Actually A Little Bit Poignant
Pitch Perspective II - The Armchair (Deleted Scene)

Based off this deliciousness, by ThatisLudicrous.

Rating: NC-17 (it’s 5000 words of porn basically)
Timeline: This is an AU Deleted Scene, but it would be set after chapter 16, and in North’s Workshop.
Pairing: PitchxJack / Blackice.

This is part of the Shadows & Light Series (i.e. From the Darkness We Rise and Into Shadows We Fall), and may not make sense without it!

I figured everyone could do with some Pitch, given that he’s currently MIA in the series! Remember these will - at some point - go up on AO3 (and *maybe* FF.net) but for now, this is the ONLY place you can read these! Feedback is love.

Summary: Jack decides to bug the hell out of Pitch, and Pitch decides that if he’s going to be interrupted, he might as well make the most out of the situation. Not that Jack particularly minds…

Pitch could feel him in the next room.

 Jack hyped up on nervous energy made it hard to concentrate. Fears swelled and crested and diminished and swelled again. It expressed itself as colours scattering through his mind and left him staring down at the pages of his journal, reading the same paragraph over and over again. Jack’s fear would diminish and Pitch would start again, writing out the robust lunar alphabet, following the same mental paths he’d wandered down so many times in the past, so many hundreds of years ago. They led him into deep focus, allowed him to open his mind to the light inside of himself, a challenge which had never been so difficult, as it had since he’d been depossessed.

 Just as he felt himself sinking deeper into trance, Jack’s fears crested again.

 Pitch’s fingers tightened on the fountain pen, and then he placed it and the journal down, carefully.

 Most of the time, he didn’t listen in on Jack’s fears because there were too many, because if he spent all his time listening to Jack’s fears, he wouldn’t have time for anything else. Some were strong enough to press through and reveal themselves, a split in the stream of colour that would rise up as sentences or images or some intimate knowledge; but for the most part they stayed contained as colours.

 Now he opened his mind, wondered what – in particular – was bothering him tonight. He mentally grasped the streams of colour, held them lightly, listened and waited to see what came through.

 …won’t be good enough…all those warriors and I’m nothing like…what if he changes his mind, people do that, people…

 Pitch’s eyes narrowed. It was the low level grind that Jack frequently ran through in his own head, but more intense this evening. What could have caused it? He didn’t think that the confines of the Workshop would have been enough on their own, but he couldn’t think of any event to trigger this back and forth either.

 What if he says no?

 Pitch shifted in his armchair. That came through loud and clear. He knew that Jack was thinking of him, felt his body warm in response, unbidden. Some warriors reacted to their internal darkness by becoming increasingly afraid of it, others reacted by becoming determined to wipe it out of existence, others became sadists. Pitch had hit the jackpot; he reacted to his ability to read the fear of others, to understand the darkness, by sometimes finding it a persistent aphrodisiac. It stirred his blood, left a palette of colour in his mind and body.

 On the one hand, he didn’t like the constant buzz of Jack’s fear, because he didn’t like it when Jack was hurting. On the other hand…

 Pitch  looked up knowingly when Jack knocked on his door. His fear was growing louder. Jack was anticipating rejection. Which meant he wanted something. Pitch’s fingers stroked the armrest absently. Jack wanting something was always intriguing.

 ‘Come in,’ Pitch called.

 There was a pause, and then the door opened a crack. Jack peered in, he paused when he noticed that the room wasn’t lit. Pitch supposed – to Jack – the room looked dark, but to him, it positively glowed from the light cast by his window. Jack stepped in and closed the door behind him. His fear turned from aquamarine to indigo. Pitch frowned. The darker it got, the less pleasant it was, the more muddled it became. Jack was very afraid.

 ‘Hey, so, do you always just sit in the dark like a creeper?’

 And, as always, Jack was very good at pretending as though he wasn’t afraid at all.

 ‘What do you want, Jack?’ Pitch said, smoothing his voice out. Jack’s fear bubbled up closer to the surface and he heard Jack take a deep breath. He was surprised when Jack walked directly over to him, stood by the coffee table where his journal and fountain pen rested.

