#trust me i promise i do | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thetomorrowshow · 2 months

Text

for a light

okay I PROMISE that comfort is coming I PROMISE

Scott stares Xornoth down from across the plateau, wind whipping the demon's hair and robes, black streaking out from him like some decaying flag.

They're alone, just the two of them, so far away (ndisu ndikitá'ána).

He's here.

It's time.

He sets the crown of antlers upon his head.

His fingers tighten on the thin grip of his sword.

Scott hisses as his finger bumps the pot, drops his hold and sticks the finger in his mouth. He was just trying to shift it to settle it better in the coals. Stupid cloth slipping.

Right. There's literally snow right there.

Scott removes his finger from his mouth, digs it into the snow beside him. The burn cools, eventually going numb.

That's one upside to living in a permanent winter. There's snow everywhere.

This little clearing in the woods that he took used to have a tent pitched in the center, grass and trees and wildflowers all around.

The tent is long gone, having collapsed under the weight of the snow and ice that collected upon it. Scott replaced it with an ice hut of sorts, which he thinks he created while asleep because he's not exactly sure how he did it. It's kind of ugly, but it has four walls and a roof and a little hole for a door, and it works.

The grass and plants aren't really visible anymore, the ground covered in a thick blanket of snow. Scott's not sure how, but someone had managed to get him a good pair of elven work boots, insulated and sturdy, so that he can tromp through the six or seven inches of snow without much issue. He's cold, this old, patched coat not quite enough to block out the chill, but the gloves keep his fingers from feeling too much like ice and the hand-knit hat prevents a majority of the headaches that his frozen ears cause. He's not too badly off, to be honest. There's just so much . . . cold.

And if he could get it to melt, that would be great.

He can make ice and snow appear just fine. There's plenty of snow, and he can point and ice spikes will shoot up out of the ground, and he can picture a cube of ice and watch as it forms in front of him, but that just means that now he has a little pile of ice cubes and a ludicrous amount of spikes the size of a tree. He can't get rid of anything.

And sure, he has a modicum of control. He can form ice cubes, and spikes, or whatever. But he can't turn off the way ice and snow just grows around him, or the freeze that blasts from him when he waves his arms.

He's been here for two weeks, figuring absolutely nothing out, and he doesn't have much hope for the future.

It feels like there's a wall in his head, a literal barrier keeping him from finding the way to draw back the ice. He's spent hours, days, even, pushing and shoving and just sitting against this wall, trying to force it to work.

It won't give. It's exhausting, day-in and day-out, to try again and again and again as the ice and snow just build up around him.

"Scott!"

Jimmy.

They haven't really . . . talked. Of course, Jimmy turns up every day without fail, bringing with him food and supplies. He always stands on the fringe of the clearing, shares news of the camp, of their latest excursion, of the fight they have planned.

Scott never really says much. He doesn't know how to respond, and Jimmy always leaves with his shoulders sagging the slightest bit.

What is he supposed to say?

I mourned you. I cried for you every day, because I knew I'd never see you again. I attended your funeral. I comforted your sister. I wore a depressing mimicry of what we once wore together, covering myself in the same darkness that took you. I lost you.

You didn't die, you survived, and I still lost you.

How is he supposed to tell Jimmy that what hurts more than anything about this situation is that he never tried to disabuse Scott of the notion that he was dead?

He thinks he still loves Jimmy. Their hearts were made for each other. They've been through too much together to just let go of everything they had.

But there were forty-two of the worst days of Scott's life, in which Scott believed his betrothed to be dead. He can't forget that. He can't pretend that Jimmy even attempted to contact him.

His mind always returns to that. Why didn't he? What reasons has he given, other than his ominous “it wasn't time yet”? Why?

And now they're here, in this horribly awkward phase where they haven't even discussed whether or not they're still an item (Scott's desperately in love with Jimmy but he isn't sure he can even stand to see him it hurts so much) or if that's even something they want to pursue right now (Scott wants so badly just to hold his hand but he can't let himself hurt Jimmy).

"Hey, Scott!"

Scott straightens (his wings shudder under the weight of the ice coating them, but none of it cracks), shakes the snow off his hands, and turns, stomach twisting.

Jimmy is standing there, a good ten feet away, leaning out from between the trees.

It's just Jimmy. Hair still too long, beard still obstinately there, an anxious smile on his pockmarked face.

Doesn't he have anything better to do, rather than visit Scott every day?

Jimmy holds up a bundle of cloth.

"I brought some bread and . . . venison, I think? I forgot to ask what it was. Does that sound good?"

Scott tugs his scarf up a bit higher on his cheeks. "Sounds fine," he calls back, voice muffled by the fabric.

Jimmy tosses it; Scott catches the bundle, grimaces when it frosts over the moment it touches his hands.

"What are you cooking?" Jimmy asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Scott glances back at his little pot on the dying coals.

"Just porridge," he says. That's all Jimmy gave him yesterday, after all. The grain for whatever chunky porridge it is that they eat at the camp all the time.

"That's . . . that's cool," says Jimmy. Dear Aeor, he looks so unbearably awkward. What does he want?

Thankfully, Jimmy gets straight to the point, no more hobbling around small talk.

"We're going on a mission," he says, the words coming out in puffs of frozen air. "There's a village about a day's walk from here, the largest we've gone for yet. They're going to be a huge asset to our rebellion."

Scott nods a couple of times. "Okay. How long until you're back?"

Jimmy chews on his lip—the way he always does when he's anxious, or isn't sure how to approach a problem. "That's . . . well, I wanted to see if you would come, actually."

It takes Scott a few seconds to process that, but when he does, he almost laughs out loud.

He's out of his mind if he thinks Scott will risk something like that. He can't control this! He's had to separate himself from the rest of the camp because there's a ten foot radius of winter wonderland that appears around him!

He has to be joking.

"You have to be joking," Scott says.

