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kamaluhkhan · 9 days ago

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HER CANINE TEETH IN THE SIDE OF MY NECK

pairing: werewolf!vi x vampire slayer!reader word count: 11.1 k summary: she's a monster, and you're essentially a monster hunter. it shouldn't work, but it does. (or — you and vi decide to escape the narrative together) warnings: ooh various mentions of fighting + blood + injuries ranging from mild to life-threatening; reader and vi both smoke + consume alcohol; rough sex (fingering [vi receiving], oral [reader receiving], tribbing, biting, spitting ++ aftercare); 18+ ! vibes are basically buffy the vampire slayer with chaotic lesbians loving each other so much it consumes them both a/n: i think i've been watching too much buffy and fantasizing about werewolf!vi for like,, too long,, and this unholy mess is the result. this has been sitting in my drafts unfinished for a WHILE but tonight is the wolf moon so it felt right to post now, i really hope y'all enjoy 🖤 i'll include credit for each subtitle in the tags too <33

♪: "bullet with butterfly wings" by the smashing pumpkins; "dig me out" by sleater-kinney; "taste my despair" by lesbian bed death; "i wanna be your dog" by joan jett; "fantastic" by king princess

i. sorry about the blood in your mouth

vi wakes up with a terrible motherfucking headache, which isn’t anything new.

she doesn’t know where she is — that isn’t particularly something new, either — but what is new is the tongue slobbering all over her face. when she opens her eyes, vi sees a 50-pound black dog standing over her.

“whoa!” vi sits up abruptly, but the dog only gets more excited and jumps up on the couch, caging her in.

“sorry. she usually isn’t so enthusiastic about company.”

the voice is coming from the other side of the room, where you’re sitting on the edge of the mattress closest to the window. there’s a cigarette in your hand, and each time you exhale, you point your chin accordingly so the smoke travels outside. a crisp breeze trickles in.

“morning, killer.”

vi swallows the heart that has jumped into her throat, takes a deep breath to steady her breathing. fuck, she literally just moved here and might already need to leave. she tries to remember if something bad happened last night.

it wasn’t the full moon, was it? no, that shouldn’t be for another few weeks. but then why are you calling her a —

“killer?” she asks, swallowing the lump in her throat.

she stares at you, eyes trailing your injured jawline as she waits for you to respond. you do look vaguely, achingly familiar. whatever happened last night, you were probably part of it.

“well, you’ve got a killer right hook,” you quip. you snuff out your cigarette and twist around to fully face vi. “and i’m pretty sure you killed my reputation as a pit fighting champion. i was undefeated before you.”

fresh blood emerges from your split lip as you speak, and you’re quick to swipe it away with your tongue.

oh. right.

your tank top is torn at the bottom, just cropped enough that vi can see the imprint of her fist on your lower ribs. she now remembers the feeling of yours on the side of her face, and has a bloody, crusted eyebrow, painfully tender cheekbone, and the outline of your ring seared onto her skin forever to prove it.

what kind of pitfighter wears pure silver?

vi takes note of her surroundings to get a better sense of who she’s up against: the place is small, dingy, but has a good amount of light. you’ve got a broken mirror, old books stacked in the corner, and an open cupboard filled with clothing and various weapons, mostly daggers and some wooden stakes. an intricate glass cross dangles from the centre of the window, filtering through multicolored light. there are a bunch of dried plants next to a mortar and pestle on the sill below — nightshade, juniper, wolfsbane. on the tiny kitchen counter is a silver vase filled with more wilted flowers.

even from far away, vi can hear your heartbeat — strong, steady — as you shuffle around and gather some things. she inhales your scent. she remembers that she was slightly taken aback, in the pit when she had you pinned to the mat, that under the musk of sweat and metallic tang of blood, vi sensed something else, something delicate and floral.

your whole apartment smells overwhelmingly of dried roses and decaying fruit, too, sweet and earthy.

“did you bring me here for round two?”

“no.” you let out a short, breathy laugh. “i brought you here so that some creep wouldn’t take advantage of you. you were pretty out of it.”

“so you’re — what an enforcer?”

“no fucking way,” you declare, and vi can practically feel rage coursing through you, your heart pumping with reignited vigor. “like an enforcer would care enough to actually help the undercity,” you grumble.

you shake your head and sit down at the edge of the couch, shooing your dog away so you can drop first aid supplies in her place. she settles on the floor at your feet.

you offer vi a somewhat bruised apple. when she hesitates, you push it into her hand.

“this isn’t a fairytale,” you say, hands busy soaking a cloth in some alcohol. “i’m not trying to poison you,” you add as if reading her mind.

“there…there are some good enforcers, though,” vi tries, trained to have such platitudes at the ready.

you roll your eyes. “if there are, i haven’t met them.”

vi’s not sure she believes what she had said, either. she feels her side ache, a phantom bruise from when caitlyn slammed her rifle into the very injury she had once helped heal.

what started as you’re not like the rest of those animals. you’re one of the good ones. became you’re all the same. it’s their blood in your veins. as soon as things went downhill.

vi bites her lip to prevent herself from wincing, and it isn’t because you’ve pressed an alcohol-soaked cloth to the cut on her nose. her sharp nails break through the skin of the apple, digging into its soft flesh until juice is running down her wrist.

“eat,” you insist, but you’re focused on removing as much dirt and dried blood from her face as you can, brows furrowed in concentration. “you ruined my reputation, so you better keep up your strength if you wanna keep yours.”

“so, you’re helping the enemy,” vi, still wary of you, wonders.

your frown softens. you place a bandage on the bridge of her nose before saying:

“you’re not my enemy.”

maybe it was the sincerity of your words, or the unconditional care you’re showing her, or the fact that it’s been so long since someone has touched vi so tenderly, but she decides in that moment to trust you, whoever you are.

she takes a bite of the apple, the sweetness invading her mouth, as you lean over to search for something else in the first aid kit, mumbling to yourself about how the wound is deeper than you thought.

“you should really be more careful,” you chide. “are you a topsider?”

vi scoffs through a mouthful of fruit. “i’m from the lanes.”

“yeah, well this neighborhood is a different level of bad,” you tell her.

“i can hold my own — ouch.”

you start stitching up the cut on her eyebrow, one hand keeping her head steady. her cheek pulses against you as she chews, your skin calming and cool.

“when you’re sober, maybe.”

“you didn’t have to help me,” vi grunts. “most people would’ve gone about their business.”

“i was going about my business. i was out on patrol; vampires never sleep, you know.”

you say it so casually, almost too casually, that vi wonders if she misheard you.

“vampires?”

you raise an eyebrow at vi. “there’s a high concentration of them around here, near the hellmouth. a lot of monsters, actually —”

vi hopes you don’t notice how she shudders at the word monsters.

“ — some of whom can and will eat you alive if they get the chance,” you deadpan. “that’s kinda what i’m here for.”

“so….what are you, exactly?”

you don’t say anything for a few seconds, your expression unreadable while you finish vi’s stitches, but your heart thumps so forcefully against your ribcage, vi almost thinks she’s seconds away from hearing the bones there crack. you start gnawing at your bottom lip, let the blood gather until it starts to trickle down towards your chin. vi swipes it away with her thumb, which she then wipes against her bandaged palm.

you inhale slowly, then exhale. your heart rate eases; still a bit higher than most people’s, but to what seems to be normal for you.

“the correct term is slayer,” you finally say, watching vi carefully for her reaction.

vi isn’t quite sure what that means, but it doesn’t sound good for someone like her. she’s wondering if she should make a run for it when you drop your voice an octave or two and add:

“the chosen one standing against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness.” you clear your throat. “if you were wondering.” you break out into a cheeky grin, teeth sparkling in the late morning sun.

“you’re joking?”

“most days, i wish i was. that’s the official tagline, actually.” your smile shrinks into a sigh. “i’m the slayer. i won’t bore you with all the details, but me saving you last night? that’s kinda just what i do. my destiny, so to speak.”

“do you normally take the people you save home?”

you blink away, wipe your hands half-heartedly on the white tank top you’re wearing, smearing vi’s mess of crimson and grime.

“no,” you admit.

vi narrows her eyes at you, shifts her body so there’s at least more space between you before she figures out what the hell to do. it’s possible that you’re lying but —

vi puffs out her chest. “why are you being so nice to me?”

you already have her blood on your body, and vice versa, and not just because you’d been fighting each other. it’s not quite trust, but it feels like something close. something you’re willing to share without even knowing much about the other.

an unspoken question: do you know what i really am?

because if you did, vi’s sure you wouldn’t be so….friendly towards her. so gentle.