 ‘Uh, a nightcap? It’s just- Hey, are you not wearing a shirt?’

 Pitch resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Jack had the concentration span of a very small insect.

 ‘I am not.’

 A corner of his mouth tilted up. A nightcap? Jack had never been particularly forward, not that he’d had many chances to find out just how forward Jack could be. But Pitch suspected that Jack preferred privileging his fear of rejection over taking chances with lovers. Pitch felt flattered, even as Jack’s fear skated through him, lending a deep blue aftertaste to his own thoughts. For Jack to even consider this… maybe they were making some sort of progress.

 ‘Maybe we could even things up a bit, and you could remove that sweatshirt of yours,’ Pitch said, smiling as Jack’s eyes widened. In the dark, Jack didn’t school his features as much as he normally did. Pitch found it endlessly appealing that Jack found it easier to be himself under the cover of darkness. It bemused him.

 He expected Jack to refuse, to demur, and was pleasantly surprised when Jack started to remove his sweatshirt. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his staff, and so Pitch took pity on him, leaned forward and eased it from his grasp. Jack paused, watched cautiously as Pitch hooked it over the back of the armchair. Jack blinked at it, and then pulled the rest of his sweatshirt off, baring himself to Pitch’s hungry gaze.

 Aside from the scar at his throat, Jack was mostly unscarred, untouched. It roused old pathways of darkness inside of him, but he quelled them. Jack was not like some of his other lovers. Not one to be cut and bled. That had been a different time, he had been a different person. But still… he couldn’t lie to himself. That slight form left him hungry and wanting.

 ‘Come here,’ Pitch murmured, and Jack stepped forward once, twice, still hesitant. He tensed when Pitch curved broad hands around his waist. Pitch gazed up at him, wondered how much he could get away with. Without any preamble he slid his hands down and hooked his fingers into the hem of Jack’s pants, tugging hard. One of Jack’s hands came up to rest on Pitch’s wrist, lightly, unsure. He could feel uncertainty there. A moment of indecision.

 Pitch ignored it. Jack’s insecurity around sexual matters was not nearly as worrying as his fear of being rejected. Besides, he wanted to sink teeth into Jack’s skin. Wanted to touch. Wanted him undone. If Jack was going to ruin his concentration, take away his night of meditation, he was going respond accordingly.

 In very little time at all, Jack was completely naked, fingers twitching nervously.

 ‘What, exactly, were you hoping for? What is your idea of a nightcap?’

 ‘Uh,’ Jack said, eloquent as ever, as Pitch dug fingers into flesh and pulled Jack forwards until he was straddling one of his legs. The armchair was huge, perfect for this. Jack could kneel over Pitch’s thigh and there was still room for both of them.

 ‘If you don’t answer me, I’ll decide for you,’ Pitch said, and he heard the click of a swallow made by a dry mouth.

 He ran the palm of his hand up the outside of Jack’s cold thigh, repeated the gesture. He supposed it was soothing, because Jack relaxed slightly. He wasn’t quite settled on Pitch’s thigh, he wasn’t comfortable, but he would get there. Eventually.

 He curved his fingers over Jack’s ass and closed his eyes briefly as Jack’s arms came up. One hand pressed into his shoulder, the other rested on his chest. Pitch realised that Jack was feeling his heartbeat.

 ‘No ideas?’ Pitch whispered.

 ‘Y-you decide,’ Jack replied, nervously.

 ‘Settle,’ Pitch said, pushing down on Jack’s hips to indicate what he meant. He let a note of command enter his voice. Nothing too pushy, no. Jack responded to the faintest order if he was given a chance to. His eagerness to please was only tempered by his fear that he would get something wrong.

 ‘But-’

 ‘Settle,’ Pitch said again, raising his thigh slightly, pressing up against the centre of him. Jack’s fingernails dug into Pitch’s skin, and as Pitch slowly relaxed his thigh against the armchair, Jack allowed his weight to rest on Pitch’s thigh uncertainly. One leg braced himself on the armchair, the other touched the floor. ‘Very good,’ Pitch said, and waited for that unpleasant prickle that followed every time he praised him.

