Rise of the Guardians
Jack Frost/E Aster Bunnymund, Toothiana, Nicholas St North
Jack Frost is a teenager. He died when his hormones were going haywire, and now, suddenly, BOOM! Human Bunnymund. And he's, like, scorching hot. This will not end well.
Notes: Written for this prompt at the rotg kinkmeme.
1. continuing only a moment : fleeting
2. operative or recurring at every moment
Jack Frost is a teenager. He died when his hormones were going haywire, and he's extremely proud of himself that he hasn't gone mad from that alone (not to mention the three hundred years of not being seen, heard, or touched). So he's relatively used to the godawful timing his hormones have--three hundred years is a long time to be mid-puberty, okay?--but this, this is frankly ridiculous.
If push came to shove, he guessed he could say that Bunny was…well, really, no, he couldn't say 'hot' or 'attractive' because Bunnymund was a bunny, alright, with the ears and the fur and the twitching nose, but Jack supposes if he were a little more female, he would say 'cute.' Probably for all of the above reasons. But honestly, 'oh-my-god pinch-me-now I-just-creamed-my-pants smoking hot' never even crossed his mind. Until right now.
Apparently Bunny has a human form he can pull out for shits and giggles--or crises, whatever, Jack hadn't been paying that much attention when the overgrown rodent was explaining--and that human form seems to have shorted out something vital in Jack's brain. (Like that one bulb on a string of fairy lights that goes out and the rest of them follow--and then you can never find the goddamn thing to change it.) Because really, truly, honestly, Jack has never seen so exquisite a specimen of human perfection.
Bunnymund's skin is the dark brown of wet loam, with a deep reddish undertone. His hair is dark and thick, curling chaotically on his head and around his human ears, one enticing lock curled like an apostrophe along his forehead. He has the build of a swimmer: broad, muscular shoulders tapering into a trim waist, corded arms and solid thighs, chiseled pectorals and abdominals. His hands are long-fingered and elegant, artist's hands with paint speckling his fingertips and smudged along his knuckles. His ankles are surprisingly delicate--and really, his ankles, what, why is Jack even noticing that? And most damning: save for his bandolier and vambraces, Bunny is stark naked.
Jack is so caught up in gawking--wide eyes, open mouth and all--that he flies right into the wall.
Okay, so the thing is, the thing is...Jack’s been attracted to a lot of people. Taken a shine to them. It’s usually small things: the curve of a wrist after a particularly well-thrown snowball, the spike of snow-wet eyelashes against a cold-nipped cheek, the quirk of a lip or the angle of a jaw. And Jack’s pretty equal opportunity, really, both sets of equipment have their perks (heh, perks).
So the fact that he’s attracted to human Bunnymund? Not a big deal.
The fact that he brained himself on a perfectly solid and visible wall? Yeah, that’s embarrassing.
Embarrassment aside, Jack’s really not too good with emotions. It comes from being invisible and intangible for three hundred years. His closest friend was the wind, and not to knock the wind or anything, but they couldn’t really have long conversations. So it’s not Bunny’s unexpected hotness that blindsides him.
It’s the feelings.
Like he said, Jack’s not really listening when the other Guardians are discussing the maybe-not-crisis, but he does catch the part where Bunny concedes to transform into a human for a while. Jack sticks around because seriously, this promises to be hilarious what with those buck teeth and giant ears and how would those huge paws even translate into human?
Jack obviously forgets that for a pooka, Bunny is a damn fine specimen, and that as a pooka, he has a bit of control over the outcome of his transformation. Bunnymund has every right to be smug.
Not that Jack will ever admit that.
So the end result is a really attractive Bunny, and Jack is hit in the head—literally—with several realizations.
1) Their initial hostility has simmered down into a mutually enjoyable snarkfest.
2) Jack actually really does like hanging out with Bunny, even when they aren’t bickering, even when Bunny is just painting eggs and Jack is frosting patterns onto the river.
3) He spends as much time in the Warren as traveling around the world spreading winter, and more than in Santoff Clausen.
4) Bunny’s eyes are the same, green like spring and growing things, like the first shoots of leaves on the bare winter trees—
4a) Jack actually spends an inordinate amount of time staring at Bunny’s eyes.
Which leads to this conclusion: Jack really likes Bunnymund. Likes likes him.
This will not end well.