“honestly?” you gesture towards the dog who’s busy nuzzling into vi’s leg. “fangs kinda hates everyone but she seems to like you.”

her jaw drops. “you decided to be my guardian angel because your dog likes me?”

“i already had a good feeling about you before.” you shrug. “i took it as a good omen, i guess.”

“i’m not sure you should,” vi advises.

you’re looking out for her, so she should look out for you. it’s better, for everyone, that vi be left alone.

she’s been good, had to learn how to be, in order to survive; that doesn’t mean she’s innocent.

on the bad days, she can’t control her anger. on the worst days, she can’t contain her hunger.

“okay, well, maybe i’ve got a thing for strays,” you reach your hand down, run it through fangs’ thick black fur. your lips curl upwards as you look at vi, all bright-eyed and beautiful, sunlight itself emanating from your smile.

something sparks in her chest that she thought would never light again. something that, like her, could be dangerous if it’s not controlled.

vi decides it’s probably about time that she left, though it's difficult to tear herself from your warmth.

“so, will i see you in the pit again?” she still can’t help but ask as you accompany her to the door.

“probably, yeah.” you lean against the doorframe, and vi is about to turn the knob when you add: “but, that pub you passed outside of? the bronze? maybe we can, uh, get a drink there, afterwards sometime.”

your heart skips a beat or two as you anxiously wait for vi to say something. her entire body heats up when she realizes what’s going on.

you were….asking her out.

the good thing is that then there’s no way you actually know what vi is because, well, would this even be allowed in your line of work?

“you promise you’re not just playing the long game? gaining my trust and then stabbing me in the back?”

you give her a playful but sincere smile and make a small ‘x’ on the left side of your upper chest. “cross my heart.”

“guess i’ll will call you my guardian angel,” she muses, her chest glowing. “i’m vi, by the way.”

you grin, then formally introduce yourself. you reach out your hand. vi holds it, delicately, even though your grip is firm.

“one more thing, though — keep the whole me being the slayer thing under wraps? it’s supposed to be a secret.”

“why’d you tell me, then?” vi wonders, raising an eyebrow.

you tilt your head, examining her. “like i said — i had a good feeling about you. slayers are meant to have good instincts, so i decided to trust mine.”

vi takes a deep breath, removes her hand from yours, and glances at you once more with a small smile. she promises not to tell a soul.

(she, of all people, knows that there are far worse secrets to keep.)

“thank you,” vi adds. “for saving me.”

she hears fangs scratching at the door from inside the apartment after she’s gone, along with the deep rumble of your voice telling fangs not to worry, our new friend will visit again soon, like you’re so sure vi will be back.

with the way you already have her sharp edges softening, her heart fluttering in her chest, vi probably will be.

except —

vi’s not quite human, hasn’t been since she started bleeding between her legs at 13, since her mother told her that this was a blessing passed down to eldest daughters in their family, no matter how many people will try to convince her it’s a curse.

it would be a few months later that her mother would be killed because of said blessing.

really, it’s more nightmare.

because vi knows what it’s like to pick ripped flesh from between her teeth, to have the metallic sweetness of blood linger on her tongue and throat-tearing screams ringing in her ears.

meanwhile, you — with your good instincts, strong fists and stronger heart —

it’s your destiny to end those nightmares.

you’re the thing that monsters like her are supposed to have nightmares about.

ii. you’re an angel / i’m a dog

there’s an intimacy to knowing how someone fights.

vi fights with bared teeth and burning rage, knuckles cracking against bone, elbows bruising skin without any remorse. her own wounds are half-hazardly hidden behind layers of gauze, her chest wrapped tightly to keep her heart from bleeding out. she doesn’t bother to clean the dirt underneath her nails, to wipe the blood from her upper lip after an opponent breaks her nose, to wash her face clean before smearing on more dark paint until all she sees in the mirror is a shadow of her former self.

you, on the other hand: you’re precise and quick in how you defeat your opponents, maybe even a bit bored. vi figures that when you fight monsters for a living, it must be fairly dull, knocking out some guy with a single, well placed uppercut, even if he is twice your size. your bandages are always fresh, and you always make vi a little dizzy when she catches a whiff of rose. you walk past her with a playful grin, easily replaced by the glint of your razor-sharp canines as you defeat another opponent in the arena. she listens as your heartbeat barely increases a beat, despite the inevitable adrenaline of battle.

you might not be as feral as her, but vi thinks you’re just as dangerous. she likes it, admires that your violence is always calculated rather than all-consuming.

she does wonder if you’d ever let anything consume you, curious to know what’s hiding under your armor.

so, a few days after she first woke up in your apartment, vi builds up the courage to suggest:

"whoever wins the most fights tonight picks up the tab for the bar."

your face brightens the dim, dirty sidelines of the pit as you’re both waiting for your turn, when you answer:

"you're on, killer."

later that night, both of your bodies are aching as vi tries to examine your injuries once you’re both done for the day, away from the roar of the crowd.

"guess i'll be picking up the tab," you smile, your lip splitting open even more, just like the morning after her knuckles first kissed your skin.

(she wants to kiss this wound closed, too, press her lips to your bloody ones, if you’d be willing to give her a taste.)

"i'll still take care of it, angel,” vi soothes. she rummages around the tiny locker room, a single light bulb flickering above you. finally, she finds a small first aid kit — poorly stocked, but good enough for now. “lemme take care of you first."

you must understand what vi’s implying, because your heart starts racing faster.

it’s a routine that becomes vi’s guiding light — the two of you patching each other up after a rough day (and, regardless of the fact that you’re both strong, it’s always a rough day). you share a drink at the bronze, and then you’re off slaying vampires or whatever other nightmares will keep you awake and fighting every night.

then, it’s another full moon, and the routine changes.

she’s able to prevent herself from turning even in the worst of circumstances, but she doesn’t want to risk any accidents, knowing that you’re out there on the prowl. vi is confident that you’d never hurt, let alone kill her, but that’s counting on you being able to recognize her.

vi locks herself in the basement of the bronze. spike, the bartender, let her crash in a storage closet, temporarily, no questions asked and a promise to keep it a secret.

she emerges from her isolation after three days, eyes stinging from the harsh morning sun. her first instinct is to head underground, search for you. she makes one stop beforehand, drops something off in the locker room before she’s ushered into the arena without any more preamble.

the show must go on, and you’re already center stage.

the lanky woman you must’ve just knocked unconscious is being dragged away. you spit out what looks like a combination of blood and saliva, and crack your neck before resuming a fighting stance, feet squared, bruised knuckles at the ready.

you falter when you see that it’s vi who’s your next opponent. vi picks up the increased pace of your heart, the muscle worrying against your chest.

you’ve had this conversation, though — about what would happen if you were ever up against each other again in the ring — and you both agreed: once the bell rings, the fight starts, because you both need the money to survive.

nothing personal. winner buys two rounds of drinks at the bronze. three, if there were some nasty hits involved.

you hadn’t needed to worry about any of that until now.

the bell rings, and vi waits for you to make the first move, like you tend to do.

but, you don’t.

the first time you were up against each other, vi dodged your attack and delivered a jab hard enough to make you bleed. you had looked at her with wide eyes, fingers touching your bottom lip and becoming stained with red as the crowd roared. you adjusted your posture with a newfound interest, and a glimmer of what vi can only describe as hunger.

this time, you drop your stance like you’ve already lost the fight. you ignore the shouts and groans from the crowd as you walk away.

….

vi finds you in the locker room — and you’re not alone.

“there a problem here?” vi asks, glaring at the guy you seem to be arguing with.

“it’s fine,” you answer coolly. still, vi sits on the bench nearest to the door, waits for you like a patient dog.

“fine?” the guy barks a laugh. he’s wearing topside clothes. an enforcer, no less. “you made me look like a fool.”

you scoff. “i doubt that’s hard to do.”

the guy suddenly reaches forward and snatches your arm. vi feels rage surge through her when his nails indent your skin. you must sense it, because your eyes lock with hers in a silent command not to do anything, not just yet.

“i don’t think you understand, bitch,” he seethes, face a pissed off shade of red. “i’m out more money than you’ll ever see in your entire pathetic life.”

