me with fake words, deamhan. I’ve let you into my home already. I don’t need mockery.”

Saoirse’s family was all wide hips and big ribcages, dark hair and dark eyes. She’d been described as a “working woman” more times than she could count. As she got older, the compliment became more malicious. Her curves were in the wrong places - thighs and arms. It suited her though, Remmick thought. She was beautiful because of how she looked.

“Real Irishmen would worship you, back in my day,” he whispered, leaning over to smell the earth from her skin.

Saoirse played with the ring on her finger. A small band with a heart and a crown. Flipped the wrong way for a woman her age. Remmick glanced down at it.

“You nervous?” 

“Why are you here?” It came out harsh - a demand. A need to know what this was.

He leaned back into the chair, eyes flashing golden when she met his eyes. The whiskey went down his throat, burning but warm. A million words reached his lips, ones that could frighten her, hurt her, flatter her. He could get her into bed with him and drain her on the cusp of orgasm. He could do it now and make it last hours. He could end her loneliness and make her like him.

“I’m not sure.”

-

When she stirred awake on December 26th, she was wrapped with the jacket of a man who smelled like the sea.

-

March, 1920

After the outbreak of war in 1919, Saoirse hadn’t returned to her house. Draoícht had been given to her neighbours who needed a draught horse. Anyone who lodged a horse with her quickly took them when her name was listed as a major person of interest in the War of Independence. Her days were spent evading British constables and the Black and Tans. Collins had developed an aggressive warfare tactic and there were few locations to be called home. She had become one of the most reliable arms dealers in the east and a skilled marksman. Despite being a woman, she was well respected among the community of rebels. The British Army had ramped up their presence in the country - and any woman not wearing common dresses and instead wearing practical wear was immediately a target. 

Generally, a woman drinking in a pub would cause an uproar. But Saoirse was well acquainted with the owners and she was supplied with a room and a drink whenever she was in the area. She had never found her brother’s body, but she had found a community.

Her skills had her at the beck and call of the IRA’s leader himself. She hadn’t necessarily wanted a drink, but when Michael Collins and a handful of other high-profile Fenians come calling, you had to answer. Over whisky, the leader had informed her of plans to destabilise RIC units responsible for the organisation of particularly aggressive Black and Tan groups. No names were given, just a time and location.

“You better get me if I end up in Kilmainham,” Saoirse said, “it’d be like you to give me a job that gets me executed.”

“You’re a woman - if Markievicz is still knocking, you’ll be grand. I hope to see you soon.”

She finished her drink and left the pub, feeling the warm summer breeze on her skin.

It wasn’t long before she reached Phoenix Park, somewhere she found herself drawn too whenever her head needed clearing. The sun was setting but the breeze remained comfortable. Later, she would find a safe house to rest.

The trees rustled near her. It wasn’t often that RIC or Black and Tans ventured here so her anxiety didn’t spike.

“Haven’t seen you in a while.” Saoirse turned towards the voice, smiling softly. How Remmick always seemed to find her should have made her uncomfortable. But despite how sparingly she saw him, he was a miniscule constant in her life. Dublin City wasn’t a big place when you lived there. They’d exchanged glances in the street and pubs. Saoirse was aware that he had some involvement in the rebellion. But most Irishmen were involved. Human or otherwise.

Her back was against a tree and she smoked as he walked towards her. He was so close to her - he wanted to reach out and touch her. 

“Do you remember what you said to me last time? When I asked if you’d let me?” 

The moon shone against his face. She had never seen him so pale before. It looked like he was restraining himself, salivating and drooling whenever the wind blew her scent in his direction. She wondered when the last time he fed was? Her breath stuttered as she nodded her head. Before she knew it, he had pushed her against the tree, wrapping her legs around his waist as he held her up. She was a big girl, but it required no effort on his part. He still had a hazy effect on her, especially now that he was grabbing her all over. He smelled the same - like the sea and sand. Like waves, her mind settled on.

“Does it hurt?” His hands gripped her hips. No one had lived to answer.

“I don’t know, a mhuirnín,” he mumbled, leaving a kiss behind her ear.