Jimmy shrugs. "I talked about it with the others that are coming on the mission, and they're all fine with it. If it makes you feel better—"

"No, I'm dangerous—"

"—we can walk apart from you, and—"

"—you don't understand, I hurt Gem, I'll—"

"—was just thinking that it can't be good for you to—"

"Jimmy, I said no!"

And childishly, to emphasize his point, Scott stamps his foot.

Ice crackles along the ground like a whip, shooting up in little spikes, a ten-inch wall down the middle of his little clearing.

It stops just short of Jimmy, the last little spike rising just inches from his boots, and Scott almost wants to go and shove him out of the way because Jimmy doesn't even move!

Doesn't he have any sense of self-preservation?

Jimmy doesn't seem scared when he looks up at Scott. He just seems sad.

"That's why I can't," Scott bites out, wrapping his arms around himself. His scarf is slipping, nose exposed to the cold. "I'm not safe. I don't want to hurt someone."

"Okay. Can I explain myself, though?"

Before Scott can give an answer, Jimmy takes a small step forward, boot crunching on snow.

Scott takes a step back.

"We know how to keep ourselves safe," he says. "Most of the people here escaped terrible conditions where one wrong move could kill them. They know how to recognize threats and keep a safe distance. It wouldn't even be an issue to travel with you."

Scott wants to argue, but Jimmy takes another step. Scott quickly steps back, swallowing down the fear that rises in his throat, burning like bile.

"We would travel kind of separately, and it wouldn't even be a long journey. Two days at most, I think. So the main group would stick together, and you would stay within sight off to the side. We usually move quietly, so you wouldn't miss out on conversation or anything."

Okay, that's probably what Scott would do if they were forced to travel. He's pretty sure that he can cause ice issues outside of the ten foot radius, if he tries, but it doesn't automatically happen. Travel plans like that might actually work.

Which doesn't mean they're good. They aren't. They just might work.

"This village has a lot of soldiers, from what we can tell. Way more than there ought to be. They're beginning to figure out our game. We usually wouldn't go for someplace so risky, but there's so many people there. If we freed them, we could easily add two hundred to our able fighters."

Is Jimmy stupid?

"It's a trap," Scott says, pointing out what seems obvious. "Why would they have so many Mythlanders there if not to wait for you?"

Jimmy scoffs. "We know it's a trap," he says. "That's why we want you. We want to avoid fights if possible—and if you were there, we would have a really decent chance of getting in and out without losing anyone."

"You're forgetting that I can't really control this," Scott says icily, and as if to match his tone, it spontaneously begins to snow. "I'm just as likely to hurt one of you."

"We just need you to make it as cold as possible. The Cod will survive—we're pretty good with cold temperatures. But humans are a bit more sensitive to that kind of thing. So we thought—if you could freeze over the village, then all the guards would go inside and we could sneak everyone out!"

That. . . .

That is a monumentally idiotic plan.

Scott blinks several times, just to make sure it really is Jimmy in front of him and not some hallucination induced by so much time alone.

"Or we could not do that," he says. "Just a suggestion."

Jimmy laughs a little. "I kind of figured you'd say that," he says. "But it's worth a shot, right? And if it doesn't work, we can go back to camp and figure out something else. No harm done, right?"

"Other than the possible harm that my very presence could cause," Scott says. "Do you really think that staying ten feet away while traveling would work? Just because that's my snowglobe radius doesn't mean anyone is safe outside of it."

He re-crosses his arms, waits for Jimmy to meet his eyes.

Jimmy's quiet for a long time, looking around at the unintentional ice spikes and piles of snow. Long enough that Scott turns away, tosses the sack from Jimmy into his ice hut.

That's that, then. He and Jimmy aren't going to talk about any of their real issues. Jimmy's so focused on this inconsequential rebellion of his that he won't even think about the fact that Xornoth may be controlling the world by now. Gem might be dead—literally any of them could be dead, Lizzie or Shubble or Joel all could have fallen—and Xornoth has control of half of the empires or all of them. And the only way to stop him didn't work.

Yet all Jimmy will even give thought to is his stupid little rebellion.

"I know it's hard," Jimmy says, voice awkwardly too-loud, rousing Scott from his thoughts. "It's really, really hard. I know that you don't trust yourself, and that you're hurting, and there's so much tangled up between us that I don't really understand but I know isn't making any of this easier for you. But I know you want to get better. I know you, Scott. And I know you will do everything in your power to keep those people safe."

Scott doesn't say anything, blinks back the sudden tears. He doesn't need this. He doesn't need Jimmy telling him what he feels.

Even if he's right.

He would do everything to keep the others safe.

He just can't guarantee that it would work.

"I trust you," Jimmy says firmly. "We trust you. I wouldn't have even brought it up if I hadn't cleared it with everyone else. And if it doesn't work, I'll never ask you to do it again. But please, Scott. If not for the people suffering, do it for me."

He doesn't owe Jimmy anything.

As a ruler, he pledged to defend his people, and he failed. What about when he fails again? Will he even be able to live with himself?

Will he be able to live with himself if he doesn't try?

In the grand scheme of things, a rebel attack to evacuate citizens of a small town in the Codlands is absolutely nothing. It will likely not contribute at all to the ending of the war.

But it's somewhere to start. Jimmy's always talking about how if they're still alive after everything, they ought to be doing something good with it. If he wants to eventually try to launch some sort of hopeless attack on Xornoth, he has to start somewhere. He has to figure this ice stuff out.

"Okay," he says eventually, reluctantly. "I don't . . . I don't want to. I don't think it will go well."

"If you can't trust yourself, you can trust me," offers Jimmy, and Scott grimaces at the hope in his voice.

He doesn't respond.

He wants to trust Jimmy. He wishes nothing had ever broken the trust that was there.

He isn't sure what did break it. He can't exactly blame Jimmy for not dying.

"I'll come get you tomorrow around midmorning, okay? We're hoping to arrive when it's dark the next day, then just have you freeze it overnight and get the Cod out before sunrise. Sound good?"

Scott shrugs. "It's your plan," he says. "Does it sound good to you?"

