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webanglikethat · 13 days ago

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⋆⁺₊❅. Lonely winter, cradle my heart.

Pairing: Vyxaria x Walter. Words: 4004. Tags: for @agattthaa’s birthday, @eeriedreamer, @malbontesmrs and @liykaii — thank you for always believing in me. & shoutout to tswift for writing peace, give it a listen!

🎼 “could it be enough, if I could never give you peace?, ts.

Raindrops fell down the window, as if chasing trails they were afraid to lose, slithering down like snakes on a fresh slippery bruise. The wind whispered against the walls, similar to how waves crash into the shore with more strength each time, as if seeking something, demanding it. The room was dimly lit and warm, but the heart of the succubus felt anything but.

It was truly pathetic; and the worst part was … she knew that.

A creature like her had no use for pain or sadness, let alone grief, but her heart felt consumed by it.

Vyxaria laid on the bed, eyes closed, replaying over and over the scene that would haunt her till her bones decayed, and her spirit vanished — …. Xantheia stabbing her.

Surely that couldn’t have been her Xantheia right? Not the Xantheia she spent all of her valuable moments with – not that succubi were supposed to have valuable moments, not with mortals, and certainly not with each other. But Xantheia had always been her exception. The Xantheia who laughed with her under moons swollen with silver light. The one who would trace her fingers along Vyxaria’s cheek, murmuring words too sweet to belong to their world. The Xantheia that would sit on the thrones of kings they’d manipulate, pretending that the kingdom now belonged to them. The Xantheia that – as human said – took her under her wings, as if some kind of protecting angel – and oh, how cruelly heaven turned out to be another fake.

It couldn’t be her Xantheia.

Maybe she imagined it. Maybe the chill of the air perforated her stomach. She had read somewhere that the mesosphere of this world was becoming weaker – whatever it meant. She hadn’t understood it then – for what did she care for human science? It made no sense to her nor brought her any kind of advantages — but now it cruelly reminded her of her own figure. Wasn’t she just the same? Once impenetrable, now fractured. Once strong, now laying on a bed of a house she couldn’t call her own, in a world that didn’t listen to her, eyes that closed which betrayed her with the same image under her lashes and in the depth of her iris. She could almost feel it, that weakening, spreading through her veins like frost, breaking apart everything she thought she was.

She pressed her hand against her chest, fingers trembling as though searching for a heartbeat. Of course, it wasn’t there; there was no pulse to find. There never had been. But now, the absence felt louder, deafening.

How could someone miss what they had never needed before?

What good was power, when she couldn’t even protect herself from a mere memory?

She closed her eyes, damning her own figure. Centuries of hunting, scheming, attacking, and yet all it took was one betrayal to crumble her down. Her chest heaved, and before she could stop herself, a sob clawed its way out of her throat, as if begging to finally be let free – something she could never be. It was raw, jagged, unfamiliar – a sound she didn’t recognize as her own. Her grief had welled up, transporting itself from her organs to her mouth, climbing the soundbox of her lips, and it finally bled.

The flood was open.

Dark blue drops bruised her bedding, as if to shame her, drown her into her incompetence. Tears spilled over her lashes, unbidden, and the sky itself seemed to react, for the wind got stronger, smearing the windows of her room, the jalousies of her face.

No, no, no.

This wasn’t her. This couldn’t be her.

The storm outside screamed as though mocking her, ridiculing her for behaving like a weak mortal whose heart had been broken, but her own grief was louder, more strident, intrusive, pushy as if to say - yes, I know, and I’m already punishing myself.

She tried to stifle the sound, dissect it with her fingers clamped over her mouth, but the battle had been lost long before it began. It couldn’t be buried, it was implanted. And so, the roots of pain grew over her figure, reaching her neck, and in a twisted way, it reminded her of the touch she so desperately wanted to forget.

Vyxaria wished she could turn it all off. She wasn’t supposed to feel in the first place, perhaps a curse disguised as a blessing. She was a soulless creature, mistress of the night, conquistador of men and women alike. So why, why did she now feel like a spider in the corner of someone’s room? Weaving, weaving, weaving till her fingers bled.

Feelings weren’t for her.

She was not for this world.

She wasn’t for her “home world”, either.

A Soulless creature who felt too much. Foreigner on earth, stranger at home. Everywhere she went, it wasn’t enough. She was rejected, as if her mere presence was a toxin nobody could withstand – too eager to be purged, buried, forgotten.

She wished she could reach into her stomach, cradle her bones and caress the spot where her body’s warmth had been cascaded with blood, warm blood, blood that had begun at her hips and ended at her head, where it ultimately stayed, festering the remains of the cavity of her ruin.

