It startles him to see a human shape on his altar tonight.

Though if Hiccup had to be completely honest, he wasn’t here for the lecture. Something something boring matrices; right, like that was going to pull him out of bed. Such riveting stuff. No, the only reason that Hiccup was here at this ungodly hour and willing to put up with the droning from the professor was for the guy he sat next to.

Jack would just like to take the time to remind everyone to hang onto their weapon of choice when accidentally going through the experimental snow globe, because otherwise you'll end up who knows where without a staff and only snowballs to help you. Or: Jack doesn't know where he is, he sure doesn't speak the language, and he just knows talking to those giant rabbits will go badly. The little one, however... That works out just fine. Series

Or- the story of how Jack got his heart's desire, Aster got his heart's desire, and the Guardians enacted a 'send elves through to the Warren to make sure everyone's wearing their metaphorical pants' policy for their sanity. Warnings for: Jack being a rambly bastard leading to Walls of Text. You have been warned.

Jack didn't forget anything. He lost everything. It set him down a different path than the one the Moon had intended. A darker, more violent one.

Jack Frost and Steve Rogers go way back. Written for prompt on avengerkink, vague spoilers for Rise of the Guardians.

Humans have a Name on their wrist. Pooka's have a Song in their hearts. Jack Frost can't read his Name; Bunnymund has only been hearing a Song for the last three hundred years. It doesn't help that they've been getting closer to each other, when both Name and Song say there's someone else out there for both of them.

“Ya see, Sandy?” Bunnymund is saying. “Quit your worrying. The kid says he’s fine.” And almost, it ends there. Almost, they go their separate ways and let it stand for another four years, or another three hundred, for even Sanderson wonders whether he has been mistaken, after all. But Jack is agreeing with the Guardian of Hope, carrying obliviously onward. “Am I ever,” the boy says, fervently. “The 21st century’s great. You wouldn’t believe what people just throw out these days.” The admission comes like a wave striking rocks on a stony shore; it raises icy splashes of dread wherever its spray hits. Three horrified stares – and one that is not so terribly surprised – turn to the boy’s face. The spirit of winter falters to a stop, the reaction not the one he had anticipated. “What?” he asks.