“i’m sure you’ll manage.”

vi follows your gaze as it drops to his belt. he’s got his badge, a standard issue pistol, and a pouch full of gold coins.

“clearly i bet on the wrong fucking dog.”

you force a smile. “better luck next time, officer.”

you finally rip your arm out of his grip, push him away abruptly, effectively manoeuvring him to stumble between where you’re standing, and vi’s waiting. you gesture towards vi with a smirk, a taunting dare for this enforcer to challenge two of the undercity’s best fighters.

vi gets up just as he’s walking out, grumbling an incoherent string of swears. she not-so-subtly knocks into his shoulder and hip, her nimble fingers still quick.

“guess we can get dinner with our drinks, now,” she quips with a toothy grin. vi tosses you the pouch, but you don’t seem too thrilled, even as you catch it effortlessly.

“you can’t just disappear like that, vi.” your voice sharp, crossing your arms over your chest.

“i didn’t mean to,” vi lies, walking over to open your shared locker. she pulls out a bouquet of roses, the same deep red as dried blood.

vi pouts, gives you her best puppy dog eyes. “i’m sorry, angel.”

the only reaction she gages from you is a quickening heartbeat at the nickname, your face still hard to crack marble.

“this is serious, vi.”

“i know! but —”

“do you know what’s out there? i’m not the only monster hunter around here. you need to be careful,” you rush, walking over to her and talking with your hands. “i looked everywhere for you, and….and you just left without saying anything. i thought…i thought you’d been killed —”

your blood roars in vi’s ears, your pulse close to out of control, and vi doesn’t know what else to do except bring you into her arms in an attempt to calm you down.

“i’m okay, angel. i’m here. i’m right here,” vi mumbles against your shoulder, inhaling sweat and roses.

your heart starts beating steady against her own as you exhale.

“i was safe, i promise. i was in the supply close at the bronze.”

“are you kidding?” you guffaw, unravelling yourself from vi’s body. “that basement is a hellhole.”

vi shrugs. “it does the trick.”

you chuckle dryly, shaking your head.

“well, i guess now that i lost one of my best sponsors, fangs and i might have to move in there with you,” you deadpan.

you reach around vi to pull a jacket from the locker, slipping on worn leather that vi realizes is hers. you take the flowers from her with a small thank you, and vi adjusts the collar of her jacket on you, her warm fingers subtly grazing your pulsepoint. vi can’t help the possessiveness that sparks in her abdomen: you, wearing her clothes; you, heart beating rapidly for her.

“well…what if….i moved in with you?” deep down, she knows it’s not an ideal situation, but vi reasons: “we can pool our money together for rent. besides, what’s another stray in your home?”

you bite your bottom lip as you mull over the offer.

“well, you did buy me flowers, ask me out to dinner….seems like the logical next step.”

“so….”

vi wiggles her eyebrows at you, and you finally crack a smile.

it was only been three days apart and vi already felt deprived of the sunlight of your smile.

“okay, killer. as long as you don’t make a habit of disappearing on me.”

….

on paper, there might be reasons why you and vi, together, shouldn’t work, but the simple truth is that you do.

you still spend your afternoons engulfed in the darkness of the underground arena, patch each other up at the end of the day, share drinks at the bronze before parting ways.

now, in the mornings, you spend a few hours training together, moving furniture around so there’s enough space to spar. you try not to get distracted by how hot her skin is every time it brushes against yours, how solid her thigh is between your legs when she’s adjusting your stance, how a shattered moan emerges from her lips as you pin her to the floor after showing her a new technique to catch an opponent off-guard.

the nights are your favourite, though. like fangs, vi is able to fall asleep anywhere in the apartment, and is usually passed out by the time you’re off the clock from slayer duty. after the first few nights, you insist that vi sleep on the bed, and she begrudgingly agrees. now, you get home just before dawn, bone-tired, to find her belly up, drooling and snoring on top of the dilapidated mattress. the moonlight illuminates all the curves and shadows of her sculpted body, her skin shimmering with sweat because her body runs warm, even on the coldest nights. you can see the trail of pink hair disappear beneath her black underwear, while her dyed-black hair is a tangled mess you’re tempted to tug at, curious to see if she’d moan again for you. vi sleeps shirtless, nipples winking at you like two fallen stars with those titanium rods pierced through.

gods, you try not to drool when you slip under the covers and fall asleep dreaming of her, all the places you would sink your teeth into, all the places you wish she would do the same.

(meanwhile, vi tries to ignore the sound of your whimpers, the quick tempo of your heartbeat, and the overwhelming musk of desire between your legs as you sleep next to her, because she’s so sure that you would never dream of her.)

these fantasies of vi, all her warmth, all her chaos, gnaw at you from the inside out. it’s an overwhelming sense of hunger, but with vi, you also feel something else, something gentler and more fragile building between you.

it’s really the little things.

like, vi brings you fresh roses every week, and even though you keep telling her to save her winnings for better things, she tells you that pretty girls like you are worth it, angel. they should teach you that in slayer school.

she winks, makes you flustered, then has the audacity to blush when you leave her the ripest apples because you know that she likes them a bit sweeter.

sometimes you open the window as you share a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the starlit twilight as you exchange stories about your pasts, about the people you’ve loved and lost. she’s the first person you confide in about how weighed down you feel by the responsibility of being the slayer, a burden that’s cost you many loved ones, and the uncertainty of whether what you’re destined to do is truly what is good for the world. she tells you about her time in prison, the lonely nights lamenting the death of her father and brothers, but keeping her strength because she hoped to one day make it back to a sister she just ended up losing, anyways.

other times, the two of you play a game. you imagine that you’re elsewhere, that there are no such things as monsters, no reason to have to battle and bruise yourselves just to survive. instead, you have a life and a family and a home together, filled with luxurious parties, decadent dinner tables, and endless sunny days.

you comfort her and she comforts you through the dark, morbid world you both have been fighting against, alone, for so long.

it works. it works really well.

except — you’ve been the slayer long enough to know that nothing this good will last. it's nauseating — dangerous, even — this desire buried in you deeply like a knife to the gut, twisting and taunting you with what can never be.

you’re just waiting for the next nightmare to reveal itself.

….

vi’s hair has started to fade back to pink, so she asks you to re-dye it.

it’s easy to forget that she sits in a rickety chair in your decrepit but well-loved apartment because all she can think about is your body behind hers, solid and steady. your cool fingers work the dye through her hair, your nails scrape against her scalp, and you’re humming as fangs snores peacefully at her feet. she’s died and gone to heaven, pure bliss glowing in her chest and releasing through her throat as a deep rumble.

she closes her eyes and indulges in a little daydreaming:

just you and your sunburst smile and your soft, rose-petal skin.

there’s a firm knock that rustles vi out of her reverie, and you tell her to go rinse out her hair while you answer it.

she can hear you talking with someone through the rush of hot water. she tries not to eavesdrop, but…it’s difficult, especially once she hears:

“it’ll be fine. silver bullets usually do the trick,” you say, without much enthusiasm. vi bites back her hurt, keeps rinsing her hair, waiting for the water to run clear instead of sludge gray.

you’re not talking about her.

“i’m not sure you understand the severity of the situation,” a voice with a thick british accent replies. “i’ve been on the council for fifty years — five times longer than you’ve been the slayer — and i’ve never seen something quite this vicious.”

“my guess is you don’t get out in the field much,” you quip.

whoever you’re talking to clearly is not amused, ignoring your backhanded comment and instead offering the details of what has been witnessed in the past few days. it’s so gruesome and gory that vi herself is shivering as she turns off the shower, towels off, and gets dressed.

when vi opens the door, she almost trips over fangs, who’d fallen asleep just outside. she gets up immediately as vi steps out, her tail wagging. the owner of the stern voice — a man wearing a very pristine looking tweed suit — is handing you a crossbow, a bunch of silver-tipped arrows already splayed on the table. you notice vi first as your grip on the weapon tightens, and the man’s gaze follows.

“you know there’s a rule about slayers keeping….pets,” the man says, turning his nose up at vi and fangs from where they’re still standing at the doorway of the bathroom.

you glance back at the pair, jaw clenched, and then focus back on your unwanted guest.

“mr. travers, thank you for the heads up, but i believe it’s time for you to leave,” you clip, dropping the crossbow on the table.