It was pathetic because all the times she had been hunted, she had assumed that one misstep would lead her into a trap. One day she’d be too slow, maybe she’d slip, perhaps she’d accidentally turn around and be hit right in the chest. It would be a scheme, a well thought plan, a step-by-step approach for her downfall.

But alas, the world sneered at her, for it wasn’t strength, desire, fury or confusion that brought her down, but affection.

Pure, unbridled affection.

She should have never let it into her chest, but she didn’t notice the way her guarded bridge opened itself for the closest thing she had to family. Her castle had crumbled overnight, both by the admission and the betrayal. It was nauseating, the kind of disease you cannot name. Maybe in fifty years humans would look at her, dichotomize her bones and blood, and classify it after her. ‘The plague of trusting’ – and so, she’d be immortalized as a weak, fragile creature whose sin had not been existing, but trusting.

Vyxaria pressed a hand to her abdomen, feeling the presence of the phantom wound. It lingered, and lingered, and lingered, braiding itself in the marrow of her being.

Pathetic. Truly fucking pathetic.

The name burned on her lips, seared through her arms and dissipated in her legs — for yes, the blade might have only plunged into her stomach, but it spread like a wildfire through the rivers and valleys of her body.

Perhaps this was the hell humans so ardently feared.

Fires of hell, daughter of seduction.

Maybe this was her home call.

Caught in the place that she had sneered for others.

A spider, suffocated by its own construction.

A knock broke through the storm’s howling, pulling her away from her thoughts. She rolled her eyes, the sound reverberating in the small room, against the mournful rhythm of the rain. Even with tears on her face, she could feel annoyance. Of course, of course she wasn’t graced with silence when she needed it!

Another knock, this one softer, almost hesitant, tentative.

There was only one, who could treat even her door so softly.

Only one who had ever treated her so tenderly.

“Vyxaria?”

The voice was unmistakable — she could’ve written down the notes of his talking if she were to go deaf. It was accompanied by a warmth that didn’t belong in the cold chaos of her night, or the tempest of her mind.

Walter.

She didn’t answer. Her throat felt dry, and the thought of facing him — of being seen like this — was unbearable. But Walter was nothing if not persistent. The entrance door creaked open slowly, just enough for him to step inside.

“Vyx? The door was open. Are…are you here?” If the demon felt anything at the nickname, she didn’t show it. She quickly stood up, annoyance replacing her hurt. How dare he intrude? How dare he be here? But as she thought that, something else intruded her heart too. Blue warmth, the colour of his eyes.

She wouldn’t let that drown her too.

“Don’t come inside!” she yelled at him, now standing up in her room. She couldn’t risk him seeing her like that. She was a mess, both inside and outside. He couldn’t view the unravelling. It wasn’t meant for her body, nor his eyes.

“Vyxaria… I’m not going to leave unless I know you’re alright”, he whispered, as if trying to not intrude with his voice. Even then, he respected her space, as if it was some kind of human being. He was too nice for his own good, she thought with a slight grin. Maybe he had been right, maybe they should’ve just stayed out of each other’s orbits – she brought nothing but upheaval.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, as she left her bedroom. She was going to regret it, she could feel it in her bones. Her voice was shaky despite her attempt to sound biting. “Always needing to be the hero.”

She finally reached the living room, where he stood. As soon as their gazes met, his softened, while hers hardened. She knew her eyes were probably red, she knew her hair was probably a mess, she knew but yet… she let him witness that. Her hair was falling like a curtain to shield her expression, but even in disguise, Walter knew her too well.

“Maybe,” he replied softly, stepping closer, his movements deliberate and slow. “But heroes don’t walk away when someone they care about is hurting.”

Her breath hitched, the word care ringing in her ears, unwanted but impossible to ignore. She clenched her fists tighter, her nails digging into her palms. What was she thinking? She couldn’t. She couldn’t let him in. What was care in the face of death?

‘Care? Is that what this is? Your way to look better?’, she answered, trying her best to sound enraged. But she wasn't. She wanted him to feel it, to reject it, to reject her. But she never could do the opposite.

“You don’t get it,” she added sharply, her voice cracking despite her best efforts to sound composed. “You think you can just — what? Walk in here, say the right things, and fix this?” She laughed bitterly, her fists clenching. “This isn’t something you can fix, Walter. I’m not a cloth for you to iron and smooth over. I’m not a crease you can undo. I’m not a toy whose batteries have been drained. And you’d be foolish to think otherwise”

Walter flinched at her words, but he didn’t back away. Let the waves of her anger overtake him, he thought – as long as she reached the shore of understanding. He clenched his hands, to stop himself from reaching for her. The action didn’t go unnoticed, making the demon’s hurt bleed even faster. Even then, he respected her choice, even if it tore him apart. “That’s not true,” he said, stepping closer despite her glare. “Whatever you think you’ve done—whatever’s tearing you up inside—”

“Stop!” she snapped, her voice rising as she took a step back, putting distance between them. Her legs hit the couch, but she didn’t care. She needed space, needed air, not whatever this was. “Don’t act like you know what this feels like. You don’t know what it’s like to be … betrayed by an embrace that turns into the gates of death. To be—” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, forcing the rest of the words out. “To lose the one thing you held onto. This world isn’t for me, Walter, and now I lost my only bridge to home. Or whatever that world was. I can barely call it home now, can I?”