Jimmy doesn't respond, glancing over his shoulder. "I need to go finish prepping," he says when he turns back. "Take care. I . . . I'll see you tomorrow."

Scott doesn't move (frozen to the spot, he thinks idly), just watches Jimmy go, picking his way back between the trees.

What has he agreed to?

The journey goes exactly as Jimmy had laid out. Jimmy travels in a band of thirty-two people (Scott counts them during one of their fifteen minute rests), all able young Cod, some with cobbled-together armor or swords, others with nothing but the clothes on their back and improvised weapons. Scott sees two hand-made slings, one little hunting bow, and a couple of large branches shaped into clubs. All from afar, of course.

Scott walks a good thirty or forty feet away from the group, shying away whenever someone accidentally veers a little close. They always hurry back to the others, shivering and rubbing their arms.

Jimmy, of course, comes close on purpose. He keeps trailing along on the edges of the group, giving Scott terribly hopeful glances.

Scott just keeps his eyes on the snowy ground before him and wishes he could figure out how to talk to him.

Does he even want to talk to him?

Of course he does. Of course he wants to talk to his . . . to Jimmy.

He just can't. He can't risk hurting him. He can't risk getting hurt.

And soon enough, they've arrived at the town.

Scott has somehow managed to avoid hurting anyone, though one Cod only narrowly avoids getting stabbed by a flying ice spike when Scott gets startled by a bee.

He isn't sure how powerful he is, just that he's managed to tie it down and lash it to himself. But Scott, more often than not, feels like there's a thin door being battered and blown by a terrible snowstorm, ice seeping in through the cracks, and soon enough he'll have to try to open the door just a little bit. He can only imagine it blasting it open and sending bursts of unstoppable power out, forever unable to be closed.

Jimmy approaches him as Scott finishes up eating a cold supper, and even though it's dark Scott knows it's Jimmy because he knows Jimmy, he knows his habits and his tendencies and just weeks ago that had been painful, precious knowledge and now it means nothing significant.

"We're about ready," Jimmy says, not looking at Scott. He's looking out over the ridge that they're hidden behind, toward the town below. Scott wants to shake him, scream at him, drag him down to the ground. Doesn't he know he'll be seen? That his outline against the darkening sky will be obstinately visible?

"I'll take you down there in about a half hour. Then you just need to drop the temperatures to about freezing, all right? We'll do everything from there."

Scott doesn't answer. He doesn't have anything to say.

You left me you died to me I lost you and you were here. You were here this whole time and I've been hurting, and I'm still hurting and you just don't care. Why didn't you comfort me? Why aren't you helping me? Why won't you listen to everything I can't say?

Jimmy doesn't say anything, either, despite Scott's silent cries. He just stands there awkwardly, then gives Scott a nod and jogs back over to the main group.

Scott flexes his fingers in their gloves, blows on his hands, relishes the momentary warmth that brings him. He's always so cold these days. For good reason, of course—and despite all that, elves naturally run colder than humans, with the climate of their dwelling—, but he doesn't have to like it.

How is he meant to freeze an entire town without accidentally doing more damage than intended?

At this point, Scott has absolutely zero doubt that he'll be able to freeze the town. Piece of cake. The problem is drawing back the power after it's been extended.

It doesn't help that he doesn't know what he's doing. It doesn't help that all he's done for the past two weeks is try to not explode. He hasn't actually learned anything about control, or using the magic to his advantage.

And now he has to save a town. Use this untamable magic in moderation.

He's going to fail so badly.

And yet, when Jimmy returns not long later, Scott readjusts the little knapsack that hangs off his shoulder and sets off around the ridge, following Jimmy from a safe distance.

They skirt around their little camp on the side of the ridge, giving the refugees a wide berth so as to avoid getting any of them mixed up in Scott's personal snowstorm. That wouldn't help anything about this situation.

The ice hasn't been unfreezing behind him, either. That's been kind of concerning. He'd assumed, back in his little patch of the forest, that the ice hadn't gone away because he hadn't gone away. But now there's just a path of frost and snow through the long grasses of the outer Codlands, a trail leading directly to the rebel camp.

Scott really hopes it melts with time. It wouldn't be good to have one of fWhip's flying fish spies follow it and discover the camp.

He gets pulled from his thoughts by necessity as they approach the town, Jimmy making sure to keep them to the shadows, out of range of the torchlight from the perimeter guards. They crouch down behind some bushes (Jimmy beckons Scott closer, miming something about talking, and Scott reluctantly settles down close enough beside him—about five feet away, the closest to anyone he's been in weeks), peering between the brambles. Sure enough, there's more guards than a small border town ought to have—Scott counts at least four that patrol by the edge of town in the five minutes that they sit there and watch.

"We need to give my people a few more minutes, probably," Jimmy whispers, glancing up at the sky. The moon hasn't risen yet, so Scott's really not sure what he's checking. "But if you want to start the freeze, you can."

Right. Freezing an entire town.

Scott reaches inside himself for . . . for something. He isn't sure what. It's not like there's anything in there. Just his aching heart.

He legitimately feels fatigued from holding back the magic the best he can, but he doesn't know how to let go. He doesn't have any sort of point of reference for this. What is he supposed to do?

After several long minutes of indecision, of pulling at different parts of his mind to see if something just releases the switch, Scott gives up on figuring it out and just pushes.

He's not sure if the dam is broken, but a little flurry of snowflakes shoots out of his hands and he imagines the town, water in barrels and canals slowly freezing over, the temperatures dropping, the night air becoming frigid and biting.

Why does it have to be him?

"Nice," Jimmy whispers beside him. Scott blinks, looks up.

It's snowing. All across the town is snowing.

He didn't mean to make it snow. He only wanted to make it cold.

And it is cold. His fingers through their gloves are aching, the exposed skin on his face burns as a gust of freezing wind blows past.

"Was that too much?" he whispers, twisting his hands together. "I didn't mean for—"

Jimmy breathes out a near-silent laugh, gives him a grin. "I knew you could do it. I knew it!"

