Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jack was attracted to Pitch, much to his vexation, from the first time he saw him.

Pitch was not attractive in the traditional sense – sharp, feral features, and skin the colour of something that lived under a rock – but there is undeniably a charisma, a magnetism he has; the same fascination that a slow-moving shark or a swaying cobra might inspire.

He has a way of moving that just… it causes a prickling sensation over Jack’s skin just thinking about it. Lithe and sinuous, and graceful as flowing oil. Yet, it’s his voice, oh his voice… mellifluous, as smooth and rich as cream, and promising something just as bad for you.

When Pitch had been defeated, Jack had spent many a night hiding from everyone, hidden in the hollow of the tree away from the man in the moon’s gaze, desperately touching himself while thinking of Pitch. Movements frantic and guilt-ridden, he thought of the fight they had had. He had been cheated and lied to, his staff stolen and broken, and he should hate Pitch.

He didn’t. He knew what being alone was, and for all Pitch’s grandstanding and posturing, he could see his loneliness, his desperation for someone to understand.

He wanted Jack for an ally first.

Jack did not know how his pity for Pitch had morphed into some perverse attraction, but he hoped it would eventually go away. A brief infatuation, not at all healthy, but transitory.

Days turned into weeks, which rolled into months, and snowballed into years.

The desire did not go away.

*

Jack had thought that spending time with Pitch would lessen his attraction – familiarity breeds contempt, as the saying goes. Unfortunately the more time he spent with Pitch, the more he realised how interesting he was to be around.

Pitch was centuries old, and the breadth of his knowledge was vast. Not only that, but he was interested in anything and everything – his library was a miscellaneous mélange of information, from the diaries of John Dee to the poetry of Carol Ann Duffy, the concertinas of ‘The Tale of Genji’ to the writings of Ida B. Wells. Books of philosophy and history - many in languages Jack didn’t recognise -were full of Pitch’s scrawl, where he had annotated notes and points of contention. (Jack had teased him about the original Salvador Dali on the wall that Pitch had stolen from someone’s private vault; Pitch had just shrugged, saying he found it somewhat calming.)

Pitch also had a dry, sharp-toothed sense of humour that was very similar to Jack’s own. And (most importantly) seemed to enjoy talking to him.

Jack fell deeper and deeper.

*

Jack may have been virginal, but his chastity was more a casualty of circumstance than characteristic. Not being seen by most for three hundred years, and being ignored by the few who could see him did not make it possible for any sexual proclivities to involve anyone else.

At least in an actively-involved role. One of the things Jack had learnt about himself over the centuries was that voyeurism and prurience were arguably as much a part of him as the cold was.

It had not started intentionally. He had just been drawn to the stories told in the family room on the cold, dark evenings, perched on the windowsill, close enough to listen to the sounds of the often cantankerous grandmother telling tales and the occasional interjections from the children, often shushed back into silence by the others. As time had gone on, people stopped telling stories and listened to voices and music coming from a box in the corner. Then the box had been replaced by one that took pride of place in the middle of the room, emitting noise and light and moving pictures.

Of course, hanging around outside people’s windows, peering in through gaps in curtains  and often sneaking inside to see what people were up to, had occasionally led to spying on a couple’s intimate moments.

The first time Jack, once he had realised what was going on, had been mortified and fled. The second time it happened, he stayed for a moment until the embarrassment and guilt was too much, then fled. The third time he watched the whole thing (brief as it was), and by the tenth time he was starting to have enough experience as a spectator to make comparisons.

He hadn’t made a habit of it – it wasn’t a regular tendency, and he could have given it up any time he wanted to.

*

When they were officially (dating? boyfriends?) a thing, Jack tried very hard to rein in his baser instincts in order to match the pace that Pitch seemed comfortable with. Which, in his more selfish moments, seemed glacially slow.

They would be kissing (gods, he loved kissing Pitch), and he would hear the sounds Pitch made. For someone so powerful, Pitch whimpered and trembled so beautifully. But there would be a point when it would be too much, and he would feel the other spirit tense, and he would of course stop.

However much he wanted it – and he knew what he wanted – he would never force or coerce Pitch to do something he did not want to do. Or at least something he did not want to do yet.

*

Jack slowly regained consciousness; though opening his eyes seemed beyond him for now. He felt warms arm encompass him, and knew instinctively that is was the solid and wanted weight of Pitch that had folded around him.

‘Are you awake?’ Pitch whispered softly, a hot breath by Jack’s ear. Jack could feel himself smile. ‘Yeah, but I’m not getting up yet,’ he replied. He pushed himself back gently, further into the other’s embrace. ‘This is comfy.’

His smile widened as he felt Pitch roll them slightly so both were on their side, nestled together. He could hear the older spirit clear his throat, feel the shift of the bedding as Pitch fidgeted until he was comfortable, settling for the long haul. One of the (many) things he appreciated about Pitch was his ability to just sit and be still, and just hold him despite how cold to the touch he was.

‘Are you feeling better?’ Pitch asked him, and Jack’s slightly foggy mind remembered about being attacked by the sprite. ‘Pretty good right now,’ he replied. He finally opened his eyes, seeing that the candle by the bed had long since burned out.

‘How long have I been here?’ he murmured.

Pitch tensed slightly. ‘You have rested for approximately a fortnight.’

‘Two weeks?!’ Jack squeaked. ‘Two weeks?’

‘I did just say that, didn’t I?’

‘Yeah, but… damnit, two weeks?’ He blew out a long whistle, and turned round so he was now facing Pitch. ‘You didn’t think to wake me before then?’ he admonished.

‘You needed to rest.’

‘I have been in your bed for two weeks, and you just let me sleep?’ Jack smirked. ‘What a gentleman you are Pitch.’ He placed his hands on Pitch’s chest, slowly gliding them up to his collar and lightly raked his nails over Pitch’s neck. ‘Well, I’m awake now.’