His gaze softened, his iris moving in confusion, understanding, and fear all in one. He could see the same reflected into her own face. ‘This isn’t your f–’

“Don’t you dare tell me it’s not my fault. I let her in, Walter. I trusted her. I wanted to trust her. I let myself believe—” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep going. She might as well unlock the vault and let the contents spill. “I should have seen it coming. I should have known. Affection isn’t for creatures like me. I should have known better. That thing? That thing you clutch so desperately? It’s not in my chest. But for a moment it felt like it. And I liked it. I liked that feeling..”

“For a moment, I let myself forget I was a succubus. And now I feel anything but. Look at me!”, she almost screamed. His eyes had never left hers, but he knew what she meant. “I’m a mess. But I don’t break. I shouldn’t break. I’m the one who conquers, who breaks, who disturbs, who crumbles and separates — and now … now I’m this”, she spat out the last word, as if it was choking her.

Walter moved closer, step for step, till the distance between them was of arm reach. It wasn’t hesitation, far from it. He wanted nothing more than to extend his hand, let her face be caressed by his affection, to unravel the strings of the pain that chocked her and transform it into jewelry to be adored. He wasn’t here to challenge her or further rattle her — when, and if, she wanted to, she’d be the one to close the gravity between them.

He spoke again, "You think being unbreakable is strength, that it is something to admire and parade – and I can understand why! We were taught that, you and I. But even those stones that you admire in passing in the streets? They crack under pressure, Vyxaria. That doesn’t make them useless or futile, does it? And you — God, you're more than that. You are so much greater than the parts you’ve lost or feel like you’ve abandoned. So let yourself break if you must — because even in pieces, you'd be more whole than anyone I've ever known. You're not a simple 'this.' You're so much more."

The words hung, like roots on a wall, battling her, confusing her… comforting her, all at once. Vyxaria hated how they made her chest tighten. Hated the way his presence, calm and steady, made her want to crumble. She wanted him to leave, but she needed him to stay. To stay, stay as he was — stay with his ocean filled irises, his sweet smile that always reached his eyes around her with his shoulders that would slump when laughing, guards falling down as if to welcome the mistress of the fortress home.

“What do you think this is?”, she whispered, brows furrowing.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I want to be here for you” his arms were shaking as he raised them, as if to touch her face. And she let him. She finally let him. His touch met her skin, and waves of pain met the shore of tenderness, the moon’s somber light mingled with the gleam of elliptical celestial bodies.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for”, she muttered, leaning into his touch, even when her mind asked her not to. She felt his fingers move tentatively, as if not daring to break the moment, as if afraid of breaking her.

“Perhaps. Perhaps you’re right. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know how to undo it, I don’t know how to come up with words that can alleviate it. But I know you. And that’s enough for me”

Her breath hitched at the sincerity of his voice. They weren’t words that could be faked, no, not when his voice sounded like he had been hit himself by the dagger. And for once, she didn’t know what to say, how to retort, how to push him away, to change the situation in her favour.

And it terrified her.

Not because his touch hurt her, but because it didn’t.

The clouds lifted from the sky, and she finally crashed into him, shores welcomed home, at last. It felt like a magnetic pull, a thread pulling her closer and closer, and she followed it, she trusted it, she let it happen. Because it was him, it was Walter. Her arms found the back of his neck, his hands the dips of her waist, and they held each other as if lost in the sea, as if their gazes were the only lifeline available.

“I hate you”, she whispered, “No you don’t”, he replied with a smile that finally bloomed again. Winter unfurled, spring brought its suitcases and sat down. It felt like a promise, one she didn’t dare accept, but at the same time couldn’t fathom refusing. She traced the lines of his smile with her fingers, and he let her. He’d let her do anything, even destroy him, if she needed to. He’d drown in her sadness if it meant saving her from it. Not that she needed saving, that part was clear. Not a bayonet, not a spear — perhaps a shield, a crossbow. He could be that for her, if only she let him.

Her nails dug into his shirt, as if holding onto him could keep the flood contained, but it was too late. The dam had broken, and she was drowning in it, spilling the parts of herself she swore no one would ever see. Tears unraveled again, this time quicker, as if they knew they now had a vessel, something that would catch them.

