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It’s nearing three in the morning when his work is done, wispy golden tendrils recoiling back towards the cloud of faintly glowing sand he rests upon. He reels them back in like a fisherman’s line, gratified in knowing how well the children must be sleeping, lulled into the jubilant dreams he painstakingly crafts for them.
Playful dragons swoop and spin and perform daring acrobatics in the purple tie-dyed sky for one young boy, and another sees a world of talking, laughing animals that wear clothes and live in wooden houses. Brave princesses, oceans full of gemstones, friendly robots playing soccer, and every wonder Sanderson could imagine fills the minds and hearts of the children below. Even when his sand leaves their eyes to return to him, they dream on, enough glittering dust lingering to last them until they wake.
Sandy is pleased with his efforts, and he continues to watch the darkened streets of the town below for a few peaceful moments with an adoring smile. He enjoys bringing them happiness in their sleep, and he is sure there is no greater joy than this, than being the Guardian of Dreams.
The Sandman’s musings are cut short when his cloud of dream sand parts sharply beneath him, sudden and unexpected, and the glittering granules whirl and diffuse into the cold night air until there is not enough to hold his weight.
He plummets like a stone for several surprised seconds before he gathers remnants of the sand into his hands and forms a large gold parachute, halting his descent as it catches the wind.
It is only then that he sees what befell the cloud he was standing upon. Pitch Black, surrounded by weaving and swaying shadows, slowly lowers his enormous onyx scythe from his perch on a high rooftop. The tall, slender spirit brandishes a cruel, crooked smile as he tilts his head slightly. He speaks loud enough for Sandy to hear him over the distance between them. “Well, if it isn’t Sandman, dropping by for a visit.”
Sanderson is not amused by the pun, and, rolling his eyes, expresses as much as figures of golden dream sand take shape over his head, several in quick succession.
Your intellect never ceases to amaze. And you broke your promise. You’re not allowed to interrupt while I’m still working.
Slowly, Sandy sets down on a rooftop opposite his foe, frowning at him over the expanse of the street. The parachute that held him disintegrates into a fine golden flurry and seems to vanish where it lands, like snow melting instantly against sun-warmed concrete.
Pitch looks dubious, arching a single, hairless brow as his scythe crumbles to black dust. His wicked smile remains, tips of pointed teeth visible behind dark lips. “I am within the bounds of our previous agreement. You were well and done for almost half a minute before you made me loose my patience.”
The Boogeyman stalks, eyes never leaving Sandy’s face, to another corner of the roof. While his steps seem nonchalant, the look on his face speaks volumes of predatory intent. And in a moment Pitch fades into a shadow, and Sandy knows exactly where he will resurface even before the taller spirit’s hands ghost across his back, bringing with them a chill. No matter how many times Pitch appears behind him so suddenly, it always makes him shiver, sets his nerves on edge.
“You should know by now how difficult it is for me to restrain myself when I am impatient.”
And if that isn’t enough to make Sandy quiver, the dark, splayed hands hungrily roaming up his spine and shoulders are, fingers stroking his collarbones and neck in their eagerness to touch, to claim.
The Nightmare King descends to one knee, lips pressed against the soft, golden skin of Sanderson’s jaw line as his hands wind around the stout Guardian’s torso. Sandy grins, appreciating the affections that the other man lavishes on him. Pitch trails his possessive kisses along sand-soft skin, turning his companion to face him. He nearly claims Sanderson’s lips with his own when the Guardian halts him with a single finger, pressed against grey skin and black mouth. Sandy smirks at Pitch’s evident irritation at being deterred, eyes like tarnished gold narrowing dangerously.
Not here. This is far too out in the open.
Pitch gives derisive snort. “I’ll have my way with you anywhere I damn well please,” he hisses, long hand wrapping easily around Sandy’s arm and pulling him against his own body sharply. The Sandman winces at the sudden movement, feeling the pressure of the other man‘s hips and bent knee against his middle. He looks up into that angular, confident face, eyebrows rising in silent question, daring to be insufferable.
Is that so?
