RotG Hope Week

ROTG Hope Week - Books - Mary Overland

I am very late for @rotg-hope-week (frikkin' artblock) but I managed to squeeze out 2 pieces for now.

Rain - Jack watches as the rain washes away the last of the snow. He doesn't mind. He knows it's part of the natural order. Winter has had its turn, now it's time for spring.

Hope week - Butterflies - Mother Nature

Summary: 

Bunny hasn’t celebrated his birthday in a millennia. He didn’t think about it much. After Jack finds out, however, Bunny begins to notice a change. His fellow guardians were planning something. 

They weren’t going to celebrate his birthday, weren’t they? 

-

For @rotg-hope-week

Read it on AO3

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8

Chapter seven: smoothies 

Fic under cut

Chapters: 14/? Fandom: Rise of the Guardians (2012) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Jack Frost/Pitch Black

CHAPTER 14 OF SEALED IN SNOW IS DONE!

Hope week spring clean!

This is a draft I’ve had since Valentine’s Day and I thought I’d give it some light

Soooo…. we decided we’d wrap up a Secret Santa gift we didn’t manage to finish last year. 😂

Title: Dubstep Remix (*Laser Noises*)

Relationship: Jack Frost/Pitch Black

Rating: T

Tags: Recording Studio AU, Romance, Humor, SO MUCH FLIRTING, terrible lyrics, one (1) airhorn, tiny bit of coffee shop AU

Summary:

Jack inserted himself before any twitter nonsense could pop off in real life. He threw his hand out toward Pitch not unlike tossing a live grenade and Jack didn’t have time to second guess himself before he was saying his name like Pitch might somehow not know it. “Jack.”

“Jack,” Pitch repeated. He dropped Sandy’s hand and rose to take Jack’s. It offered him another look at those painted nails and the single band around his thumb.

Not on his ring finger, Jack noted. --- OR Jack is in a rock band, Pitch is a solo electronic artist, and their label thinks they should make music together.

Inspired by the RotG Secret Santa 2025 prompt: Record shop AU or recording studio AU for @sylphidine and finished for the RotG Hope Week 2026 Spring Cleaning prompt.

@rotg-hope-week

(We hope you like it even if it’s late Sylph ❤️)

I left Bunny for last since i actually never practiced anthropomorphic features

Anyway, here's 2 Bunnies for ya'll :D

Hello people!! So I may have understimated the time I had for this little challenge (college claims souls lol) and well, this is the day 2,3,4,5 of the hope week by @rotg-hope-week

Despite being in a horrible flare up and a lot of pain I wanted to participate because ROTG is so very special to me and we could all use a little hope these days, myself especially. I hope yall enjoy some fluff and angst with my ROTG oc included! Wish I could have gotten more done but even this was a stretch for my body and Im paying for it. And sorry this isnt my usual quality im in a lot of pain alskdjfh

Sunlight

The forest felt different in the summer.

Not quieter—never quieter—but softer, like the world had exhaled and decided, just for a while, to be kind. Sunlight filtered down in warm, shifting patches through the canopy, catching on drifting dust and the occasional curl of golden sand that shimmered lazily in the air. Somewhere deeper in the trees, something chirped, something rustled, something lived—but none of it pressed too close. None of it threatened.

Killian sat with his back against the wide trunk of an old tree, one leg stretched out, the other bent loosely at the knee, his cloak pooled around him like a dark spill against the grass. It looked out of place in the light—too heavy, too shadowed—but the way the sun caught along its edges softened it, pulling faint hints of copper and ember from the lining whenever it shifted.

He had his lantern set beside him, unlit for once. That alone said something.

A faint, warm breeze stirred, carrying the scent of sun-warmed leaves and something sweet, something almost like distant honey—and then it shifted again, threaded through with something lighter, softer, familiar. Gold drifted into view in slow, lazy spirals, gathering not with purpose but with ease, as if it had nowhere else it needed to be.

Killian didn’t look up right away. He didn’t have to.

“You’re late,” he murmured, though there was no bite to it, only the faintest curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

The sand gathered in front of him, rising and shaping itself into something vaguely humanoid before dissolving again into a soft cascade of symbols—stars, crescents, a poorly drawn sun that pulsed brighter than the rest. It hovered there for a second, smug in its own way, before drifting closer.

“I figured,” Killian went on, tilting his head back against the tree, eyes half-lidded against the light, “you’d be off making someone dream about flying or… I don’t know, cakes that sing.”

The sand shifted again, forming a quick, indignant puff before resolving into something softer, slower—a small, looping sun that dipped once, as if in greeting, before drifting closer still. Sandy himself settled a moment later, small and solid in comparison, golden eyes bright and warm in the filtered light as he came to sit beside him without hesitation.

There was no distance between them. There never was.

Killian didn’t move to make room. He didn’t need to. Sandy fit there naturally, like he always had, close enough that their shoulders brushed, close enough that the faint warmth of him cut clean through the cooler edge of Killian’s presence.

For a while, neither of them spoke—or, rather, neither of them needed to.