His tongue laved across her neck, leaving a trail of saliva in its wake. There was a tingling feeling that subsided after a few seconds, but she could still feel him coating her neck in it. The sensation made her stomach drop and brought a litany of thoughts to her brain. She bit back any noises she wanted to make, out of fear of making this weird situation even weirder. Was it always this intimate? Did he always make noises like he was enjoying eating her alive? If anyone walked past, from the noises he was making it would sound like they were having sex. The thought made her shudder.

She felt her heart rate increase before she realised his fangs were in her neck. The sensation was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Her breath was shaky and she brought her hand up to keep Remmick’s head at her neck. She could feel his tongue licking her blood into his mouth and heard him moaning when he swallowed. Saoirse’s hips bucked and it seemed to rile him up even more. It felt absolutely euphoric and she whined when he took his fangs out of her. He licked the small pinprick wounds to close them before licking up any remaining blood he’d missed.

When they locked eyes again, she couldn’t believe how much of an animal he looked. His jaw was covered in blood and his mouth was full of more teeth than possible. Both their eyes were blown wide. He tasted generational pain through her blood. Slaughter and anger and fear. She tasted of rebellion and pride and it manifested like sugar on his tongue. Gritty and sweet. He could taste everything that had happened to her, good or otherwise. It took all of his strength not to re-open those wounds and dive in again. Her skin was soft under his rough hands and her noises were like honey melting down his throat. It disturbed him how much he wanted to take her there and then. Break her in slow but also rip her to pieces. Force her blood into her mouth and make her know how good she tasted. Devour her from the inside and out. Ruin her for any other man who dared to go near her.  

Remmick’s eyes stared at her maniacally. 

Saoirse wanted to run her tongue along his fangs. 

-

April, 1920

The RUC constables went down without a hitch. Saoirse had perched herself in one of the flats in Ringsend. A series of shots rang out and she managed to take out three before they noticed where the noise had come from. The rifle was thrown out the window, allowing for some deniability if anyone came. The benefits of guerilla warfare was that they didn’t even notice the IRA soldiers come from behind them. A sigh of relief - she could rest for the night. Many of the flats had been pseudo-converted to sleeping quarters for the rebels. Gunfire had become birdsong, and the sound of it lulled her to bed.

Saoirse hadn’t properly seen Remmick since he fed on her. They’d shared a few words in the odd pub, but it’d get raided or one of them would have to leave before their words could go further. People knew they were friendly - they’d often tell each other their locations to quickly catch up. But the war had her exhausted. Not a day went by that she wasn’t on marksman duty or attending an arms deal. Any days free were spent locating imprisoned rebels and freeing them, or evading arrest herself. Tonight was a vacation.

A mattress had been laid out for her to rest. She spent an hour or two catching up on sleep.

She was finding it hard to block out the memories of that night. She’d often wake up with an ache between her legs and her neck throbbing with memory. Tonight was no different. The two pinprick holes were mostly gone but a tiny scar remained. Her hand pressed down on them, trying to emulate the pressure she felt last month. Her other hand reached between her spread legs. Urges like this had only skyrocketed since meeting Remmick. Occasionally she had explored herself but with little inspiration or success. Now it was a daily urge she had to dispel. 

She gathered her arousal with her middle finger, rubbing her clit gently, trying to emulate the feeling of a bigger more calloused hand. She moved her other hand to grip her breast, toying with the nipple. Her breaths were heavy and erratic. The thought of his fangs in her neck and hips rutting against hers was all she needed. She came with an explosive sigh, legs quivering as she sat up again. Ever since that night, she came quickly, finding little difficulty reaching her peak so long as her thoughts remained on him and his mouth. 

“Ms. Ó Máille? You’ve a visitor,” came a voice from outside the door.

“Ceart go leor,” she answered.

Four lads in civilian clothing used most exclusively for IRA uniforms walked in. Remmick was with them. Splattered with blood from fighting, she was handed an envelope. Inside was a number of British sterling notes. A message inside; An-mhaith.

“From the Big Fellow himself.” Three of them left.

“Tag along, did you?” she asked. 

“They asked me to come. Thought you’d be less pissed about being disturbed if I came too.”

She huffed. “You’d swear we’re husband and wife.”

“We could be.” The words were said before he could stop them. Remmick wasn’t a man of regrets - if he was, he would have killed himself in the sunlight eons ago - but he could smell the change in the air when he said that. It was a stupid joke, an idea that would make her feel mocked instead of appreciated.

