
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/893313.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Rise_of_the_Guardians_(2012)
  Relationship:
      E._Aster_Bunnymund/Jack_Frost
  Character:
      Jack_Frost_(Rise_of_the_Guardians)
  Additional Tags:
      Smut, Masturbation, One-Sided_Relationship, Pining, Sexual_Fantasy
  Collections:
      Evil_Authors_Club
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-22 Words: 1029
****** Unmistakable Sound ******
by Scarecrowqueen
Summary
     Here he is himself; he can let down all walls, let the borders be
     breached. Here he can relax, here he can touch, here he can feel.
Notes
     So chapter 5 of Hope and Ruin is giving me a bit of trouble, sorry
     about the delay. Instead, for your patience, have some totally
     unrelated and standalone porn. :)
     Recommended listening: Thinking_of_You_-_A_Perfect_Circle
See the end of the work for more notes
The hour is late, back in Burgess. The hour may be anything from late to early
here, in the back of beyond Antarctica, where Jack has made his bed. Here,
cradled in the cold to end all cold, in a cavern of hollowed snow, where
neither sunlight nor moonlight can reach, here Jack lies. Here he has come,
laid himself down; stripped bare to the elements in the empty dark, clothes and
staff set aside in favour of the freedom of exposed flesh. Here he is alone,
perfectly, completely, surpassing the reach of even the most prying of eyes.
Here he is himself; he can let down all walls, let the borders be breached.
Here he can relax, here he can touch, here he can feel.
Jack traces the lines of his eyebrows with gentle fingertips, the bridge of his
nose, the curl of his lips. The first two finger of his left hand slip inside
to stroke along his tongue, to taste the whorls of his fingerprints, and drag
against even white teeth as they slip free. The damp fingers find his nipples,
one and the other, pinching, rubbing, bring both to tiny, hard points, tendrils
of shuddery sensations creeping through his stomach into his groin with every
twist and tug. Jack lets his head tip back, onto the bed of soft snow he’s
conjured just for this; eyes squeezed shut tightly against the nothingness
around him.
In his mind, he is not here. In his mind, the heat of the Warren unfurls around
him, the gentle emerald embrace of the grass beneath the expansive cerulean of
the wide, wide sky. Here, the wind tantalizes, glides against his skin, like
the touch of Bunny’s fur slides against his skin, heavy and warm and weighty
with the promise of things to come.
Jack’s right hand makes its way down, across his belly, twitching with need. He
palms the sharp angles of his hips, but skirts the secret, shameful places he
long desires to touch. His questing hand slips lower, running up and down
slender, hairless thighs, outside and in, testing, teasing. Jack is smooth,
mostly hairless save for the barest afterthought at his armpits and groin. Jack
was young, had died young, and would forever be young, frozen in the paradox
between youthful innocence and adult lusts. Sometimes, he contents himself with
childish wishes; fancies himself and Bunny to court carefully, slowly, with
sweet nuzzling kisses and coy hand-holding. Tonight, he courts fire instead,
passion and desire and caution to the wind.
Behind his eyelids, Bunny crawls above him, bearing him down into the evergreen
beneath them, urging Jack’s thighs wider to accommodate his own slim hips, Jack
rushes to oblige, letting his lover coax him open with nary a word, three wide
fingers parting his lips to hide themselves inside. The heat and scent of fur
make Jack dizzy, punch-drunk and contact-high, making animal noises into the
flesh and bone that fills his mouth, his heartbeat a relentless throb in the
back of his ears.
In the dark, Jack’s thighs fall open, his fingers returning to his lips,
wetting two, then three, suckling and licking with abandon, letting the
suggestive sounds fill the small space like poetry. Like this, Jack’s little
noises are muffled, the low moans and hitches in breathe that fall from plump
lips like a cadence silenced partly by the digits he laps at with an eager
tongue. Soon though, it is enough, and those fingers wander down, tracing a
damp trail along his sternum and navel, down past his cock, flushed and ready,
down to the most erotic part of himself.
In his fantasy, Bunny works him open steadily, patiently, ignored all of Jacks
pleading and begging, his wanton bucking and writhing. Bunny is stalwart,
dedicated, working Jack open until he sobs, aching for leverage that the Pooka
will not allow, fighting for a release his lover will not grant. When his lover
finally relents, finally cradles him into whipcord-strong arms and crawls up
into the safety of Jack’s body, Jack nearly dies with the joy of it. Moving in
ancient rhythm, rolling into Jack like waves into the shore, Bunny unknots him
and ties him back up in new patterns that only he could know; only he could
ever hope to untangle. Jack is delirious, unfettered and unfolded and lost and
found and desperate, so very desperate. When he comes, it’s less an orgasm and
more coming unmade, felling into a thousand little pieces that Bunny will
cradle with his careful, competent hands, keeping them safe to reassemble into
a brand new image, a tessellation of JackandBunny, they way they are meant to
be.
Jack’s fingers slide home one at a time, his own tight, cool clench against his
wandering digits more a promise than any true satisfaction. He shudders,
reaches further, burrows deeper, but nothing is ever quite enough, nothing
assuages the emptiness, nothing fills and spills over the way it is meant to.
He works himself regardless, right hand stripping his small, youthful cock,
plucking at the foreskin to stroke him thumb along the sensitive head beneath,
his own earnest attentions a mockery of the loving touches he sees in his
mind’s eye like a zoetrope. It’s so good but never enough, because his hands
are not soft-furred and warm and his fingers cannot split him open the way a
proper cock could. Jack pines and strokes and aches; he hovers forever on the
knife-edge between almost and ecstasy, dying to tip over but fearing the fall,
knowing that when he lands there will be no one to catch him.
In the dream, Bunny’s embrace is a beloved shackle, tying him to earth and
warm, to silence and stillness, his antithesis and everything he is meant to
hate, but loves with all his soul.
Jack’s blue eyes open into the nothing, the dream fading. In reality, Jack has
come alone, in the dark of a hidden space, the evidence of his passion sticky
against pale skin. Jack is cold and wild and vibrant and free; a creature of
ice and atmosphere, and never before has he so wished to be tamed.
End Notes
     Crossposted to my Dreamwidth and Fanfiction.net
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