The quiet stretched, easy and unbroken, filled instead with the soft drift of dream-sand and the distant hum of the forest. Killian let his head tip slightly to the side, eyes slipping fully closed now, the tension he carried so often loosening in slow, careful increments. His breathing evened without him noticing, the sharp edges of him softening under the steady, grounding presence at his side.

Sandy watched him for a moment, something gentle flickering through his gaze.

Then, slowly, carefully, he lifted a hand.

The first touch was light—barely there, fingers brushing through the longer strands of Killian’s dark hair as if testing the space, making sure it was welcome. When Killian didn’t react, didn’t tense, didn’t pull away, Sandy’s hand settled more fully, combing through the soft waves with an absent, almost curious sort of care.

The copper strands caught the light as they shifted between his fingers, glinting faintly, and the sand responded without prompting—tiny flecks drifting closer, catching and reflecting that same warmth until the air around them shimmered softly.

Killian exhaled, long and slow. His head tipped, just slightly, until it rested against Sandy’s shoulder.

It wasn’t a deliberate movement. It wasn’t something he seemed aware of.

He just… leaned.

And Sandy, without hesitation, adjusted—shifting just enough to support the weight, his smaller frame steady and sure despite the difference between them. His hand never stopped its slow movement, fingers threading through dark hair, then back again, a quiet rhythm that didn’t demand attention, didn’t ask for anything in return.

The forest carried on around them, unchanged.

Sunlight warmed the ground, filtered gold through green, painted the edges of Killian’s cloak in softer tones than it had any right to hold. The lantern at his side remained dark, untouched, unnecessary in a place like this.

Killian’s breathing deepened, evened, then slowed.

Whatever tension had lingered in his shoulders slipped away entirely, leaving him loose, unguarded in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. The faint crease that so often sat between his brows smoothed, his expression settling into something almost… younger.

Sandy watched that, too.

Watched the way the edges of him softened, the way the quiet finally reached somewhere deeper than surface level. His hand stilled for just a moment, thumb brushing once against Killian’s temple before resuming that same gentle motion, slower now, more deliberate.

A small shape of sand formed in the air above them—a sun again, but softer this time, less bright, its edges blurred like it was beginning to sink toward evening. It hovered there, casting a warm, ambient glow that layered over the real sunlight without replacing it, something dreamlike woven gently into reality.

Not needed, just… offered.

Sandy’s eyes flickered, half-lidding as the quiet settled deeper, as the rhythm of Killian’s breathing began to pull at something in him in return. He leaned back slightly against the tree, careful not to disturb the weight resting against him, his hand slowing, then pausing altogether where it lay in dark strands.

The sand dimmed with him, drifting lower, softer, settling into a slow, lazy orbit.

For a while longer, he stayed awake—watching, listening, existing in that shared stillness.

Then, gradually, his own posture softened. His head tipped, just slightly, until it rested against Killian’s.

And there, in the dappled sunlight of a forest that asked nothing of them, with warmth filtering through leaves and gold drifting quiet in the air, the two of them dozed—unbothered, unguarded, and, for once, entirely at ease.

Rain

Rain didn’t fall gently that night—it poured.

The sky hung low and heavy, clouds layered thick enough to swallow what little moonlight might have tried to slip through, and the forest below answered in kind. Leaves shuddered under the weight of it, branches bowed, and the ground turned dark and slick as water soaked into everything it could reach. The air smelled sharp—wet bark, damp earth, something distant and electric.

Killian stood at the edge of the treeline, just beyond where the forest began to thin toward a drop in the land, his cloak dragging slightly where it brushed against the soaked ground. The fabric drank in the rain without complaint, darkening further, clinging in places where the wind pushed it close before letting it fall again.

His lantern hung at his side, unlit. He hadn’t needed it, not yet.

A gust of wind cut through the clearing, colder than it should have been for the season, threading through his hair and tugging at the loose strands until they stuck, damp and dark, against his face. He didn’t move to fix it. His gaze stayed forward, fixed on nothing in particular, amber eyes dimmer than usual in the absence of flame.

“You’re going to catch something, standing out here like that.”

The voice didn’t come from behind him so much as around him—low, smooth, slipping between the sound of rain and wind until it felt like it had always been there.

Killian didn’t turn immediately. His shoulders tightened, just slightly, the only outward sign that he’d heard.

“I don’t get sick,” he replied after a moment, his voice quieter than the storm but steady all the same.

A soft laugh followed, almost swallowed by the rain. “No,” Pitch said, stepping into view as if the darkness itself had simply decided to take shape, “but you do have a habit of standing in places you don’t belong.”

Killian exhaled slowly, then turned.

Pitch stood a few paces away, untouched by the rain in the way shadows rarely are. Water passed through him, around him, never quite settling, leaving him dry where Killian was soaked through. His eyes glinted faintly in the dim light, something sharp and knowing in the way they tracked every shift in Killian’s expression.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The rain filled the silence instead, drumming steady against leaves and ground, a constant, unrelenting presence that pressed in from all sides.

“You followed me,” Killian said finally.