“actually, i believe that we have much more to discuss, namely how you’ve allowed this mutt into your home —”

“get the fuck out of our apartment,” you practically growl. you walk towards him menacingly until his back is millimeters away from the door. “you of all people know what i can do.”

“you will be punished for this…this transgression,” travers warns, but there’s an unmistakable tremble in his voice.

you laugh in a way vi can barely recognize, sharp and bitter.

“fine. i’m no stranger to dealing with the council’s bullshit.” you open the door, flash an exaggerated, sickly sweet smile. “have a nice day.”

“i hope this animal is worth it,” travers huffs.

“she’s worth it,” you reply without hesitation before you slam the door on his ass, so hard that the walls shake, the vase in the kitchen toppling over and cracking on the counter.

vi’s seen you fight in the pit — hell, she’s been on the receiving end of some of your wicked moves — but she doesn’t think she’s ever seen you this angry.

your chest is heaving as you pace back and forth.

“so that sounds….bad,” vi remarks, heading over to the kitchen counter to gather the broken shards of pottery.

you freeze. “how much did you hear?”

vi just shrugs. “just that there’s something bad out there —”

“don’t worry about it,” you say with a forced smile. you walk over and push some damp hair away from vi’s eyes. “let’s take fangs for a walk before we leave, yeah? while it’s still light out.”

there are whispers throughout the next few days leading up to the full moon. the crowd at the arena starts to thin, most topsiders too scared to journey underground with rumors of a bloodthirsty monster on the loose.

you’re not sleeping anymore, still fighting during the day to a half-empty arena, out on patrol at night, your rosy scent fading from the bedsheets with each passing night. even if you get home before dawn, you spend your time scouring through books and scribbling into your notebook, mumbling to yourself theories about where and how you can stop this thing. vi tries to get you to take a break, or at least eat instead of burning through shimmer-laced cigarettes to keep yourself awake.

the best vi can do is convince you to sit down on the couch with her and share a snack. you settle for doing some research, flip through yellowed pages as you take a bite of an apple, juice dripping down your chin.

vi reaches her finger out, puts it in her mouth to suck off the juice, moaning around the salty-sweet taste of your skin. you let out a pleased hum, turning your attention back to your research, but angling your body to invite her closer. vi nuzzles into your side, puts her head on your lap, twitches in pleasure as you reach down to scratch behind her ear.

she looks up at you, and you finally give her a real smile — the first ray of sun after a pitch dark night.

a slice of paradise vi was certain she’d never find.

….

the night of the full moon is when all hell breaks loose.

vi tries — she begs you not to go out there, sensing that tonight, of all nights, it will be at its strongest. but you, too headstrong and too righteous for your own good, just won’t listen.

“this thing has killed eleven people in less than a week. i don’t care what phase of the moon it is — i’m ending this, tonight.”

“why does it have to be you? that thing is stronger than anything you’ve ever fought!”

“which is why i’ve been preparing,” you snap.

“can’t you – can’t you just call the fucking council, or something, tell them to deal with it?”

fangs is right there with vi, scrambling and whining as you’re meticulously arming yourself with as many weapons you can carry.

you scoff, notching a few silver blades to your belt. “it’s not their responsibility, it’s mine. where the fuck — i can’t go out only in this tank top, it’s fucking freezing — ”

vi swallows the lump in her throat.

“you’re gonna die if you go out there alone.”

“yeah, well, i’ve accepted my fate a long time ago,” you say stoically.

you’re fairly well supplied at this point; if vi was the monster you were hunting, she’d be running scared from a glance alone. you’re only half paying attention to vi’s pleas, and sigh in relief when you find what you’d been looking for.

“please, angel, don’t —”

“i was literally born for this, violet. if i don’t go out and stop this thing from killing more people, then my life is worth nothing.”

“you make me happy!” she shouts desperately, forcing you to pause as you slip on her jacket. “that’s worth something, isn’t it?”

a tense silence follows.

you freeze for a few moments, avoiding vi’s gaze. then, you walk over to the cabinet, grabbing something so quickly vi can’t pinpoint what it is and stuffing it in your back pocket. you clench and unclench your left fist, a tick of yours that vi recognizes from the arena.

you’re planning your next move.

in a daze, you pick up the crossbow, but you hesitate once more —

“fuck,” you exhale before letting the weapon clatter to the ground and rushing over to crash your lips against vi’s.

you’re kissing and kissing, teeth and tongue and a pleasure so guilty, vi’s sure she’ll be damned for all eternity. vi’s lungs are burning when she pulls away first.

“wait. you should know that i’m —”

“i still have to go,” you interrupt, voice determined and sharp, cutting right through to vi’s heart.

there’s a fear curling up her throat as you watch her, your eyes the darkest she’s ever seen them.

“then let me – i mean, i can help —”

you kiss her again. you taste so heavenly, better than she ever dreamed of, that vi doesn’t even care that it’s probably just to shut her up.

she almost doesn’t notice that you’ve cornered her between the kitchen counter and the front door, until she hears a distinct click, feels something heavy and burning against her wrists.

you pull away first this time, eyes glazed over as you back away to make space between you and what you’ve done:

vi, handcuffed to the exposed heating pipe. the cuffs are stronger than any vi has ever been bound by. must be made of real silver. the metal sears into her skin, down to the bone, as she struggles against them, screaming to the point of howling, watching as you pick up the crossbow and a handful of silver tipped arrows as a final hail mary.

“no!” she cries. the pipe you’d cuffed her to rattles, but it doesn’t give. “please, please don’t —”

“i’m…i’m really sorry,” you mumble, quickly wiping away a tear. vi flinches when you try to touch her cheek; she bares her teeth at you like a rabid beast, but you don’t give her the courtesy of a reaction.

“why are you doing this?” she growls.

“because….you deserve a happy ending, violet. don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

you take a deep breath. you look at fangs, affectionately pat her head as she bows her head and whines, tail between her legs. “bring her the key once it’s morning,” you instruct. your eyes slide over to vi’s, for what she fears might be the last time. “take care of each other.”

with that, you’re out the door.

vi isn’t sure how much time passes. her wrists sting, her muscles ache, but still, she keeps going. she doesn’t care how, but she’s not letting you die tonight.

a sliver of moonlight shines through the window. something claws at her ribcage.

you’re not dying tonight.

and vi’s been hungry for too long.

iii. all my devotion turns violent

the streets are empty, deserted due to fear and damp from the cold evening rain.

you search through the shadows, around every corner, play with one of your daggers just to pass the time, the blade weaving between your expert fingers.

all you can really think about, though, is vi, and how scared she was to lose you, and how terribly you must have hurt her —

fuck.

you accidentally sliced through your palm, your blood emerging as thick, black tar in the darkness. you sigh and kneel down in the alleyway, dropping your heaviest weapon so you can use your uninjured hand to wrap the other.

something pounces on you before you can stop the bleeding. the crossbow — the weapon that was supposed to deliver a fatal blow — is now out of reach.

you jab one of your silver blades into the creature’s side; he howls, but you manage to kick him away long enough to get to your feet, get a better sense of what you’re fighting. you’ve never seen anything like it before: a hulking mass roughly five times your size, wolf-like features, and chemical machinery woven throughout his body, a neon green liquid pumping through glass tubes.

the beast growls at you, lunges forward once again; you jump out of his path, roll away so run, fast, and grab the crossbow. you quickly notch a silver tipped arrow, aim at his heart; you hold your breath and fire without hesitation. then another, and another, just to be safe.

your stomach turns as you watch the creature remove the arrows as if they were nothing but splinters. he lets out a roar that shakes the earth. you’ve made him angrier.

you drop the crossbow, deciding instead to propel yourself off the wall, leap onto the beast’s shoulders and stab the glass tubes with all the force you can muster. green liquid gushes out, and the beast howls in pain, but doesn’t give up. with sharp claws, he throws you to the ground, and you shriek as he tears through the skin of your ribs.

you’re very suddenly dizzy, bleeding out on the cobblestones, yet continue to struggle with whatever strength still courses through your veins. the beast looms over you, foaming at the mouth, and your vision is getting fuzzier by the second.

that’s when you see a flash of dark fur, almost fuschia in the moonlight, jump in front of you, knock the beast out of the way, tumble to the side. you glance at the creature that saved you — a wolf with a fierce set of teeth and beautiful powder blue eyes — before you fall unconscious.