“Enough out of you,” Saoirse muttered flippantly. Her brain was still a little fried from her come-down. “Do you want to feed from me again?” It was a plea; a shy, timid demand of pleasure.

Apprehensively, he laid down next to her on the mattress. He’d never been offered before. Every other time they had interacted, he always felt like he had some level of control over her. That her instinctual fear of him made her submissive.

“Sit on top of me,” he commanded. It was an easier position for both of them but he’d be foolish to admit he hadn’t thought about her like this. Perched on top of him - like this, he viewed her as an equal. He’d heard the noises she made the last time they did this. In fact, they were fuel for many lonely nights. Remmick had at his hands someone he would consider a goddess. Sometimes he caught the way she looked at him, and he wondered if she felt the same. 

They were at eye-level again. Saoirse’s heart-beat seemed to explode in her chest. Her knees settled either side of his hips. 

In another world, maybe there would be an open fire next to them and three kids in bed. She could lean her head into his chest and he could sing her some ancient folk song his parents had sung to him. She’d knit jumpers for the kids and he’d tend to the farm animals. Food would be on the table and the neighbours could join. They’d do things properly and get married and complain about each other to their friends until eventually they were buried next to each other. 

But she was a criminal fighting in a war and he was a vampire. The times he would feed on her would be as close to a domestic life she’d ever get. 

His fangs dug into her neck again and she let out a soft moan at the intrusion. Things quickly grew more intense than the last time, though. Hands that were relatively gentle at her neck and waist gripped her with a strength that was almost painful. Before she began to panic, Remmick took his fangs out of her neck. His breathing was laboured and his hands kept clenching and unclenching, trying to restrain himself. Ultimately though, he failed; forcing her mouth open to kiss her violently, allowing her to taste her own blood. It was a disgusting mess of blood and saliva but Saoirse was becoming drunk on it. Like her inhibitions had been released. 

“Did you cum?” he asked, licking into her mouth to retrieve any traces of blood left, “before this. Did you make yourself cum?” He grabbed her hips, forcing her to grind down on top of his cock. She gasped, unsure exactly of how this progressed so far. Remmick went back to slurp up the blood still pooling from her neck. He moved her so that he was on top of her, and importantly, between her. 

“Why?” she panted, unsure of what to do with her hands. Remmick’s mouth was on hers, her neck, her throat, her chest. Everywhere. And he looked different. His fingers were more clawed and his mouth was full of fangs. 

“I can taste it, in your blood. It’s like a fucking drug,” his hands slashed open her shirt. His voice felt like it was coming from inside her head. Like he wasn’t even speaking. Saoirse went from being extremely turned on to being absolutely petrified in a matter of seconds. His hands were smoothing down her sides, sliding her pants off her body. 

She realised she didn’t want this. Not like this. Not again.

Her hands pressed against his chest, not in any real attempt to stop him. He was inhuman, he could snap her in two if he wanted. And quite frankly, he wanted to. Her hormones and pheromones snapped into his own blood, provoking arousal unlike anything he had experienced. He was going to claim and own her, ruin her for any other man like he had wanted to do the first time he saw her. 

But in the haze of it all, Remmick heard her. His eyes were still a sharp red, staring at the woman below him. Eyes that met his, seeped in terror and wary. Not scared of him, necessarily. Rather what he was going to do. And while there was a tiny fraction of him that wanted to continue and sink himself deep inside of her - he found that whatever humanity was left wouldn’t let him. When he began coming to his senses, when his own arousal cooled, the scent of terror in the air was suffocating. It stank. And it shamed him. He regained his regular senses at the same time his fangs and nails receded. Saoirse was sat at the end of the mattress, knees to her chest and inhaling heavily.

When she noticed his composed form, she sniffled pathetically. She expected him to leave. Or to have continued the job - the blood drinking or the sex. Maybe that’s what she wanted. Something that would reveal his intentions and desires. Something to hate him for. Anything that would mean she didn’t have to appreciate him. Gently though, he moved himself closer to her at the edge. He hadn’t been able to control himself - he thought as they sat in silence. 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, running her hands through her now tangled hair. “Fuck.”