He made Jimmy happy.

Despite all the confusing hurt keeping them apart, that still makes Scott's heart squeeze in the best way possible.

The guards glance around at the fat flakes of snow, clearly confused. There's some shouting person to person, and within torchlight on the edge of town, a cluster of guards gather, rubbing their hands together and stamping their feet and pointing back to the center of town as they talk.

There's no way this will work. If his guards at Rivendell left their posts because it got a little cold, they would be in severe trouble with their captain.

But as Scott watches, one by one, the guards begin to trail away, heading toward what Scott assumes to be the inn.

There's no way. There's no way this is actually working. This can't be real.

Jimmy takes in a near-silent breath, lets it out in a low, loud, whoop/whistle. It sounds strikingly like the call of an owl that Scott has heard occasionally in these parts, late at night.

When did Jimmy learn bird calls?

It's a small thing. It's not even anything that matters. It's tiny and unimportant and Scott really shouldn't be close to tears right now.

It's like he doesn't even know Jimmy. He doesn't want to be upset, but he can't seem to stop it.

Jimmy still loves him and wants him; Jimmy wants them to be in love again.

How is it so hard?

Every guard has gone inside now, the town quiet.

The snow continues to fall, slow, drifting gently onto a peaceful street, becoming a picturesque winter scene.

Yet staring at it doesn't bring Scott peace. He only grows more and more anxious, eyes scanning from point to point, as though he might miss the operation entirely if he only watches the snow.

And after five or so minutes of waiting, Scott sees, past the falling snow, camouflaged people stealing through the streets, peering in windows, tapping lightly on doors.

The Cod residents are quick and quiet to answer, which is absolutely absurd.

It's actually working.

The other day, this was the most ridiculous plan Scott had ever heard. He never would have believed that any part of it would actually come to any sort of fruition.

And here they are.

He continues to watch as entire families sneak out of houses, glancing left and right before stepping out into the street, some bundled up in layers of clothing and others with nothing but a thin tunic protecting them from the weather.

The rebels move in phases, ushering out first this side street, then that one, making sure each sector of the town doesn't leave without instruction.

Scott watches, and something within him marvels.

This is the work. This had seemed so inconsequential to him just days ago—there are much larger things to worry about, after all—but now he can see how this had become Jimmy's whole world.

There's so many of them. They're moving house-by-house, sending one group before beckoning the next, but the streets are still close to packed.

There's a woman, hands covering her mouth as tears stream down her face, following a group into an alley. A shirtless man, carrying two children at once, his shirt draped over the both of them. A child—a tiny slip of a girl, surely not older than eight, clinging to her parent's leg, the torchlight from the abandoned guard posts illuminating her face just enough that Scott can see a hand-shaped bruise spanning her cheek.

The people are malnourished, injured, terrified. They’ve been desperately praying that someone will rescue them, someone will come along and deliver them from this darkness.

And here Jimmy is, a shining light, their once-dead king returned to save them specifically, as unimportant as they feel they are.

It makes sense. Jimmy's forces aren't strong enough to take on Xornoth, so why should he even focus on something so unattainable?

This, while not easy, is doable, and something that both strengthens his numbers and helps his people.

Scott gets it. It's about hope. It's about remembering the lost. It's about finding strength and life in this world of corruption.

"Scott," Jimmy whispers, pulling him from his realization.

Scott blinks, looks over at him. Jimmy's teeth are chattering, his nose pink, his lips pale of color. His arms are clutched around himself, doing nothing to hide the way his entire body trembles.

"You can reel it back in, a bit," Jimmy says, clearly going for humor, but the words fall flat when his lips can't even twitch up in some semblance of a smile.

Oh.

Scott looks back to the town, and now, he doesn't just see the wonder of it all. He sees how slowly everyone is moving, the way the rebels look up fearfully at the quickening snow, the way none of them are wearing any proper winter gear.

It's cold out. It's very, very cold out. It's definitely far below freezing, icicles already hanging from buildings, a thick layer of snow blanketing the ground.

It's too cold. He sees, all at once, three children collapse, and their caretakers pick them up but can barely keep going.

It's too much. It's too cold, so cold that a man stumbles and falls, and those around him are too cold to stop and help.

"Scott, make it stop," Jimmy whispers with increasing urgency. "It's too cold. Scott, stop."

He can't stop.

The door has been opened, and Scott doesn't know how to close it.

He can't make it warm up, he can't even stop it from getting colder. The night sky is growing steadily darker as more clouds roll in, the snow falling harder and faster—there's actual ice spreading, visibly spreading, crawling out from the bushes where he and Jimmy are crouched, heading toward the town and Scott can't stop it—

"Scott—"

"I can't stop it," breathes Scott, and it's nothing but the truth. He can't just turn it off, that isn't something he knows how to do—he doesn't know how to do anything, this is a curse and he hates it and nothing will ever be right again!

"I can't stop it," he says again, louder, voice shaking. "I can't—I can't do it, I told you I can't, I don't know how—"

"Just try," Jimmy says over him, hands held up. "I know you can do it, I trust you—"

"Just—just stop!" Scott bursts out, finally, all those terrible emotions rising to his tongue. "You keep saying—you keep—you were dead, you left me and you don't get to—you can't tell me what I can and can't do, I don't—"

"Scott," Jimmy says, something horribly placating in his voice, and it sounds just like the old Jimmy, just like the one who died—

Scott stumbles up, backing away from Jimmy. He can't—he doesn't want—this is all too much, too much, he's ruined everything and it's too much—

Jimmy stands as well, taking a couple of steps toward him. "Scott, I'm going to touch you, okay?"

"No!" Scott bites out. The wind is whistling in his ears, he can barely hear Jimmy over it—he can barely see Jimmy through the snow, there's so much of it, and Scott can't make it stop! He can't fix this! "Don't touch me, I don't—I don't even know you, I'll hurt you!"