iv. stitch me up (touch me inside and out)

vi barely registers that the temperature in the apartment is dropping.

she doesn’t regret how she had to rip the heating pipe from the wall — there are nasty burns, still untreated, stinging her wrists where the silver cuffs had restrained her.

she doesn’t regret transforming from human to something wild, unrestrained, in order to save you from something much worse.

she’s still burning off adrenaline, her nervous system on high alert. it’s been a while, and she’d forgotten how exhilarating it can be.

it all happened so fast. there was something oddly familiar about the beast; he seemed to recognize vi, too. that’s the only explanation — for all the ruthless, bloody stories she’d heard, why else would he have let vi take you away and just disappear into the night without so much as a growl?

vi doesn’t have the energy to answer such questions. all she cares about is you. she can’t get over the overwhelming scent of your blood, already spilling out onto the street when she showed up. she almost lost control, blinded by rage and a desire to kill the beast — but you were there, on the brink of death, and she just wanted you to be safe, wanted to bring you home.

she just hopes she wasn’t too late.

vi hyper-focuses on your labored, disjointed breaths from where she tucked you in. she tried her best to stop the bleeding and dress your wounds with combinations of herbs and flowers she frantically read about in one of your books, desperate to keep you alive.

you’ve lost blood. a lot of blood.

vi wants nothing more than to curl up on the bed next to you, but after you saw her last night, once you realize that she’s no different than the savage beast you were so determined to kill, she’s not sure you’d want her near you.

she’ll just stay long enough to know that you’ll wake up, and then she’ll be out of your life forever.

dawn breaks. the sun shines through cracked, frost covered windows, and your eyes remain shut.

your heart’s still pumping blood, which is a good sign, but otherwise….

day bleeds into night, and you’re still out cold. vi manages to drip some water between your parted lips, and watches with relief as your throat reacts accordingly. you let out a gentle sigh, eyelids fluttering ever so slightly.

“please wake up,” vi whispers.

fangs jumps onto the bed and whimpers, nudging her nose against your arm so that she’s snuggled underneath. vi drapes a blanket over the pair of you.

another sleepless night passes.

at first light, vi changes your bandages. she struggles a bit, given her injured wrists, but she’s pleased to find you healing from what might have been a fatal injury to most humans. she tries to feed fangs, but the dog refuses.

fair enough — vi can’t bring herself to eat, either.

instead, to pass the time, vi glues together shards from the broken vase and places it back on the kitchen counter. there are no more fresh roses; vi decides she’ll bring you some as a parting gift once you’ve woken up.

you’re shivering by the time darkness starts to creep in. vi piles as many blankets as she can on you and fangs, but it’s not enough. vi accepts what she had been reluctant to do: she slips into bed next to you, uses her body to keep you warm, arms wrapped around you protectively.

vi doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she wakes up late the next afternoon, to cold rumpled sheets and an even colder empty apartment.

you must have a knack for perfect timing, because just as vi’s about to start spiralling, the front door swings open and it’s you — cheeks slightly flushed from the cold, holding a brown paper bag with one arm while your other hand grasps the key. fangs rushes through the door, too, tail wagging as she zooms around the apartment, bounces on the furniture and lets out excited little yaps.

“morning, killer.” you smile like you hadn’t been knocking on death’s door since a few nights before. “i would have waited, but you were pretty knocked out and fangs had a ton of energy to burn. clearly she still does,” you chuckle, sending a warm, fuzzy feeling through vi’s body. “i got us some food, too, and i’ll contact the landlord to fix our — whoa!”

the bag drops to your feet as vi pounces on you, engulfing your body in her arms and squeezing tightly. your heartbeat is as strong as ever, steadies her own frantic pulse.

“s-sorry.” she pulls away and takes a step back. “i shouldn’t have —”

you just shake your head and press a finger to her lips to quiet her.

“i’m sorry,” you say. “i shouldn’t have — i shouldn’t have treated you like that; shouldn’t have used who you are as a weapon against you. you saved me, vi.” you take a shuddery breath. you place a gentle hand on her cheek. “thank you.”

it takes vi a minute to process what you’ve said.

you thanked her for saving you.

you apologized for using who she is as a weapon.

what did you mean by that?

unless —

i’m not the only monster hunter around here. you need to be careful.

she’s worth it.

you deserve a happy ending, violet. don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

“you….knew,” vi realizes, and even as she says it, she can’t quite believe it. “how….how long?”

“from the first time i landed a punch on your handsome face.” smiling softly, you run your thumb over the faded burn on her cheek, the one mirroring her tattoo, the one left by your silver ring.

“are you serious?”

“well, fine, i didn’t know what you were, not exactly, until later. i just had a pretty good feeling that you weren’t human; you had a pulse, so you couldn’t be a vampire, which meant —”

“you knew what i was this whole time and it didn’t bother you?”

you shrug. “you knew what i was this whole time and it didn’t bother you.” while vi continues to stare at you in disbelief, you bend down to pick up the fallen items. vi crouches down with you.

“that’s different,” she reasons, handing you a soft red apple, your cold fingers brushing over her warm skin momentarily.

“i don’t think so. not all monsters are evil and not all humans are good. i saved you from a human that night, remember?”

“b-but you’re you and i-i’m me.” vi scrambles to find the right words. she’s still shocked at how calm you are. is it really as simple as you make it seem? “you weren’t….scared that i’d hurt you, because that’s who i am?”

you get up and place the bag of groceries in the kitchen, lean against the counter as you stare back at vi. instead of answering, you challenge her once again:

“were you scared that i’d hurt you?”

vi blinks at you. “never.”

“there’s your answer,” you declare, giving her that razor-sharp grin you flash whenever you win a fight.

fangs has calmed down, and she’s asleep on the living room couch, her snores the only sound between you as vi processes everything that’s been said.

she feels like her entire world has flipped upside down.

this whole time…..

it went terribly when she last told someone the truth, at least anyone outside her family, and even they would sometimes walk on eggshells around her, like they were worried she might snap.

but you….you’ve sparred and you’ve bickered and you never even flinched once.

you welcomed her into your home, into your life.

you kissed her.

this whole time.

“i was scared you wouldn’t love me, if you knew,” vi admits, a whisper so soft that she’s almost sure that you didn’t hear.

except you falter then, your confident posture melting at her confession. your lips part in a soft exhale.

“well, it’s like you said; i knew this whole time, and i still….” you swallow the rest of your sentence, but you’re looking at vi with so much adoration that it’s overwhelming. “i still want you.”

her brain short circuits, and all vi can think to do is kiss you.

it starts sweet, your lips rose-petal soft. her lips are chapped, rough against yours and already bleeding from the pressure. you run your fingers through vi’s hair, swallow her moans. she’s dizzy with anticipation, imagining how you might do the same when she’s between your legs later. you kiss the scar on her upper lip, gently like you’re hoping to heal the permanent wound. then, your tongue laves over the cut on vi’s bottom lip, soothes her, pushes into her mouth again so you’re both tasting copper.

but then, you bite down, and a desire buried deep within vi is unleashed: the desire to cut herself open for you so you can love each and every part of her. even deeper down, vi hopes that you’d want the same.

vi brings a hand up to your jaw, pushing you into her mouth even more. she lodges her thigh between your legs and shoves her tongue into your mouth when you gasp. one of your hands slips underneath her shirt to trace the contours of her abdomen, meticulously outlining each one.

“it’s been days since you’ve eaten, hasn’t it?” you mumble against her lips, pulling away slightly. your brows pinch together in worry, because you already know her body too well, can tell that each muscle is more defined, each edge a bit sharper. “you must be starving, baby. let’s eat something before —”

vi whines when you start to pull away even more.

“we can do that after.” she offers you her best puppy dog eyes as she pleads: “i’m hungry for something else now. i want you.”

to prove her point, vi guides your hand to her belt. your fingers dance along the metal and she eagerly awaits your response.

“fine,” you decide. “but whoever has the most orgasms makes dinner.”

“you’re on, angel.”

her breath hitches when your hand moves down the waistband of her pants; you play with her tangle of curls, tease the tip of your fingers into her wetness. she purrs against you.

“wait —” you pause your actions. vi whimpers when you remove your glistening fingers; you take off the silver ring on your pointer finger, grinning guiltily as you toss it on the counter behind you. “that would have been bad,” is all you say before inserting two fingers into her already slick pussy.