He had tasted it when he drank from her. The memory; the dirt and flesh. Gunpowder and metal. How she felt. He sniffed the air - he could smell blood. Guilt rushed through him, a realisation that warranted a curse. Guilt - for hurting her, for hurting his prey. He was a predator; he was changed and built to hurt. To frighten and intimidate. Remmick hadn’t survived centuries by feeling guilt. 

But no one had ever offered themselves up to him and treated him like water on a hot day. 

When he saw her, he felt relief. A large hand wormed its way up her side, gently rubbing until he reached the source of the scent. Blood and metal, and powder.

“You got shot.” Saoirse hummed in reply, twitching when he felt the wound with his fingers. Had Remmick not been there, she imagined herself digging her fingers into the wound. Stab and deepen it and turn her pain into a tangible wound. Something she couldn’t recover from even if she wanted to. Infection could seep inside of her and keep her company. 

Moving the material up, he planted a wet kiss to the wound. She felt the injury knot and heal as he left the room. 

-

June, 1921

“You dumb fucking bitch,” a voice roared at her. Her head had been knocked against the wall and the room was spinning. 

How she had evaded being caught by military personnel over the course of five years, and it was buying food she managed to get apprehended. No one stayed to save her - when the Black and Tans came, only soldiers remained to fight. They would kill civilians without batting an eye - god knows what they’d do to a soldier; no matter her gender.

Some number of them raided the shop - probably intending to burn it down. Saoirse had heard stories of houses being burnt down, not before being raided or looted though.

Blood pooled into her mouth - her nose was bleeding and she had a wound on her head. Surviving this would be miraculous. She’d be bruised and scarred if she lived; if she lived.

“Little girl likes to play with men does she? Likes to pretend to be a soldier?” he mocked, grabbing her by the hair and lifting her head up from the counter. The others laughed. For the first time in a very long time, Saoirse felt there was no escape. They’d drag this out for as long as they could until she died. And even then they’d probably continue.

He let go and her face hit the counter. Her eyes filled with tears. “Fucking cunt,” she hissed at him behind teeth that were seconds from dropping out of her jaw.

The four soldiers had briefly given her a reprieve from his attacks. Enough time to slap him across the face with a closed fist. Not powerful enough to be a punch, but the connection satisfied her. Ultimately though, a mistake. An ire reached his eyes that terrified her. 

His hands immediately reached for her belt, all but ripping it from her waist and pulling her pants down with one hand, the other loosely pointing the rifle at her. She continued bleeding, fearing for more than her life. She wriggled and writhed when her own belt was used to restrict her movements. She wanted to scream, to cry, to get help. But nothing would work - no one would come to help her. If anything, it would excite him more.

“Like I said, dumb fucking bitch. Dumb cunt. You try anything and these three will shoot you down. No more crafty marksmanship for you. I’ll break your fucking wrists after this.”

After undressing her lower half, he grabbed a handful of the flesh on her backside and smacked it. Chuckling, he looked over to his miniature army. 

“For a fat bitch, she has some arse. I’ll let you have a go after, eh?” he clicked his tongue and winked. 

-

A street over, Remmick smelled blood. Blood that normally smelled of the wet ground and mist, that would fill his mouth with drool. It didn’t hold the same scent - it was spiked with panic and fear.

-

“Sweetheart, stop crying. I’ll fill you up real nice. Make you forget all this independence nonsense. Make you forget about Irish cock as well while I’m at it.”

Saoirse’s head turned to face him - now unbuckling his own belt. No words managed to leave her mouth. She looked away before she could glance at what would violate her. His three underlings had left to give them some privacy, by his own demand. A million insults reached her brain - a hundred thousand ways to degrade him. 

She thought of Remmick. That’s the only thought she settled on. Maybe it’d hurt less if she imagined it was someone like him. If she imagined it was him.

She didn’t really need to imagine. 

Just beyond the doorway, she saw him. The soldier in front of him noticed him too.

“Oh look, is it the cunt’s little boyfriend?” He grabbed Saoirse’s hair again. When they made eye-contact, she wanted to shrivel in shame. For him to see her like this was humiliating; testament that she was worthless. She whimpered out his name before having her head dropped on the counter.