"Scott—"

"Get—away—" Jimmy's just coming closer, one step at a time, and Scott doesn't want him, that's not his Jimmy, he doesn't want to hurt him—

The storm is rapidly getting worse, the snow beating down on his face with little pellets of ice, he had never meant to make it snow let alone storm, he's cursed, he's forever cursed, there's no way he can make things right, there's no way anything will ever be right again—!

And then there are arms around him.

Jimmy squeezes him tightly, good pressure and tightly enough that his brain is forced to settle into a more peaceful state, despite his surroundings.

His lover is warm against him, and Scott instinctively buries his face in the crook of Jimmy's shoulder where it belongs and perfectly fits.

Something inside doesn't really click into place. It doesn't quite work. It's close, but it's just not where it needs to be.

But it does slide together nicely, and Scott somehow finds a slippery grasp on the cold and tugs it back in.

He hadn't even been able to have this before. He hadn't even been able to feel a way to control it, let alone actually take hold.

But there's some kind of power positively radiating from Jimmy, something that Scott can feel and recognize in this entirely new world of magic that he never even knew existed.

It's got to be Jimmy's love.

Jimmy loves him so so much that it overpowers the curse.

And Scott, for the first time in weeks, feels warm.

He feels warm. Jimmy's here, his arms wrapped around Scott, and he feels warm.

A sob rises in his chest.

This is his Jimmy.

His Jimmy is holding him, and loves him, and is so very warm.

"There we go," Jimmy whispers into his hair, voice slightly muffled. "Not too much, now. We still need a little bit of snow coming down."

Right.

Scott doesn't think he has the emotional capacity to pay attention to anything but Jimmy, but he loosens his grip on the ice just a little, enough that the snow doesn't stop.

The sob bursts out of his mouth, and Scott clutches Jimmy as close to him as possible.

His Jimmy is here. He's actually here.

And Scott can feel his fingers again, warmth washing over every part of his body.

They don't move for a long time. Jimmy watches the exodus over his shoulder as Scott cries into his chest, letting all of the emotions that he's been feeling for the past two months pour out onto Jimmy's coat.

They stand there, and Scott sobs.

After too long, long enough that the tears on Scott's face become more sticky than wet (they aren't freezing on his cheeks, like they've been doing, and isn't that just a miracle), Jimmy pulls away.

Scott feels his tenuous control slip from his grasp—too cold again, too cold—and he launches himself back into Jimmy's arms.

"Don't go," he chokes out.

"Okay."

"Please . . . I can't—I can't do this without you."

"Okay."

Scott takes in a shuddering breath. He's stronger than this. He can do this.

"Do you think you can stop the snow?"

Scott nods, his nose wiping across Jimmy's coat. Then, with a mustering of what little strength he has, he shuts that imaginary door.

It almost doesn't shut. Scott strains against it in his mind, inch by inch, but eventually it clicks shut.

He can't lock it. But holding to Jimmy keeps it shut, and Scott doesn't plan on letting go.

Jimmy's right here.

Jimmy is real.

He's alive.

"You died," Scott sniffles, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. "You died!"

"I know," Jimmy murmurs, sounding absolutely heartbroken. "I know. I'm here."

"You weren't there, though. You—you left me! I was so—so alone!"

"I know," Jimmy says again. "I'm so sorry, Scott. I'm so sorry."

Jimmy's crying too, Scott realizes. They're in snow up to their knees, in full view of the town, and they're both just standing here crying.

Scott. . . .

Scott doesn't really care.

His heart, broken by the weight of the grief hanging so heavily on it, is finally beginning to heal.

That's more important than anything else around.

Scott doesn't let go of Jimmy's hand the entire trip back.

They walk back to the camp, bringing up the rear of a long crowd of refugees. Scott's trail of frost is barely-there, and he never feels like he's a danger to anyone while Jimmy is at his side.

They arrive back at the camp almost three days later, the group slower-moving with the addition of a good three hundred people. The camp is thrown into chaos, more than doubled in size, and Jimmy's pulled every which way by every person possible as they try to make arrangements and adjustments on such a large scale.

Scott stays with him through it all. He presses himself into Jimmy's side during a hurried meeting about leadership for splitting into several camps; he clings to him while Jimmy directs new refugees to food; he holds his hand through long hours of pointing people this way and that.

Jimmy doesn't end up being forced to bed until past midnight, a young Cod practically pushing him and Scott to his tent. Jimmy goes reluctantly, walk stumbling and eyes bloodshot. Scott can't imagine that he looks any better—he can feel how oily his hair is, limp after being literally frozen for so long, his wings unkempt and dragging. He can barely stay upright, and relief floods him when they finally reach Jimmy's tent.

Jimmy collapses onto his bedroll without even taking off his boots or unbuckling the enchanted sword on his back, and Scott is just able to manage loosening the laces of his own boots and kicking them off before he falls down beside him.

"There's still so much to do," mumbles Jimmy, and instinctively, they wrap around each other, knees slotting perfectly and arms weaving just right.

It's like nothing changed.

It's like everything is right again.

"I missed you," Scott whispers, though his throat threatens to choke on the words.

He lost Jimmy. Forty-two days of mourning, of the worst torture he's ever been subjected to.

He lost him, and it still hurts. Everything still feels so terribly hopeless, so dark, and Jimmy forsook him for so long.

But he's back. He's here, and alive, and through his thin tunic under the hilt of the sword Scott can feel a new scar just below the nape of his neck (Jimmy shudders as his fingers trace it, but doesn't pull away) but he's alive and in Scott's arms.

He died. Jimmy died, and it must have been terribly traumatic for him in ways that Scott hasn't even considered.

But by some miracle, he's here. He's okay.

He is, isn't he?

"Are you all right?" Scott asks quietly, seized by the need to know that his love is well. He doesn't know the specifics, not really—but Jimmy said he'd been stabbed several times, and that can't have been easy to recover from—and Scott had made it awfully cold earlier, and he knows that some of the refugees suffered because of it, and Jimmy only had that thin coat on.