 He knew Jack liked being praised, had seen the results of it as his body stirred, but there was a fear there. One he couldn’t quite get behind, couldn’t quite open up and see into. It was tantalising. He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he had thought about pinning Jack down and lavishing praise upon him until whatever that darkness was cracked open, and Pitch was finally allowed to see the pain that drove it. That was a darker impulse, one that he wouldn’t indulge, one that stayed locked down in the dark pit of him. It said a lot about Jack’s personality, though. A lot about the depths of his insecurities. No false modesty here. Not when praise could potentially ruin him.

 He satisfied himself with these small compliments, enjoying the frisson it sent through Jack’s skin. Better, Jack was already hard, so responsive. He shoved away his anger at all those who had gone before him, he doubted any of them knew what they had when they were having him, taking him. He doubted a single one of them understood how much of a treasure Jack could be.

 He trailed fingertips down the centre of Jack’s chest. At least he understood – he hoped – how much of a treasure Jack was. He brushed his palm over Jack’s arm, down his sides, over the bumps of his ribs. He watched his hand move with no particular purpose, no particular end point in mind. He wanted to savour. He wanted Jack to realise that sometimes he could ask for something, and it would go very well for him.

 Jack was shivering, though his skin was already starting to warm. Jack’s arm hooked around the back of Pitch’s neck as he leaned forwards, and Pitch tilted his mouth up as Jack clumsily pressed his lips to his. Jack’s fingers splayed on his shoulder, and Pitch hissed when he felt the cold fire of frost paint his skin. Jack tensed beneath his arms, and then – presumably when Pitch didn’t push him away it – he relaxed into the kiss, opening his mouth for Pitch’s tongue.

 He tasted like snow in the air, like taking a deep breath and letting ice crystals into his lungs. Beneath that, he tasted like spearmint and something strangely sweet. Pitch hoped one day their circumstances would relax enough that he could truly take his time with Jack, the way he wanted to. He wondered whether Jack would spend time with him in his house in Kostroma, if he would give him weeks or months or – he hardly dared to think it – years. He wondered whether Jack would let Pitch kiss him for hours, if he would permit Pitch chasing that sweetness. 

 The frost on his skin was already starting to melt, but Jack made more when his fingernails suddenly dug hard into his skin. Pinpricks of pain radiated down Pitch’s shoulder and he spread his other leg wider to adjust for his increasing hardness. Jack’s nails were blunt, but he pressed them in as though he was about to fall from a high precipice. He made a small, soft noise that hummed through Pitch’s mouth, and then he moaned sharply when Pitch thrust his tongue deep in response. His legs were completely relaxed now where they straddled him. His hips rocked once, seeking.

 ‘Tell me,’ Pitch said quietly, holding his mouth away from Jack’s seeking lips, brushing breath against the cool skin.

 ‘Wh-what?’ Jack replied, voice a confused rasp. When Pitch’s hand curled around the swell of his ass, Jack’s breath hitched.

 ‘What do you want?’

 ‘This is good,’ Jack said, opening his eyes to half-mast, looking at Pitch in confusion. ‘Is this not good?’

 Pitch cursed himself silently as Jack’s fear rippled through his mind, a wash of colour, not all of it pleasant. He pulled Jack forwards with the hand curved around his ass, and slipped the fingers of his other hand easily around Jack’s cock, swallowing when Jack cried out, when the fear that grew between them both burst like a soap bubble. Jack’s whole body lurched forward, cold fingers threaded their way through Pitch’s hair, and Pitch focused on his breathing, focused on the pliant body and the mouth that opened over his on a wet cry that caused cold, icy air to gust over his face.

 ‘This is very good,’ Pitch whispered against his lips. He moved the hand on Jack steadily, holding his lips just out of reach, listening to each gasp that he wrung from him. Jack’s mouth opened, he blindly licked forward with his tongue, seeking, and Pitch opened his mouth for the kiss.