Walter simply held her closer. He didn’t flinch, he didn’t push her away, he didn’t grab her and scream at her for how pathetic it was. He simply stood there, held her as if the mere proximity could heal her panic, his hands circling the back of her neck, as if to soothe her. She hated how easy it was to fall, if he was there. She hated how easy she let herself crumble because in his eyes, she wasn’t a wrinkle. She hated how he was her truest undoing, and at the same time, the only shore she wanted. Her rusting armour fell, and instead of glaring at her scars, he held her. And she knew, deep down, that she didn’t hate it.

He pulled away only to be able to look at her, and before she could react, his lips pressed to her tears, as if they were bandages keeping the flood at rest. The world was in pieces, draining on the floor, bodies circling in the bleeding rain. But here, here she was at rest. In the final storm, what is there to do if not stay? Everything else drowned in the wreckage, but it was her whom he held onto. She was the only real thing. He simply caressed her face with his lips, as if to absorb the pain she couldn’t name.

She didn’t push him away, instead she let him kiss away her pain. It was new, unfamiliar, and she didn’t know how to react. She was used to pushy hands, tore clothes, messy lips and selfish demands. She didn’t know what the procedure was for affection — perhaps he would have to teach her. But it didn’t matter, nothing did when he looked at her and wasn’t afraid of what he saw. The inundation slowly stopped, and he smiled at her — something crashed, clung, ached in her chest. His fingers softly wiped the remains of her pain, and with him, she could pretend it was never there — but for once, she didn’t want to. She wanted him to view her, not the artificial figure she put up. The rawness, the anger, the ugly and the messy — for his eyes only.

She searched her mind for things she could say, sentences that would explain what this meant for her, but instead she rushed out “… Well, were you that thirsty? I didn’t take you for a guy who liked salty things”. As soon as she did, she cringed at her attempt to let a joke break the tension she had created, but he looked at her and pure unbridled laughter broke from his throat. It wasn’t a polite, perhaps nervous chuckle or the forced sympathy filled grin she expected. It was the kind of laughter that rattled your body, that made you shake your head in disbelief, and your eyes light up. And she liked that, being the reason of his reaction. She liked being the cause of his eyes closing in joy, his hands rising to cover his face as he laughed and laughed.

“Oh, Vyx…”, he replied, still laughing as he now held her even closer, “You’re lucky you’re not allergic to demons”, she added with a shrug, her hands reaching again for the back of his neck. She liked the position, she never wanted to be untangled again.

“Vyxaria, not even an allergy could stop me from reaching out for you”, he continued with a smile that began on his face and ended in her eyes, as if the very essence of his joy ended in the vast depth of the affection on the stage of her face. It travelled from his hands to her legs, and there it reached for her chest. She didn’t know how to respond, not with words, so she simply leaned into him again, breathed in his scent, and smiled to herself. A pure, gentle smile.

“You’re impossible”, she whispered against his shoulders with a grin she couldn’t veil.

“For you, I want to believe the opposite”, he admitted, holding her by the waist, as the sun finally turned to greet the two lovers. A little too late, she thought to herself, but she didn’t care, not when he held her Ike this.

And perhaps, Vyxaria could never give him the kind of peace he desired — she didn’t even know how to, but perhaps, they could still be enough.

Maybe the sky would bleed again, and the sun would hide to worlds they couldn’t reach — but they could be more. Fire to warm, protect, guide. So fierce it could create a new dawn, just for them. So soft it would erect sanctuaries.

“Does it always feel this …empty?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She let the words find place on her tongue, and freedom in the space between them.

He didn’t answer at first, afraid his words might break the fragile stillness between them, so he simply held her tighter, lulled her. One day, he decided, he’d sing for her – the way his chest did when she touched him like this. He gently cupped her hand in his. His thumb traced the delicate curve of her knuckles, a silent promise he didn’t know how to voice.

“No,” he murmured finally, his voice low and steady. “…not when you let someone stay.”

It wasn’t the grand confessions or fervent kisses she thought she would experience — it was more. The warmth of a hand that didn’t let go, the quiet strength of someone willing to hold her loneliness until it was no longer just hers. To be a vessel, a repository. To pull the strings of sadness of their chests, and make a sweater out of it to share.

Vyxaria and Walter both knew they weren’t perfect, and they might never be, but this was enough. It was enough to just exist, to be in each other’s orbit and let their hands find home in the dips, curves and heights of their bodies.

The rain outside stopped, windows finally shining again, and spring bloomed, fragile yet relentless. In the chest of the azul eyed merman and the succubus’s stirred soul, something new began to grow.

It wasn’t peace, but it was something more.

And it was enough.

It finally was enough.

#no beta reader we die like CEOs.#rc fanfic #rc fanfiction #rc vyxaria #rc walter #fanfic for agatha <3 #<- my fav walter girlie + check her fics!#JB is writing #writeblr #romance club #very ooc vyxaria

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