Jimmy doesn't respond, though, breathing slow and even, and Scott eventually relaxes, assuming that he's asleep. He can get his answer tomorrow, after all. He can fuss over him all he wants.

Scott honestly can't believe that he let himself drift so far from Jimmy. He let his feelings of abandonment and despair and everything else get in the way of being here, holding his beloved, giving him comfort and receiving it in bucketloads.

He was so wrapped up in losing Jimmy the first time, he almost lost him again.

Then Jimmy shifts in his arms, sighs a little bit. "I'm okay," he finally replies. "That's what you asked, right?"

Scott nods against his shoulder, and Jimmy lets out a low chuckle. "My good ear is pressed to the pillow, sorry," he says by way of explanation. "Couldn't quite hear you. Are you okay?"

Is he okay?

He's not physically injured. And he's not quite so cold—with Jimmy's love warming him, he can keep a lid on the ice magic, stopping it from spreading beyond his fingertips.

Everything about this situation still hurts. Everything's still so terrible, and there's no way to overcome it.

But Jimmy's here now, and he loves Scott.

And Scott loves him.

"I'm all right," he says eventually, before burying his face deeper into Jimmy's shoulder.

And he thinks, for the moment, that it's true.

Scott dreams that night.

He dreams of a plateau, ice, wind whipping dark robes every which way.

He dreams of his hand tightening around a sword hilt.

He dreams of a crown upon his head.

Inka kuuna ndikitá'ána.

It's just barely past dawn, and a young girl with mousy brown hair and scales smattered across her face like freckles is wandering down to the river to collect water.

It's a bit of a long walk, but Lithi doesn't mind—it's preferable to the walk back, when the empty waterskin strapped to her back will be filled with water.

She's a girl forced to grow up too fast, barely in her teens, yet made to take up her mother's armor and flee into exile.

But she doesn't cry. Lithi never cries, and it's a point of pride for her. Her peers seem to be constantly crying, after all. She isn't going to let herself be perceived as a weak little girl. Not after everything her people have been through.

The ground beneath her bare feet becomes squishy, pockmarked with little puddles of water, and she veers right. Her course has taken her too near the slow, swampy portion of the river, and while she longs to go splash about in the swamp, she knows that the water there isn't clear enough to use back at camp. Not to mention, the Codfather wants them to avoid the swamps, for some reason.

She misses the marshes of home. They all do—Cod aren't made to spend all their lives on land.

She knows the swamp misses them, too.

And that reminds her of the folk song that her mother taught her, and her mother's parents taught her, and their parents taught them.

So, while the girl walks, she sings.

The sun is brighting,

Children, come home!

The grass is sighing,

Children, come home!

Where the water's dark and deep

There her children will find sleep

The marsh is calling,

Children, come home!

The frogs are croaking,

Children, come home!

The critters woken,

Children, come home!

Where the water's dark and deep

There her children will find sleep

The marsh is calling,

Children, come home!

The birds are singing,

Children, come home!

The trees are ringing

Children, come home!

Where the water's dark and deep

There her children will find sleep

The marsh is calling,

Children, come home!

The fries are playing,

Children, come home!

The wind is saying,

Children, come home!

Where the water's dark and deep

There her children will find sleep

The marsh is calling,

Children, come home!

The marsh is calling,

Children, come home!

The night is falling,

Children, come home!

Where the water's dark and deep

There her children will find sleep

The marsh is crying,

Children, come home!

She reaches the riverbank as the song comes to a close, singing the last line over and over again, in a myriad of styles and keys.

She shrugs the waterskin off her shoulders, clumsily dips it into the water. The riverbank is uncomfortably dry and sandy between her toes, which long for the mud of home.

Why can't they go to the swamp? Not that she would ever rebel against their Codfather, but she just wants to feel at peace again.

The waterskin isn't totally full, but she draws it up out of the water and ties it closed, arms shaking, straining to hold it up. And now she has to make the long walk back to camp with this heavy load, the leather straps cutting into her shoulder blades with every step.

So maybe she dawdles by the river. Maybe she dips her fingers into the water, swishes it around.

It's that distraction, perhaps, that changes everything.

Because had Lithi not lingered, she wouldn't have seen the glimpse of bright green caught under a rock in the water. She wouldn't have levied up the rock, pulled loose the thing. She wouldn't have held up the sodden leather bag, beautifully embroidered with a bright green cod and a sky blue stag.

And most importantly of all, she wouldn't have opened the bag to find a thin, Oceanic book, nor caught a glimpse of gold shimmering in the silty mud beneath where the bag had lain.

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accidentally-in-fictional-love · 25 days

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📖🤹‍♂️🔞, pretty pleeeaasee ?

Collared But Untethered - Abner Krill/Reader

Warnings: No use of Y/N, gender-neutral reader, slowburn, slight exhibition (Belle Reve), touch-starved induced desperation, making out, sudden smut, handjobs.

Wordcount: 2970

Summary: Even with every personnel in Belle Reve questioning why you wanted him, you kept coming back for more so long as they kept letting you touch him just out of sight.

Notes: Even when I try to drabble I still can't resist the buildup cause I love him so much oop- This is the first request I've ever gotten/filled so here we gooooo :'D I hope you like it, thank you so much for sending something in 💗💗💗

You were 100% certain that everyone had caught on by now to what you two were doing, but it was hard to care when orange fabric was bunched under your hands and the sound of his poorly quieted voice was in your ear. Belle Reve was well known for its lack of care towards its residents, so at first you’d both assumed that someone would barge in at any second to tear you apart, ban you from ever returning, but you were going on your fifth visit now with no one disturbing you, so even if you weren’t as perceptive as you’d thought and they were watching on a camera you’d missed no one made it known.