 Pitch encouraged Jack to rock on his thigh, finding that simple, naive seeking delicious. There was an innocence to Jack, a simplicity that belied the centuries he spent being tumbled by idiots. There was something quintessentially wild about him, a fey quality that he didn’t see in himself. Pitch sometimes felt as though he had caught a wild animal, encouraging it forth with touches and warmth. And like a wild animal, he could disappear so quickly. He hid behind casual words and a carefully constructed facade, but the fun Pitch knew lived within him was not a tame, childish thing. It was a feral mischief, a love of exhilaration and adrenaline. He brought the wildness of his nature to the suburbs, to the cities. He slept in trees.

 And Pitch knew, he knew in a way that made him loathe the ignorance of those who didn’t see Jack, how lucky he was. How fortunate. What did Jack see in him, that made him come back, despite his wild fears, his wary ways? What had he done to earn his faith? His loyalty?

 Pitch moaned in his throat. It had been so long. So long since he’d felt anything like this. And perhaps he’d never felt anything quite like this, because all qualities of love were different, and Jack was different.

 Jack breathed out a groan of response, pushing himself into Pitch’s hand, fingers scraping along Pitch’s scalp, freezing the roots of his hair. Pitch opened his eyes, looked up, and smirked when he saw Jack’s face, eyes closed, eyebrows pulled tight together, mouth half open as he sought pleasure, as his fears ran deep within him. They were almost silent now, a simple pale blue that tasted of the wildest, coldest places.

 ‘Jack,’ Pitch whispered, and Jack gasped loud, trembled in Pitch’s hands.

 Pitch twisted his calloused thumb over the head of Jack’s cock, caught precome and smeared down, firm and demanding. Jack’s chest heaved on a harsh cry, his eyes flew open, blue and unseeing as he jerked into Pitch’s grip, encouraged by Pitch’s other hand. Always that element of surprise when he came, as though he could hardly believe it was happening, the pleasure a shock instead of an expected outcome.

 Pitch swallowed hard when his torso was striped with liquid cold, he resisted the urge to grab, to take, to possess.

 Jack’s eyes dropped down to Pitch’s as his body continued to rock, noises still tumbling from his mouth. Pitch arched up, captured Jack’s lips in his own, and was rewarded when Jack eagerly thrust his tongue into his warm mouth, curling the cold muscle around his own, emitting a stuttering, helpless groan as Pitch dragged out his climax. And when Pitch stretched Jack’s limits, moving his hand to the point of over-sensitivity, Jack shuddered in his hands and fingers kneaded into his scalp and shoulder. Frost spiralled down all the way to his ribs, and Pitch gasped at how quickly the spirals spread out over his skin, sharp little ice crystals anchoring in all of his pores.

 He removed his hand gently, rubbed both of his palms up and down Jack’s spine, mapped the way his muscles flexed and shifted beneath skin.

 Jack broke the kiss so he could lean forwards, pushing his head into the space between Pitch’s head and shoulder. Pitch shifted his legs again, turned on, hungry, unwilling to push. He was absolutely certain that if Jack decided to fall asleep on the armchair, he was going to have to leave him and finish himself off.

 He trailed the backs of nails down Jack’s skin, and Jack murmured something muffled into his shoulder.

 A moment passed, and then Jack’s hand trailed down Pitch’s chest slowly, slack. His fingertips stilled when he reached his own ejaculate, and he shifted, looked down.

 And then giggled.

 Pitch rolled his eyes, huffed, and then watched in amazement when Jack smeared his hands through the ejaculate and brought it up to his lips. Watching Jack’s tongue flick over the taste of himself, curious and unabashed, sent tremors up Pitch’s arms, made his fingers clench on Jack’s skin. He didn’t dare say anything to interrupt.

 Jack’s eyes flickered towards Pitch as he slipped the last finger from his mouth. Pitch exhaled slowly as Jack’s fears shimmered upwards, tentatively swirled around themselves. Jack was mildly scared, probably uncertain, but he wasn’t genuinely afraid. It was clear he’d been so isolated that he’d never had a chance to learn about certain taboos in human society, for which Pitch was fiercely grateful.