The thing about feelings is that, unexpectedly, they make all of Jack’s physical reactions so much more. He’s gotten pretty good over the years at heading off uncomfortable reactions, but Bunny is suddenly everywhere and Jack’s starting to develop some pretty serious bruises from how he’s turned into an empty-headed klutz overnight.
He suspects Bunny’s doing it on purpose. Jack swears the pooka wasn’t around so much before.
Jack does his best to ignore Bunny and his own body’s betrayal, because Bunny’s not always going to be human-shaped and when he’s not Jack’s fascination with the cords on his arms or the delicate shells of his ears or the way his nails are so perfectly buffed and rounded, as if he’d gone to a spa, will disappear. The boner that seems to be taking up permanent residence in his pants will disappear. Everything will be normal again. They’ll go back to bickering and practical jokes and there will be no more of this ridiculous arousal business.
Jack tries not to think about how disappointed he is at the thought.
They take care of the maybe-a-little-crisis, and then Bunnymund’s a rabbit-shaped pooka again. He’s got the huge ears and the buck teeth and the giant paws—not to mention the fur—but the strange thing is, Jack’s attraction doesn’t go away.
Now, instead of wanting to lick Bunny’s abs and nip at the veins in his neck which stood out so invitingly, Jack wants to run his fingers through soft-looking fur, scratch it backwards to see how Bunny will react, feel the obviously fit muscles that ripple under Bunny’s coat.
And he’s still running into things, like, all the time.
Only the fact that he really doesn’t need any more head trauma at this point stops him from bashing his head into the wall out of sheer aggravation.
“Jack, are you okay?” Toothiana asks. It sounds a bit perfunctory at this point, and Jack doesn’t blame her, the number of times she’s asked by now. Jack kind of growls and stalks off, completely ignoring the way he trips—just a bit—over his own feet when he sees Bunny’s ears swivel toward him.
He slams into his room, beyond fed up with his stupid body and his stupid hormones and his stupid everything, and while he’s at it, with Bunny and Tooth and North (who looks at Jack like he can see right through him) and the goddamn world. Jack only doesn’t throw his staff because the horror of Pitch breaking it is still too close, so he leans it against a corner and sets in to throw the biggest hissy fit ever thrown, guaranteed to put even the most bratty toddler to shame.
“Bit frustrated there, eh, Frostbite?”
Jack jumps, stumbles on the landing, and nearly falls over when he tries to whirl around. (Did he mention how annoyingly endearing he finds that nickname now? No? Well, it deserves saying. Because once it had annoyed the hell out of him, and how he’s only annoyed by how much he’s not annoyed.) He snaps, “Are you stalking me?”
Bunny smirks, the same smirk that he’s been smirking since Jack first ran into a wall. “Wouldn’t you like that.”
Just like that, Jack’s done. He’s just done.
“Well, I’m so glad to provide such consistent amusement for you, Bunny, really I am,” he says, biting. Bunny looks taken aback, but Jack’s on a roll, and he keeps going. “Because that’s my goal in life, to be the laughing stock of my best friend, I can’t really imagine a higher honor than being smirked at and mocked when my body decides to go haywire. I mean, it’s not like I could have used some bloody help—”
“Not like I would have appreciated some moral support, right, especially not from my best friend, especially when this is all his fault—”
“With your, your, your stupid curly hair and stupid long fingers and thick fur and the way you throw boomerangs and they always go where you want them to even when it’s hitting me in the back of the head, and, and my god why do you even need to know five kinds of martial arts, really, do you even know the meaning of overkill—”
“Coming from you, that’s rich.”
“And your stupid eyes, goddamnit, I don’t do poetry, okay, I just don’t, all my poetry is really stupid poetry and I have an image, Bunny, an image, and writing poetry to your stupid perfect eyes is not—shit.”
Bunny folds his arms over his (very muscular) chest, and looks the very definition of exasperated patience. “You done?”
Sulky, and not at all panicking, okay, not panicking, Jack just shifts on his feet and wishes he hadn’t put down his staff. Defenestration sounds awesome right now.
Bunnymund rolls his eyes, then reaches out to put his (very big) paws on Jack’s thin shoulders. Jack doesn’t flinch, but only just. Casual touches like this are still new. Bunny seems to sense the aborted movement and he softens, eyes going fond. He leans in, and Jack preemptively closes his eyes, but all Bunny does is touch his nose to Jack’s.
Jack opens his eyes, meeting Bunny’s far-too-close green eyes, and yes, they are just as beautiful up close as from afar.
“I love ya too, ya great cobber.”