You’d first seen him on TV, shakycam footage barely capturing him as he and the other prisoners briefly designated as ‘Heroes’ made quick work of the current bigger threat destroying the city, and the way his powers had lit up the area in a rainbow of colours had instantly drawn you in, made you forget all about the danger as you hid in your apartment and waited in terror for it to be over, trembling hands clasped together in front of your heaving chest as you prayed you’d be safe. He’d destroyed that threat singlehandedly the second he was sure no one else was in his way, the others chiding him in the footage as he’d closed up on himself and apologized, having forgotten their goal of taking the villain alive so he could join them in their home.

He was so unlike anyone you’d ever seen before, a timebomb of danger wrapped up in a polka-dotted bow, hands fidgeting and head downturned nervously while the destruction of what he could do showed all along the street up to where gory remains decorated the open main road.

As the reporter took over the submitted shakycam with her own live footage, people circled the villains to thank them, albeit keeping their distance even as they reached out to shake hands, pat backs, give gifts that would definitely be confiscated as soon as they returned. No one thanked him for killing their target, everyone too afraid of the gauntlets holding back bright lights and coloured dots, worried that he’d turn them on the crowd next even as the infamous Harley Quinn herself showed off the gun she’d stolen from one of the fallen policemen to a couple kids who’d wandered up to praise her without their parents’ permission.

That wasn’t fair at all, he’d needed some thanks too.

So you’d left your apartment and hurried down to them, the fight just a couple blocks away, the still burning circles in the buildings and pavement growing in number the further you got. They were already starting to get into the armoured vehicle that brought them there by the time you’d arrived, and you didn’t know his name so you could only call past the gathered guards making sure they didn’t run before he disappeared out of sight. He turned to face you, one of his teammates elbowing him to go when it became obvious that you were there for him; he walked back down the lowered ramp to approach, looking apprehensive that you’d want to talk to him when the others were right there, so you’d extended your hand to shake his, prove that you weren’t afraid but rather thankful for his help as you reached as far as you could between the two guards keeping you at a distance for your own safety.

The moment his hand touched your own you knew that you could never let him get away again.

Visitors to Belle Reve were always heavily inspected and supervised, no one ever allowed to meet face to face for fear of what could happen to either party as well as those around them, and they made that explicitly clear to you as you passed their inspections and were ushered down the hallway to the partitioned phones. The moment you told them that you were there for the Polka-Dot Man so they knew who to get they’d hesitated, turned halfway down the hallway to look at you like you were crazy, some weird thing to be studied for wanting to see him of all people. You’d just simply shrugged and told them you wanted to thank him for the other day.

He’d never had a visitor in all his time being there, and the moment he’d seen you holding the phone opposite of his own he’d gone red in the face, a mix of embarrassment for the continued support and obvious confusion as to why you’d sought him out a second time. It was cute, and while the conversation had been short, his voice low and answers coming out in single worded sentences as he thought about what to say, it still brought butterflies to your stomach until your time was up, your final question asking for his name before you were forced to hang up.

‘Abner…’ he’d told you, like he hadn’t said it in a long time. ‘Abner Krill.’

The second time you visited you asked for permission to talk to him face to face, as his voice barely carried over the phone and he had a tendency to forget he was holding it as he talked to the desk. Request denied, but they’d think about it for the right price, it wasn’t like he was going to escape his birdcage when it kept him safe from himself, the shiny collar around his neck stopping the kaleidoscope from painting the walls in cinders. That conversation had come easier, the guards getting bored and pulling out their phones as you talked about everything and nothing at all, his words flowing a little more freely.

The third time you’d gotten your request with the handing over of a few steep bills slid under the table, Abner looking around at the room before seeing you and smiling. There was a little more space between you compared to the phones but the wall was gone, and you almost missed his questions about your life as you watched his mouth speak, hands rubbing and fidgeting on top of cold metal in his persistent nervousness. The moment you’d started talking about yourself the guard watching over you had sighed loudly in annoyance and walked out, leaving the two of you alone to both of your surprise, the camera whirring in the corner telling you that they were still watching from afar at least.

You shook his hand again when time was up, and he trembled a little less as he stood before you, your bodies dangerously close for a quick moment before the guard rushed in to put a little space between you with an utterly confounded look shot in your direction.

The fourth time you looked around to see if there were more cameras than just the one over your shoulder before he was brought in, his eyes instantly brightening in your presence as they’d recently started to do. He looked more alive, his face less sunken like he was taking better care of himself so you wouldn’t worry, and you longed to hold him as the table became a deep crevasse between you. He wasn’t chained to it this time, they didn’t care enough and he knew better, he was well trained by now, and the moment you were left alone again you’d moved your chair to the empty space on the side, a little closer but not touching, testing the waters as you shot a glance to the camera to see if this was okay.

Nothing happened. No one came. Hands rested in sight as they reached but never touched, the crevasse a little smaller as the space between turned from feet to inches, then centimeters.

When your pinkies linked together it was like a bridge formed instantly, the two of you meeting in the middle as he closed his eyes and just breathed, completely calm as his free hand ran over his arm to make sure the gauntlets were gone, make sure he wouldn’t hurt you. He was touch-starved, that much was apparent as long fingers crawled over your own to create more points of contact, Abner fully holding your hand and forgetting that you were supposed to be talking. Your heart raced as you wanted more, wanted to see what other reactions you could pull from him if just this was enough to make him lean towards you, eager to invade your personal space, or perhaps invite you to invade his.

It was a space he guarded dearly, you’d learned as much over your visits as he told you about how the other inmates treated him, your touch so gentle compared to their punches, both of your chairs sliding over the floor as you closed the gap even more. Still no one came, your eyes going to the door to make sure they weren’t watching you through the wire-meshed glass to see what would happen next but the space on the other side was empty, the camera blinking red high above you as your legs made contact, a buzz of electricity shooting up your spine. He tried to pull away, surprised by his own brazenness, or maybe it’d been an accident since he was so much taller than you, but you refused to let him, your leg pressed into the cold table leg almost painfully as you pulled him right back. The knowledge that you wanted him close, wanted to touch him even though he could burn right through you in an instant without the collar controlling him, made his chest start to heave then, eyes searching your face for fear but finding none.