 ‘You liked that?’ Jack said, and Pitch nodded, fingers tightening, encouraging.

 ‘That time you put your fingers in my mouth, after…’ Jack couldn’t finish the sentence, but Pitch knew exactly what he was referring to. He could almost feel the coolness of Jack’s mouth around his two fingers right now. He closed his eyes, remembering. ‘I liked it,’ Jack finished.

 Pitch decided then and there, that actual heroism was not grabbing Jack’s hand and dragging it underneath the hem of his pants and telling him to get on with it. Jack wasn’t even trying to turn him on. He was completely without guile.

 He held his breath as Jack’s hand touched his chest again, sticky from his own saliva, and trailed back down the warm skin. When Jack’s palm ghosted lightly over Pitch’s pants, Pitch’s head dropped back onto the armchair.

 ‘Jack,’ Pitch said, deciding at some last ditch attempt at offering reassurance, ‘you don’t have to-’

 ‘I like this too,’ Jack said, and Pitch’s eyes opened, caught the hint of an impish light in Jack’s eyes.

 He smiled, helpless, as Jack wound his way off the chair and dragged his own sweatshirt to rest underneath his knees. He tugged at Pitch’s pants, and Pitch lifted his hips obligingly as Jack moved them carefully down. Jack’s fears registered as small waves lapping at the shore of Pitch’s mind, back and forth, back and forth. Nothing too overwhelming, nothing that was unusual or out of place. It felt good. It turned the space behind his eyes to mint green and azure.

 He canted his hips, pushed them forward on the armchair helpfully, and then his hands stiffened when Jack leaned up and licked at Pitch’s torso, laving him clean with long strokes.

 Dear god, Pitch thought, closing his eyes and shuddering. Jack was thorough, sensual, his hands gripped Pitch’s thighs tightly. His tongue was clever, cold, tickled him with ice crystals.

 Jack paused when Pitch’s skin was clean, rested his forehead against Pitch’s belly, and Pitch frowned as Jack’s fear crested again, flavoured with a strong uncertainty. He waited, looked down at the top of Jack’s head, the pale, silvery hair.

 ‘Pitch?’ Jack whispered against his skin.

 ‘Mm?’

 Jack didn’t reply, and then one of his hands lifted up from Pitch’s knee and reached up to take his hand off the armrest. He brought it over, rested it on top of his hair, and Pitch bit his lower lip. Jack had no idea, no idea how much Pitch liked a submissive partner, a submissive Jack. Pitch flexed his fingers and then pushed lightly, down, and Jack resisted for a second before his shoulders bowed gracefully and the cold tip of a tongue flicked at the head of him. Pitch breathed out through his nose at the cold. It didn’t bother him, but it jarred at first, made his awareness narrow down to the point where Jack’s breath touched him, where his tongue curled curiously around him.

 ‘Do you like it, when I direct you, Jack?’ Pitch said quietly, and Jack’s head moved in a small nod.

 Pitch moved his other hand to the top of Jack’s head, curled fingers down so that they were splayed around his ear, thumb touching his cheek. Jack shivered, and Pitch cleared his throat, wondered how far he could push this, because he wanted to, oh, it was too tempting, with Jack between his legs and kneeling on the floor in front of him. He had thought of it. He had spent time, distracted, in this very armchair, imagining this. Long days of training had ended with an imaginary Jack, fingers through imaginary hair.

 ‘Would you let me direct you now?’ Pitch said, and Jack moaned, his whole body shuddered. Fingers dug into his knees.

 He will be the death of me.

 Pitch’s hands shifted again over Jack’s head, and Jack pushed up into them, eager.

 ‘Come on,’ Jack breathed, hoarse. ‘I know you want to.’

 Something dark, repressed, snarled up in Pitch’s body and his hands fisted in Jack’s hair, pushed down so that Jack had no choice but to open his mouth and envelop him, and he kept pushing until Jack quickly moved his hand from Pitch’s knee to his shaft to prevent himself from being pushed down too far.