“ugh, ah — fuck, just like that, angel,” she moans, twitching as you ram your fingers into her.

you hum, stuff another finger into her heat, stretching her so deliciously that her legs start to tremble.

“such a good girl for me. aren’t you, violet?” you coo and start sucking the skin behind her ear. “you gonna make a mess, right here in our kitchen?”

and that does it — vi’s walls tighten around you, her wetness soaks through her clothes; she’s almost sure that it drips down onto the floor. vi whines as you remove your fingers, feeling empty. you shove your syrupy fingers into her mouth instead, her tongue greedily lapping up her own cum. a string of spit follows as you rip away your fingers and press your mouth against vi’s kiss-swollen, cum-covered lips. you feel something smouldering in the pit of your stomach at her whimpers; you’re nowhere near satisfied, but her eyes, all wide and dark and desperate, are pleading at you to let her indulge in her hunger, as well.

“what else do you want?”

vi paws at your breasts from above your shirt.

“i want to fuck you,” she declares, and you nod eagerly, your body bursting into flames.

she gestures at you to wrap your legs around her hips, and she carries you to the bed as you kiss more fiercely, teeth clacking and tongues fighting to explore every crevice of her mouth. you tear each other’s clothes off; but the cold air doesn’t faze you in the slightess, because you have vi, hot and passionate, above you, keeping you going.

your teeth gnaw on her bottom lip as vi messily thrusts against you, your cunts sliding against each other; sticky, languid bliss.

vi takes her time. she wants to savor every part of this, of you — the sting of your nails scratching down her tattooed back, no doubt leaving red marks in their wake; the familiar scent of your skin, sickly sweet roses, combined with the thick musk of your desire, dripping against hers so deliciously; the hoarseness of your voice, encouraging her to go faster, harder.

she nudges her nose against the crook of your neck, salivates at how your vein pulses for her like a tantalizing butterfly. her teeth graze your pulsepoint, but she’s trembling with the amount of self control it takes not to add any more pressure.

“v-vi,” you breathe her name like a prayer. “baby.”

a guttural moan bubbles from the back of her throat in response.

you gently run your fingers through her hair, coax her to look you in the eye, the gesture a sharp contrast to the harsh squelching of your cunts against each other, melding together with each determined thrust.

“you – ah,” you gasp as vi rolls her hips into yours with even more vigor. “you can bite me, if you want.”

vi licks her lips, swallows the hunger burning in her throat because you must be too fucked out if you’re willing to let vi fully indulge in this craving.

“but then you would —”

“lycanthropy is only transmitted when you’re in wolf form,” you explain through labored breaths. “so if you bite me now….and gods, i’m begging you to…..nothing’s gonna change.”

“i have never been more thankful for your slayer training,” she growls. “you really want that, huh? for me to mark you up really good, show everyone that you’re mine?”

“o-only if i can do the same,” you manage a smirk. “or are you all bark and no bite?” you tease, buck your hips upwards. vi is willing to die for your knife-like smile alone, so of course. she’d let you eat her whole, if that’s what you really wanted.

vi finally sinks her teeth into you, rolling her eyes back at how absolutely luscious you taste. like a good girl — your good girl — she follows your orders and bites. she bites down your neck, across your shoulders and collarbones, relishing in the imprints left in her wake.

vi knows now that she calls you angel for a reason. it’s a religious experience, watching you throw your head back against the pillow as your orgasm crashes through you. vi follows a few seconds later until you’re covered in her — she drenched the curls of your bush, her cum dripping down on your own wet pussy as she watches from above. vi can’t help it; she bends down, and you jolt slightly when her cold nipple piercing brushes against your clit. she does it again a few more times just to appreciate how you whine, rut your pussy against her perky breast, begging for more.

but, vi’s on the hunt for something else — she splits your folds with her sharp tongue, sucks any and all of your shared essence. she lets it slosh around in her mouth before hovering over you once more, silently ordering you to part your wet lips; when you comply, so obedient, vi spits into your wanton mouth, thick and velvety.

“swallow,” she orders, voice rough with lust. you do so quite eagerly.

and just like that, you’re back to grinding on each other, leaving a delectable mess along the skin of each other’s thighs. the tension in vi’s abdomen snaps when you wrap your lips around her nipple, suckling at your own wetness until drool dribbles from the corner of your mouth.

after feeling her gush against you, a feral impulse rips through you. you release her nipple with a distinct pop, the cold metal still burning on your tongue as you yank vi’s hair, exposing her tender skin, glittering with sweat in the dark golden light as the sun starts to set. you pull her close, bite around the tattoo on the side of her neck, hard. vi howls in pleasure as you taste salt and iron and her, reaching your peak.

vi waits patiently as you come down from your high, chest heaving, your neck still engraved with the outline of her teeth while yours are stained red. you crash your lips onto hers, chaotic and insatiable, kissing her like she’s your last meal. in turn, she licks into your mouth, tongue tracing your canines to savor what you’ve consumed of hers.

“you sure you’re not a vampire? that would be quite the scandal,” vi jokes later when you’re sitting in her lap, taking time to clean each other up. vi’s only wearing a shirt, but you’ve doubled up on clothes, the apartment growing colder as night approaches.

you already tended to the burns on her wrists (and apologized profusely for causing them; you also scolded her a bit for not tending to herself sooner). now you use disinfectant to wipe down her neck, where you broke skin; you quickly place a bandage that soothes the sting and vi presses a grateful kiss to your sternum.

you hum around the unlit cigarette in your mouth, which you had rolled beforehand with dried rose petals. with your hands unoccupied, you reach for your lighter. vi tilts her chin to gaze up at you; you’re backlit by the evening twilight, a silver halo around you as flowery smoke billows from your mouth.

“i’m sure they won’t be thrilled to know that a slayer’s fallen in love with a werewolf, either,” you muse, beaming at her.

vi clicks her tongue. “sounds like we’re breaking some bylaws.”

“oh, she’s worth it; i’d do anything for my charming, sexy, handsome werewolf.”

you lean forward and exhale smoke into vi’s parted mouth, lips brushing against each other as you share the same breath. you sit back once your lungs are burning and admire the view.

vi — normally all rough edges and dark shadows — blushing a delicate pink as you praise her.

“she’s got a killer right hook, too,” you continue. you offer vi the cigarette and she nods; you hold it, place it between her lips as she takes a drag. “a body so hot that it’s honestly unfair. she’s a fighter, which i love, and some people might think she’s just a scary dog, but i think she’s beautiful and brave and a total softie —”

“okay, okay,” vi coughs, the tips of her ears red. she takes the cigarette from you and stubs it out on the makeshift ashtray by the windowsill. vi rolls over so she’s on top of you, cupping your face in her hands. she pecks across your cheeks until you’re giggling; you try to turn the tables, and the two of you just end up wrestling in a tangle of sheets and laughter and tender kisses.

eventually, you both calm down.

“you hungry?”

“not really. you?”

vi shakes her head. “we’ll make breakfast together in the morning?”

“sounds heavenly.”

it’s dark outside, but the stars are out and the waning moon shines bright. vi positions herself behind you, her body curving into yours, chin notched over your shoulder and arm secure on your waist.

fangs must feel left out, because she shuffles under the covers for warmth before immediately falling back asleep, her fur tickling at your feet.

your thumb rubs against the gauze on vi’s wrist. you can’t help but feel regret, heavy like lead in your stomach.

“baby, i’m fine,” vi assures, already knowing what you’re thinking.

“i….i just hate that i did this to you,” you mumble, bringing her wrist up so you can kiss it.

“you were trying to protect me. it’s what we do, yeah? protect each other?”

when you hum in agreement, vi guides you to turn around so you’re facing each other. on instinct, she parts your legs with her thigh. your sweatshirt has ridden up, so vi starts to rub circles onto your exposed hip bone, her touch soft as velvet.

“next time you go out there, i’m coming with you.”

your breath hitches as you trace the tattoos licking up her arm. “vi….”

“this isn’t up for debate,” vi declares. she reaches her hand up to caress your cheek, thumb delicately rubbing the shadows under your eye. “you almost died. whatever almost killed you is still out there. you’re strong — gods, you’re the strongest person i’ve ever met — but you don’t have to face any of this alone. not anymore.”

you let out a surprised laugh.

“what?” she murmurs shyly, her eyes the soft, pale blue of moonlight, star-like freckles dazzling her sculpted cheeks.