Your hand unlinked from his before sliding up his arm, feeling the way he shivered as you reached his elbow, his bicep, muscles tensing under loose fabric just out of sight, a sigh leaving his lips as your fingers carefully trailed over his collar up to his cheek. He leaned into you, slowly at first, like you might change your mind and pull away at any second, his eyes closed tight as chair legs scraped over the ground, the gap closing more and more as you stood, leaned in close enough to see the scars of his time in this place, the way his lips parted ever so slightly as he let out shaky breaths, how long his lashes were as they fluttered in anticipation of what you were going to do next.

The door opened before you could make that final leap, the men who rushed in looking just as confused to your actions instead of angry, and while they weren’t rough with you they did tease him all the way down the hallway as he tried to hide the fact that he’d wanted you in those last seconds, your face flushing as pure longing rushed right to your gut at the sight of something hidden behind shaking hands as he was led to the showers to cool off.

The fifth time you’d come in you’d stared down everyone you passed as they whispered and nodded in your direction, not caring as you headed for your visiting room, no one stopping you even as they shook their heads and questioned your life choices. They still let you wait by yourself, your heart pounding as he was brought in and the door was closed behind him, the guard locking it muttering to himself about how he didn’t get paid enough for this. Abner didn’t even get a chance to sit down as you stood up and grabbed onto his shirt, pulled him down to continue what you’d started with a chaste kiss, testing the waters as he let out a surprised noise against your mouth before it turned into a moan, his hands hovering over you as he tried to decide what to do.

‘Touch me,’ you told him as you parted for a breath, the end of the collar pressing into your own throat as he groaned and kissed you back, dry lips parting to let you in as you ran your tongue experimentally over his bottom one. His hands wandered all over you, touching whatever he could now that he knew you wanted him to, his back hitting the wall and the collar scraping against the brick as he arched against you wantonly. It was like the floodgates had been opened, touch-starved desperation making him want more before you were separated again, your body ready to follow his every command should he ask, wanting nothing more than to make him feel good before he was forced to go back to his solitude.

You palmed him over his pants and he keened needily, hips moving to feel you more before he stopped himself with a choked whine, he was asking too much too soon, surely you couldn’t want him that badly, surely now would be the time you’d come to your senses and see him like everyone else did. You nipped at his bottom lip, got him to look at you before you glanced up at the camera; it was facing the table, the two of you probably just in frame, so you led him to the corner directly underneath it, in its blindspot as you played with the hem of his pants.

‘Do you want this?’ you whispered, voice low so anyone outside wouldn’t hear, Abner’s eyes shut tight again as he nodded his head, slowly at first and then a little quicker as you made contact against his bare stomach. He was breathing so heavily, the growing tent just under where your hand rested making you lick your lips; they were bound to stop you before it got too heated but you could at least give him this, all your fantasies from the past month coming to life as you felt hot skin under your fingertips.

He sighed and let his head fall back, hands gripping you like a vice as you touched him, and you couldn’t help but wonder when the last time anyone else had touched him like this had been, if anyone ever had; it made you a bit jealous to think about the former, of someone else making him look this way before you, so you couldn’t help but selfishly wish you were the first as you wrapped your hand around him. His knees shook, he wasn’t used to it, your name falling from his lips as he started to buck desperately into your hand.

He was beautiful as his jaw went slack, so open with what he wanted as he held you close, your own pleasure building just from watching him come so easily undone like it was the strongest aphrodisiac. His quiet voice came in handy as he moaned out his desires, how good it felt, how he needed more, pleas to not stop sending shockwaves all the way down to your toes as the words started to cut off the closer he got. You felt your throat tighten as his tongue peeked out to wet his lips, needing to taste him again as you swallowed and leaned up to capture him in a deep kiss, his tongue dancing over your own and refusing to let you get away in such a lewd way that it made your head spin.

He didn’t last long between your kisses and your hand attacking him at the same time, his hips jutting with a broken cry of pleasure into your open mouth as he came into your fist, palm gathering as much as you could for his sake. You didn’t realize you were panting as well with how turned on you were as his expression softened into one of pure bliss, a need filling your gut and making you burn with desire unlike anything you’d ever felt before as you wanted more. You pulled your hand free, mouth watering as you felt the sticky substance leak through your fingers, Abner just staring at you through half-lidded eyes as you raised your hand to your mouth, tongue darting out to taste when the door suddenly opened, two guards rushing in.

‘Alright, that’s enough of that,’ one of them said, your fist held by your side as you were pushed out of the way, Abner letting out an actual whine at not being able to return the favour before he was dragged out the door. Once he was out of sight you were led to the nearest bathroom, the guard not fooled at all by your attempted nonchalance and letting you wash up, your hand shaking as you still felt his heat against your wet skin. You wouldn’t do anything about your own situation until you were home, the guard just shaking his head as you rejoined him and followed him to the front doors, the detour allowing you a glimpse of Abner as he walked down a connecting hallway.

Despite the cuffs around his hands and the collar around his neck he looked relaxed, free, not even reacting as one of the inmates passing by tried to insult him, sharp canines biting his lip as he just stared the men down. You grinned, proud of him as you walked out of sight of him again, the highly protected doors leading to the outside world coming into view moments later. You didn’t leave right away, turning to talk over your shoulder as your escort waited impatiently for you to go, a gleam in your eye as you stared into his mask.

‘I’ll be back again next week,’ you promised, everything that came with that unsaid but understood, and he sighed before giving you a shove, everyone around you already whispering about the day’s visit as you just grinned and walked out into the warm Louisiana sun.

#Ray's Readers #Ray's Requests #david dastmalchian #abner krill #Abner Krill x reader #literally woke up and instantly wrote this in a few hours I was so happy QwQ #as soon as I got to the actual smut I stretched and looked up and saw my Abner collection on my desk and just instantly started blushing lo #one of these days I'll write something short and without exhibition I swear I promise I can do it guys trust me #was listening to Dark Speed as I wrote this one that song is so damn good

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