 Pitch had the briefest moment where he checked inside himself to make sure Jack’s fears weren’t moving into uncomfortable places. They’d flared, but stayed clear. Pitch groaned when he realised that Jack’s fear was staying within pure, simple spaces, uncomplicated, as sweet as the flavour of his mouth.

 After that, Pitch didn’t care much about finesse. He arched his hips into Jack’s mouth as he encouraged Jack’s head up and down, occasionally lightening his grip so he could trail the backs of his fingernails down Jack’s face, or trace the tautness of his lips with fingers.

 And Jack… Jack was moaning more than Pitch was, mouth wide and sucking hard on the upstroke. Jack’s fingers gripped tight around him, a constant cold band, even as his mouth was warming up quickly due to the friction. Pitch didn’t think he’d ever get tired of the power he felt knowing he was changing Jack’s body temperature. The glow in Jack’s eyes became febrile and aroused, he would shiver, his cheeks would pink up. And if he got warm enough, his normally dry, cool skin would break out in a layer of sweat.

 As his forehead had now.

 Pitch pushed Jack down again and held him there, knowing that Jack didn’t need to breathe, even if it was a habit of his. Jack tensed and then whimpered out a sound and went limp against him, moving his tongue, sucking.

 ‘Are you hard again?’ Pitch asked, and Jack moaned an affirmation that went straight through Pitch and made him twitch in Jack’s mouth.

 ‘Take yourself in hand. Let’s see how well you can concentrate.’

 Jack’s eyes opened and he looked up at Pitch, sucking so hard that Pitch’s eyes fell shut. But he felt Jack’s muscles shift as he removed his other hand from its death grip on Pitch’s knee, and placed it around himself. He felt Jack’s mouth work around him absently, as he moved his hand around himself. The movements were hesitant, they started off slow.

 ‘Sensitive?’ Pitch murmured, knowing he would be. Jack made another sound of acknowledgement, and Pitch decided that this was perhaps one of the best ways to have a conversation with Jack. Yes or no questions only, and no tangents or hiding behind anything except the moment between them. Pitch thrust up and Jack’s throat closed hard around him, he swallowed and made a grunt of shock. Pitch exhaled hard when he felt Jack’s body rock rhythmically, his hand had started moving firmly now.

 ‘It’s tempting to keep you here for a very long time,’ Pitch murmured. ‘And you’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?’

 Jack positively quaked. When Pitch’s hands gentled in his hair and Jack continued bobbing up and down of his own volition, Pitch decided there was no way he could have known, no way he could predicted he would ever be this fortunate.

 ‘Match the rhythm of your hand to that of your mouth,’ Pitch rasped, and Jack pulled off entirely, a string of saliva and precome keeping him connected as he stared up at Pitch.

 ‘You’re killing me here,’ Jack said, voice thick, eyes dazed. Pitch grinned at him. Jack’s eyes narrowed mutinously. ‘You can’t tell anyone else that I like this, okay?’

 ‘Why would I tell anyone else? I want you for myself,’ Pitch said, and then smiled. ‘And as it stands, there is nothing wrong with you liking this. We’re both enjoying ourselves aren’t we?’

 Jack exhaled ice crystals onto Pitch’s shaft, and Pitch swore to himself that his eyes did not just roll up into the back of his head. Jack chuckled at him, indulgent. If this was a glimpse of the Jack that lurked behind all of that fear, Pitch was going to hold onto him for as long as Jack would let him.

 Jack licked at the head of Pitch’s shaft, and Pitch kept his hands soft and gentle in his hair, caressed him.

 ‘I didn’t know it could be like this,’ Jack said, so quietly that Pitch didn’t even know if Jack had meant to say it out loud. Pitch pressed his lips together. Jack was an unexpected knife-wound to the heart, at times.

 He wanted to ask, Like what? He wanted to say, It can be like this whenever you want.