“no, it’s just….anyone who’s known that i’m the slayer either calls me delusional, runs scared, or expects me to do it all by myself. hell — that’s how it was written, how it was destined to be."

vi nudges her nose against yours. her breath tickles your lips, heats up your entire being with a warmth so divine, you wonder if you actually have died and gone to heaven.

you’re both alive, though, a bit bruised and wounded. the world is dark and cold, but here’s this beautiful, strong girl with a beautiful, strong heart who holds you close, parts her full lips — like two rose petals, kiss-bitten and crimson — and vows:

“fuck destiny. it’s you and me now, angel.”

v. my heart is black and beats for you

TWO MONTHS EARLIER

it’s a quiet night. you spent most of it lamenting how you got your ass kicked earlier and fantasizing about the woman who did it, when you see a shadow of a person passed out at the corner of the street, and another trying to steal from them.

someone has to stand against the forces of darkness and evil, and the universe somehow determined that would be you — a fate you’ve had to accept through bruised ribs and broken hearts and bloody prophecies, but one you’ve had to accept nonetheless.

if that goes beyond vampires and demons, so be it.

after you’ve managed to send the creep on the run, you recognize the person you saved:

it’s her.

she looked more intimidating in the pit, honestly — all harsh and dark, furrowed brows and vicious snarls.

it takes you kneeling in front of her to be able to really see it through the black face paint. you take a little pride in the bruise that blossoms on her cheek and the cut through her eyebrow, thinking that at least you got a few shots in before she took you out with a killer right hook.

your jaw still aches and you still taste copper thanks to her, but without the roars from the crowd or the pressure of hefty prize money that you need to survive, you can see her more clearly. she’s bleeding through her bandages; she’s shivering because, gods, it’s freezing this time of year and all she’s wearing underneath a flimsy leather jacket is scrap fabric that would not be counted as a shirt; and she looks like she hasn’t eaten in days despite reeking of alcohol.

that’s when you see a burn on her cheekbone, too, just about where your silver ring would have collided with her skin. you hold your breath, lean in closer to her chest and listen closely to check — the thumping of a strong, steady heartbeat; the gentle rush of blood flowing through her veins.

so, not a vampire. maybe a human with a silver allergy, but what’s more likely is that she’s….something else.

“hey.” you whisper. when she doesn’t respond, you cup her face in one hand and tap her bruised cheek with your thumb. her skin is warm; if she were a human, you’d think she had a fever. “wake up.”

you resist the urge to jerk away when she softly takes your hand in hers, the gesture a sharp contrast to her knuckles bloodied from earlier.

“five more minutes, cupcake,” she whines, her voice echoing down the empty alley.

“look, it’s late and freezing. we should really go before —”

“please. just stay with me. i promise i’ll be good.”

your chest aches at her sincere tone. did you sound the same, when you made a similar promise before to the people you’ve loved after they found out who — what — you are? did you also look so broken, so bruised when they left?

you know the council wouldn’t approve of what you’re about to do.

but you also know well enough from years of studying and training and fighting as the slayer that their judgement should not be taken as scripture.

in other words: fuck the council.

(plus — you need a friend, or just….someone. it’s lonely, being the chosen one. and this girl, in front of you — when you fought, her body reacting to yours so fluidly, you had somehow never felt more understood.)

you manage to get her to her feet.

she mumbles something incomprehensible into your neck, her breath hot against your skin. you let her lean into your body after a weak attempt at holding herself up. it’s not much trouble for you, though. it’s a cold night, anyways; her body, solid and warm, is almost comforting against yours.

you trust your instincts and carry her home.

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starcurtain · 4 months ago

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Hello! I just saw your latest post and you might have been referring to my ask if it was the one about Ratiorine's differing philosophies or of what philosophies they abide by (existentialism, absurdism, etc) then that's me! If you weren't referring to that I apologize for the confusion. Sending it off anon this time so maybe it doesn't disappear 🥲

Sorry for the ask disappearing the first time; I'm not sure what happened, and I was so sad because I had been carefully holding on to it to answer it! I'm glad you were able to resend.

I do have to say first that philosophy is not my area of expertise, so there may be much more qualified philosophy buffs out there who can answer this more accurately than me, but I'll give it a go with my personal understandings of the characters:

First, Ratio is the easier of the two I think. As many people have said, he's a good fit for existentialism. His entire shtick is basically believing in the power of the individual to improve and enrich their own life, to fight valiantly regardless of the hardships imposed by their life's circumstances, and to make themself into a better person by their own choices.

It's important to underscore that this means Ratio believes in self-determination, in the idea that people's lives are not foreordained but are actually actively shaped each day by personal decisions. Therefore, people have inherent freedom to decide the course of their own lives by accepting what they approve of, refusing to accept what they disapprove of, and harnessing their own individual power to ultimately achieve self-actualization.

Essentially, Ratio works under the impression that life is not guided by something as intangible as destiny, and no matter where you start off in life, what ultimately happens to you is within your control (or at least within the control of whoever controls you). This is likely a small part of why it grates on him so badly that he wasn't recognized by Nous, because the fact that one can dedicate everything to a goal and still not achieve that goal runs contrary to his central philosophy.

If he believes that people have the power to determine the course of their own lives, then what does it say about him, who fought so hard to do exactly as he claims even idiots can do--seize control his own fate--and yet didn't succeed? Are there some things outside of man's power? It's enough to make even a renowned doctor question himself, and Ratio decided to come out on the side of "It's a personal failing, not a flaw in my philosophy." He literally said "Skill issue" to himself.

Changing tack a tiny bit here, I think it's also important to emphasize that there is a difference between existentialism and nihilism even though these philosophies dovetail. Again, I'm not an expert in philosophy, so my understanding is very limited, but the basic idea of existentialism is that "existence comes before essence"--that is, things start as a blank slate and gain nature and meaning after the fact. We are not created by some grand design, nor is there any inherent "purpose for living." Things just exist because they exist.

This is where existentialism intersects with nihilism, at the starting point that existence is inherently meaningless. But, in my personal opinion, nihilism as a philosophy fails to move beyond that. Pure nihilism is ultimately self-defeating because it leaves us with no motivation to commit to growth. It's a philosophy antithetical to the continuation of life as we know it. Existence is meaningless and any meaning you personally derive from existence is also meaningless, so why bother attempting to derive any meaning at all? This complete apathy is the Device IX that Star Rail paints as so dangerous.

And Ratio is not this way at all. His philosophy absolutely reaffirms that life can have meaning, so long as people create that meaning for themselves. He simultaneously asserts that anything that people create is not meaningless ...which basically means that meaning itself cannot be meaningless. (If that makes any sense to anyone.)

Frankly, I would argue that this philosophy may be a core part of why Ratio has not been recognized by Nous so far, rather than simply his "being a good person." (Nous is a robotic AI super-computer, why would THEY care about the presence or lack of human empathy?) Ultimately, Ratio's central philosophy about people being capable of determining their own fates and purposes also applies to his understanding of knowledge--knowledge is not something which is inherent in certain beings from birth or limited to the purview of the "special" (geniuses), but is attainable by all people. People are not "born talented" or "born untalented," they are simply "educated" or "uneducated," with the only barrier between these categories being one's own personal willingness to change. The mundane can become the divine--if they work hard enough at it.

Thus, knowledge is not wealth to be hoarded, but a currency to be spent to enrich other members of humanity.

(By the way, completely random aside--it also surprises me that everyone relates Ratio to Alhaitham from Genshin when they literally have such a glaring fundamental discrepancy in their understanding of the concept of wisdom... But anyway, back on topic!)

Ratio may (sort of) respect the members of the Genius Society, may recognize their incredible knowledge and abilities, but at the heart of the matter lies a single all-important question: Does Ratio even really believe in "genius" as a distinction (other than as a concept to insult himself)? Does he truly believe there is barrier between brilliance and idiocy that "ordinary people" can never cross?

He speaks convincingly about geniuses being different from "the ordinary," but if his core belief is that people have the power to pull themselves up out of despair and achieve greatness through effort and self-development, rather than some form of luck or god-given talent at birth, then... do born "geniuses" even really exist? Is there really an insurmountable difference between brilliant and mundane?

If knowledge is the equalizer of all sentient beings, do we not all have at least the initial capacity to become geniuses?