Pitch tilted his head, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his mouth. “I found you,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Killian’s grip tightened slightly on the lantern’s handle, fingers curling just enough to be noticeable. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet,” Pitch murmured, stepping closer, slow and deliberate, “neither should you.”

The distance between them shrank, not quickly, not forcefully—just enough to feel it. Close enough that the difference between them became more obvious, the way the rain clung to Killian and refused Pitch entirely, the way warmth flickered faintly around one while the other seemed to dim it without trying.

“You’ve been avoiding them,” Pitch went on, his voice softer now, quieter in a way that cut through the storm instead of competing with it. “North, Bunny, the rest of them. Even your golden little dreamer.”

Killian’s jaw tightened. “That’s none of your concern.”

“It is,” Pitch said easily, circling just slightly, not quite pacing, not quite still. “When you start acting like me.”

That landed.

Killian’s head snapped toward him, eyes flashing—not bright, not warm, but sharp, defensive. “I’m not—”

“No?” Pitch cut in, not harsh, but precise. “Hiding. Watching from the edges. Letting the dark do the work for you.” His gaze dipped briefly to the lantern at Killian’s side, then back up again. “You haven’t even lit that in days.”

The rain seemed louder for a second, heavier. Killian didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looked away, gaze dropping somewhere just past Pitch’s shoulder, unfocused, distant. Water dripped from the ends of his hair, trailing down along his jaw, catching briefly at the curve of his chin before falling.

“They’re forgetting,” he said finally, the words quieter than anything he’d said before.

Not angry, not accusing, just… tired.

Pitch stilled.

“Of course they are,” he replied, softer now, almost gentle in a way that didn’t quite sit right. “They always do.”

Killian’s grip on the lantern tightened again, knuckles paling slightly beneath damp skin. “It’s not supposed to feel like this.”

“And how is it supposed to feel?” Pitch asked, stepping closer again, closing the last of the space between them until they stood within reach, within breath. “Easy? Fair?” His voice dipped, lowered, threaded with something darker. “You give everything, and they move on anyway. That’s the part no one tells you.”

Killian swallowed, hard enough to be visible.

“I know what it feels like,” Pitch continued, quieter still now, the storm bending around his words instead of drowning them out. “That hollow space where belief used to be. The way it twists. The way it—”

“Stop,” Killian said, sharper than before, the word cutting through the air clean and sudden.

Pitch paused. For a moment, something flickered across his expression—not surprise, not quite, but something close enough to register.

Killian’s shoulders rose and fell once, a breath pulled in too fast, let out too slow. The rain plastered his cloak closer to him, outlining the tension in his frame, the way he held himself like something braced for impact.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” he said, voice steadier now, even if the strain still threaded through it. “And it’s not going to work.”

Pitch watched him, head tilting just slightly. “Isn’t it?”

Another beat of silence. Then, slowly, Killian lifted the lantern.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then, with a faint flicker, a small flame sparked to life inside—dim at first, unsteady, wavering against the weight of the rain and the heaviness in the air. It wasn’t bright. It didn’t push the darkness back in any dramatic way.

But it held.

Pitch’s gaze dropped to it, something unreadable settling behind his eyes.

Killian didn’t look at him this time.

He kept his focus on the flame, on the way it struggled, on the way it steadied when he didn’t let it go out.

“They’re afraid,” he said, softer now, almost to himself. “That doesn’t mean they’re gone.”

Pitch’s expression shifted—subtle, but there. The faint curve of his mouth flattened, the ease in his posture tightening just slightly.

“And when they stop coming back from that fear?” he asked, quieter now, the question slipping out before it could be sharpened into something else.

Killian’s hand tightened around the lantern, the flame inside flickering—but not going out.

“Then I’ll be there,” he answered. Simple, certain., not loud, not defiant—but solid in a way that didn’t bend.

The rain continued to fall between them, steady and cold, threading through space neither of them moved to close again.

Pitch held his gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable lingering there—something that might have been frustration, or understanding, or something dangerously close to both.

Then, without another word, he stepped back.

The darkness seemed to take him with it, folding in, swallowing shape and form until he was gone as quietly as he had arrived.

Killian stood there a moment longer, the lantern’s dim glow steady at his side, the rain still soaking through everything it touched.

Then, slowly, he turned. And walked back into the trees, the small, stubborn light moving with him into the dark.

Summary: 

Bunny hasn’t celebrated his birthday in a millennia. He didn’t think about it much. After Jack finds out, however, Bunny begins to notice a change. His fellow guardians were planning something. 

They weren’t going to celebrate his birthday, weren’t they? 

-

For @rotg-hope-week

Read it on AO3

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8

Chapter six: Chocolate

Fic under cut

Hope Week Extra: Spring Clean

@rotg-hope-week

When Aster was a teenager, he was put on a carrot diet (he was fat little potatoe) His older sister Lilia made him a carrot smoothie.

Seventh entry for HopeWeek: Tea!

As to be expected from yours truly, the last one has to be a littl silly. The icons together, having a little gossip and doing some self-care, while Babytooth is sneaking some rare sugar while the boss is busy <3

Hope Week Day 7: Tea / Smoothies

@rotg-hope-week