 In the end, Jack started again without waiting for Pitch to say anything, which Pitch took as a sign that Jack really hadn’t realised he’d said it out loud. Jack’s head pushed up impatiently into Pitch’s hands, asking for pressure, for direction, and Pitch obliged, dictating the rhythm and sighing in satisfaction when he felt Jack match the pacing with his spare hand. He was struggling to coordinate his movements, and knowing how hard he was trying made liquid light race through his body. At this rate, Pitch wasn’t going to last more than a few minutes, not with Jack’s mouth warmingaround him, knowing that Jack was concentrating on obeying so sweetly.

 After a minute, Pitch noticed that Jack was responding to Pitch’s signs arousal. He stopped repressing his trembling, slid his legs wider, and Jack noticed and his hand fumbled on himself. For the first time he didn’t suck on the upstroke, forgetting himself, losing himself in his own pleasure. Pitch made a sound of approval, and Jack whimpered. Pitch could not believe how generous Jack was, how unconsciously giving. Even now, he could read the signs; Jack was close, again. Bless the refractory period of younger men.

 Pitch guided Jack to a faster speed. Jack’s mouth was wet and open for him, he was moaning on every second breath, and the vibrations made Pitch shiver, raised goosebumps on his skin.

 It was Jack, uncoordinated and stiffening, still moving his head despite being overcome by sensation, that tipped Pitch over the edge. He thought he’d hold down Jack’s head as he came, but as tremors shot through him, he found himself cradling the back of his head, stroking the side of his face, hands shaking. Jack was making sounds somewhere between a sweet pain and intense pleasure, even as he swallowed Pitch down. He sketched the noises out of his throat so that they fell, rough, against Pitch.

 Jack withdrew first, because Pitch was dragging him up, putting hands underneath his shoulders and lifting. Jack put his hands out on Pitch’s chest, and one wet and sticky from his own release. And Pitch didn’t care if he was wrapping his arms around him too tightly. He sought out Jack’s mouth with his own and kissed him, chaste, over and over again.

 Jack was still trembling, it took him a long time to finally relax, boneless, against Pitch’s torso.

 And then Jack laughed against his skin, laughed quietly, the sound shaking his shoulders.

 ‘Care to share?’ Pitch said, and Jack nodded.

 ‘I was just thinking, that was kind of like…that was some nightcap, huh?’

 Pitch laughed before he could stop himself, a surprised burst of sound. Jack turned to him like the sound was a lure, and pressed clumsy lips against the side of his mouth, smiling.

 ‘So you’re not gonna keep working tonight, right? You’ve been at it like crazy lately.’

 Oh you sneaky little…

 Jack snuggled closer, locking himself around Pitch like the veritable limpet that he was. It was times like this Pitch was reminded that Jack used all of his limbs expertly when cavorting through the skies and across forests and buildings. He gripped Pitch like a monkey, even his toes curled dexterously, holding onto him. His fear was still present, but in a state that Pitch liked to think of as dormant, background noise; pale blue and pure.

 ‘I like this armchair,’ Jack whispered, and Pitch smiled to himself, stroking one hand against the armrest.

 He’d have to see if North would let him have it for his home in Kostroma. He didn’t think it would be a problem, once Pitch dropped hints about what they’d be using it for.

 

 

 

  1. wateryoudoinginmyswamp reblogged this from not-poignant
  2. couplesarecouples reblogged this from not-poignant
  3. fyeahblackice reblogged this from not-poignant
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  6. thatisludicrous reblogged this from not-poignant and added:
    I don’t think I’ve ever been so flattered in my entire life. You are just the cutest and the sweetest and the bestest...
  7. traciematt said: OMG. This needs to be on AO3 so I can squee at you properly (damn tumblr character limits), but YES THIS. ALL THIS. Pitch’s dark impulses - oh hello yes good, unf. And wild fae sexy-without-trying Jack eee. And ARMCHAIR BLOWJOBS fuck yeah. 1000 kudos
  8. hikariheart reblogged this from not-poignant
  9. catreid reblogged this from not-poignant
  10. magellan007 said: Omg…I just finished watching Saturday’s Dr. Who and was about to go to bed nursing a headache, and then I saw *this*. What a pleasant nightcap indeed, thank you. Loves <3