I personally think this central distinction about the capacity for knowledge among all humanity is the actual deciding factor in Ratio's rejection from the Genius Society, because, at the end of the day... how do you become a member of the "Genius Society" when you fundamentally reject the distinction of "genius" as an exclusive category from the start?

Ratio wants to share knowledge and uplift everyone (even if he thinks most people are starting off at the rock bottom known as idiocy).

His mission is diametrically opposed to the concept of a "Genius Society" in the first place.

He wanted in to the cool kids club because he desperately craves validation and acceptance, but the philosophical values of the Genius Society are ultimately incompatible with his own. In short, he would have to cease to be "Veritas Ratio" to succeed in joining the geniuses.

Okay, okay, back to the original point again, and just one more note about Ratio: Even though existentialism also goes hand-in-hand with absurdism, I don't think Ratio is far enough down the philosophical rabbit hole to believe in the wider definition of absurdism. Although I think he does agree with the inherent meaninglessness of existence, I don't think he views existence itself as truly irrational and the universe as as manifestation of unknowable chaos. I think he'd at least like to imagine that there are some ontological principles and inherent laws governing the operations of reality, and I think he does believe that certain things can be predicted with the application of enough thought... He certainly seems to believe in some form of "objective truth," at the very least.

I think he'd at least like to believe the universe is semi-orderly, even if he might deep down admit this is also wishful thinking.

So, to me he reads as a strong metaphor for pure existentialism, with deliberate rejections to both nihilism's apathy and absurdism's lean toward solely subjective reality.

PHEW, this is already long and I still have a whole other character to talk about... I had more to say about this topic than I thought. Sorry for the long read!

Anyway... Aventurine.

I've seen all sorts of things thrown around for Aventurine's philosophy, and while I think he does inherit a bit of Acheron's absurdism by the end of 2.1, I actually don't think Aventurine is an absurdist, an existentialist, or a nihilist.

I think Aventurine is a struggling fatalist.

He doesn't like it. We see him actively question it, but ultimately, he does come back to the concept of destiny over and over.

First, I think it's important to draw a clear distinction between Ratio and Aventurine: Ratio's existentialism is a philosophy that technically works even in a theological vacuum. Nous doesn't have to exist for Ratio's philosophy to function. Ratio's belief in the self-determination of humanity is, in fact, somewhat opposed to belief in aeons in the first place, and only works because technically the aeons of Star Rail used to be human (or were originally human creations). It's essentially an atheist viewpoint.

But Aventurine is a religious character. Like, he's just... religious. That's a fact about him. Even though we do hear his doubts, at the end of the day, he actually believes in Gaiathra, and believing in a omniscient supernatural being that is not human in origin (is from outside the aeon system) comes with a whole set of philosophical foundations that most aeon-worshipping characters just don't have in Star Rail. (Sunday is the obvious exception here, by the way.)

Kakavasha's like the one practicing pagan in the middle of an atheist convention. Awkward.

Being more serious: Religion requires faith. Faith requires the ability to believe in things you cannot verify with empirical facts. To believe in things you can only feel, never see. The belief that a goddess is watching over you, blessing you, and guiding you requires you to also accept the idea that events in your life are not always in your own control--that some of what occurs to you is decided by powers beyond your comprehension.

In essence, faith requires belief in fate. And that leads to fatalism.

No matter how much he doesn't like it, no matter how much we see him struggle with it, Aventurine does actually seem to believe in the concept of fate. He believes that some events in life are destined to occur, that some things are outside of individuals' control, and that ultimately not everything can be changed.

This is the dead opposite of Ratio's mindset: No matter how hard we fight, how far we push ourselves... in the end, sometimes people fail. Sometimes the only answer to our endless struggles is that we die, as we were destined to, before ever achieving the greatness we sought or the futures we were promised.

As an aside, I don't think faith or religion are necessarily the only factors connecting Aventurine to this particular philosophy either. Even removing theological aspects from the conversation, his extreme focus on the gambling aesthetic suggests a strong connection to fatalism too--if not a goddess, then one's fate may as well be in the hands of luck itself, of the whims of the rolling dice--or the push and pull of "powers that be," those figures of authority in the room where it happens, who make their shady deals according to preset rules and expectations, every bet resulting in an ultimately predictable outcome.

(He keeps gambling and gambling, hoping that he'll get a different result than the one he knows is inevitable...)

This is, of course, an inherently pessimistic mindset, a perfect dark-mirror to Ratio's deep-down optimism. Fatalism puts humanity into a position of powerlessness. All hopes and dreams are given over to the goddess, by whose judgment and whims the actual events of one's life are decided. Pain and poverty are inevitable trials. Suffering and death are foreordained.

And yet Aventurine has to cling to this, as much as he doubts it, as much as he hates the idea that things in his life are beyond his power to control.

Because if fate doesn't exist... If it wasn't destiny, if the tragedies of his life weren't trials from the goddess, if things weren't supposed to go this way... Then every single thing in his life really is meaningless. Everything he suffered, everyone he loved and loss, his mother's and sister's sacrifices, the torment he went through--just sheer bad luck. All of it, completely and utterly meaningless.

How can you convince yourself to keep living, in the face of such supreme and all-encompassing Nihility?

This is the central struggle of Aventurine's character, the actual mental and emotional journey we see him undertaking from 2.0 to 2.1. He is literally on the precipice, swinging between a viewpoint that he hates--his fatalistic belief in destiny--and an entirely self-defeating philosophy--nihilism--whose only possible final outcome is suicide.

This is what his talk with Acheron at the end of 2.1 is all about. This is how she saves him. In that final cutscene, we witness Aventurine reach a mental compromise, managing to finally reconcile his necessary faith in the concept of destiny with the reality that life may truly begin meaningless--but beginning meaningless does not mean staying meaningless, and believing in destiny does not bar you from making your own choices or finding your own purpose in life.

Later on in Penacony's story, we literally see Acheron use Ratio's philosophy to reject the same nihility that crept into Aventurine's:

Acheron wards off nihility's apathy through an absurdism all her own, but one which manages to enclose both Ratio's and Aventurine's otherwise incompatible mindsets: We have no way of ever knowing for certain whether the events of our lives are fated or mere nonsense. We have no way of knowing if our choices are our own or foreordained. But we don't need to know this to find meaning and value in them. Whether life is nothing more than unpredictable chaos or a predetermined pattern of cause and effect, what matters is what you make of it.

Ultimately, I think that this post has really helped me recognize just how well Aventurine and Ratio work as philosophical foils.

They really are perfect opposites.

Aventurine's fatalism is deterministic, while Ratio's existentialism is self-deterministic. Aventurine's philosophy is inherently pessimistic; Ratio's is inherently optimistic. Ratio's philosophy operates on a core belief in the freedom of humanity to decide their own paths in life, while Aventurine hates but does ultimately believe that people aren't really in control, that even if no gods are guiding us, we can't rise above our own natures. Ratio's philosophy makes meaning from growth; Aventurine's makes meaning from loss...

And they both struggle with fundamental doubts in their own philosophies, core questions that are directly tied to their own lives. Aventurine worries that his faith might be misplaced, that destiny might not exist, and that everything he suffered might have been in pointless, empty vain. Ratio faces the crisis of recognizing that his core belief in the power of humankind to determine their own paths and make their own meaning might not actually apply to everyone--because it doesn't seem to apply to himself.

It's literally only by bridging this philosophical binary with Acheron's anti-Nihility absurdist rhetoric that we can reach some sort of healthy outcome. That's why it takes both Ratio's note and Acheron's comments to finally lead Aventurine to acceptance. Ratio probably needs a little bit of Aventurine's "If you didn't make it into the Genius Society, there's got to be a reason" mindset to finally reach some peace with his situation too.

I'm not even a philosophy expert and even I can see that there's really only one takeaway here: These two characters were totally written with each other in mind.

Aventurine and Ratio need each other on core metaphysical levels! 😂

It's so good guys. You can't see it, but I'm making chef's kisses, I promise.

#honkai star rail #aventurine #dr. ratio #ratiorine #aventio #well the implication is there at least #character analysis #honkai star rail meta #philosophy #long post is long #this took so long oops I'm posting at 2am #entirely unrelated but innenofutari #you are very based for having a Princess Tutu quote in your bio #that's the most important thing I could tag this post with #actually #also if my philosophy understanding is all wrong I'm sorry #not gonna lie I dated a philosophy major in college soooo #that should tell you everything you need to know about my feelings toward philosophy

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