“Well come on in then. If you behave I’ll let you join it before I shoot your bollocks off.” The soldier was gearing up for a fight, pants hanging loosely on his hips, rifle cocked and ready to aim.

Before either of them could comprehend it, there was blood. Everywhere. Plastered along the walls and shelves. Chunks of skin dropped from the soldier, fangs sinking into his neck and ripping out vital flesh. Veins exploded and there were shredding noises coming from behind her. Remmick had the man against the wall, smashing his head against the porcelain so hard that Saoirse heard his skull shatter. The display of violence terrified her; her brain was screaming to escape, even if it meant with her hands tied behind her back and half clothed. 

Remmick muttered words to the soldier in a language that was so similar to her own but not understood. She watched as the soldier’s life drained from his eyes, twitching as his heart beat for the last time. Remmick snapped his neck as if somehow, he could have survived the assault. As if Remmick couldn’t hear the exact moment blood stopped flowing.

He could still smell her fear. And it was understandable. She had watched him rip a man’s throat out in front of her. And it hadn’t even occurred to Remmick why he had done that. He could have fed - could have sustained his lifelessness for weeks longer. Instead, he let his prey die in front of him, meek and begging for forgiveness. 

His eyes burned red, consumed entirely with rage and hunger. But his hands were soft, Saoirse noticed as he removed the belt. His fingers smoothed along the irritated flesh. The distinction between his violent actions and how he was caring for her was difficult for her to comprehend. And when she found herself bursting into tears, she didn’t even hesitate to crumble into his arms.

-

A month later, a ceasefire was announced. It didn’t stop the violence, but it reduced it enough that she could emulate a normal life. She frequented pubs that allowed her to drink on the house and more often than not spent her nights drunk, meandering around groups of fighters and sharing stories. It was a life.

A life birthed from multiple violations. From near death experiences. From countless men’s blood on her hands.

-

December, 1921

“You’re going to become a scapegoat. All of you. If Devalera couldn’t reach an agreement, why do you think he’s sending you?” Saoirse spoke in front of the delegates soon being sent to London. To debate the terms of their freedom. Not half a year ago, the war had partially ended. Her involvement however, had not. Her work had her deeply involved in the workings of the IRA, and she had almost reached a leadership role. Her correspondence with the paramilitary coordinators was no longer letters or sparse encounters. Conservative members of the Dáil would condemn her and her involvement, but what entitled Irishmen to freedom, and not Irishwomen? 

The Prime Minister of England himself wanted to speak to the Irish. Devalera had chosen them - and it was evident why.

-

January, 1922

Collins was sat in front of her. The Treaty had been signed and it was being deliberated in the Dáil. The North had been delegated to the British, English presence would remain in Ireland. 

“This will destroy the country. You’re asking men who’ve lost everything to pledge allegiance to the king, for fuck’s sake. We’re after losing everything we were fighting for.”

“It’s a start. It’s something.”

She sat down, cigarette smoldering between her fingers. 

It was a start. But at what cost?

“And the North? The part of our country that is already divided? Can you not see this escalating over the next ten years? Twenty? God knows how long before that pot boils over. Brothers will kill each other over this. They’ll kill you over this.”

-

Days later, the Treaty had been accepted by the public.

Weeks later, the tensions eased. 

Months later, Michael Collins was shot passing Béal na Bláth.

-

Saoirse sat in Phoenix Park, smoking cigarette after cigarette trying to comprehend how they got this far. How they were now debating the terms of independence instead of fighting for it. And how the compromise they came to still left her with an emptiness in her stomach.

-

She stopped supplying arms when they were used to destroy the nation she and countless others had spent years trying to reform and free. Where she stood on the Treaty, on the civil war, on politics - she didn’t know. Dublin was quickly being industrialised and she wanted to escape. She wanted to go home. 

-

1923.

After years of fighting and pain, Saoirse was brought to her home in the west of Ireland. She hadn’t called his house home in years - the home her brother was born in before they moved east. She ran her fingers along the fence. An Irish Cob neighed from behind the house.

Inside, a fire roared. A centuries old demon sat inside, throwing kindling into the fireplace. He barely regarded her when she walked in although she almost looked like a different person. So did he, in this light.

“Fáilte abhaile, mo ghrá.”