“Indeed.” He quickly snatches the other petit wrist along with the first into one grey hand, raising them above the shorter man’s head as he continues. “If I were so inclined, I could take you on the floor of a child’s bedroom,“ the Nightmare King whispers darkly. His free hand snakes about Sandy’s waist, pulling him in so close that there is no space between them, pressing lean hips and straining erection against his round stomach. Sandy’s breath is coming in short puffs when Pitch lowers his head, lips brushing against his golden ear. “And there would be nothing you could do but let me ravish you.”
The smaller spirit‘s breath leaves him in a single, trembling exhale. He looks up with an unconscious shiver, eyes locking with Pitch‘s, desire evident as he squirms feebly in his grasp. He can‘t hide how he loves it when his companion murmurs such depraved things, dark and wicked promises he honestly isn‘t sure if Pitch would ever truly enact. Though he guesses that is all part of the appeal of the Boogeyman; the delight of never being entirely certain how lewd and audacious he could be.
Grey fingers fret for a moment at the neckline of Sanderson’s pajama suit before sliding into the opening and parting the soft golden fabric off of creamy amber skin. Still restraining his hands, Pitch positions Sandy to lean back against his raised knee, allowing him to lower his lips to the freshly-exposed chest and stomach. He continues to speak between his ministrations, peppering lusty, open-mouthed kisses along trembling, supple flesh. “I’d have you in front of the other Guardians. In front of the Man in the Moon himself,” he pants, his hand traveling lower to part the seam of Sandy’s pajamas further, exposing more intimate locales to his greedy eyes. “Yes, imagine their shock to see how you love it, how you pull me close when I’m inside you. To see their faces contort in jealousy to know that only I can make you writhe like this.”
And it’s too much, too vulgar, too hot, and Sandy is biting his lower lip, eyes screwed shut as his erection jerks, ignored, desperate for contact. He pulls against Pitch’s iron grip in earnest, not strong enough to free himself, but enough to draw his captor‘s attention. Sand signs appear above him, quick and jumbled, and even Pitch, so used to them, cannot grasp the exact words he means, only the connotation.
Please Pitch no more teasing, need you, need everything you have. Take me, show me, prove it.
And the Nightmare King is happy to comply, smirking victoriously before releasing the Sandman’s hands and pinning him on his back to the rough surface of the roof. He admires the view for a few long, silent seconds, delighting in the embarrassment evident on his companion’s face as he stares unabashedly.
Their eyes lock as Pitch’s dangerous smirk sinks below the horizon of his companion’s chubby stomach, member aching and pressed flat against it, to nuzzle his broad nose against the underside of Sanderson’s thigh.
Sandy twitches sharply, nerves set ablaze, and jolts, eyes wide and mouth agape, when Pitch’s devilishly clever tongue slips inside him.
Hotter than he’s ever felt and so, so wet, he arches into the slick, undulating touch shamelessly. He’s never felt Pitch’s tongue inside him, never felt anything like this, and he discovers he loves it, craves it. He knows he’ll be thinking about this slippery, peculiarly amazing pressure for weeks, fantasizing on long, lonely nights and wishing desperately that Pitch was there to aid him, because his own hands can never make him feel like this.
The Nightmare King holds onto his lover’s round hips with both hands, squeezing affectionately each time his wet muscle delves deeper inside. He presses his lips in against the sensitive golden flesh between rounded cheeks as his tongue explores, kissing and slurping at the soft, sweet skin and delighting in Sandy’s desperate rocking for more.
He licks in sweeping, shallow strokes for long enough that Sandy feels as though he might fall to pieces. His brows are drawn up tightly, mouth hanging open as he breathes raggedly. A shaking hand descends, plump fingers winding lovingly into Pitch’s ebony hair, hoping, through this non-visual contact, that he can properly communicate how much he’s enjoying this.
And as if on purpose, the Nightmare King retreats then, panting, eyes full of equal parts conquest and adoration. Sandy gawks in frustration at the sudden departure, and just as he is about to signal for Pitch to put his mouth back where it belongs, he sees his lover freeing his aching member from the confines of his trousers. He strokes himself, breathless, as his eyes take in Sanderson’s prone form appreciatively. His words come in of rush of heady lust. “Look at you. Spread wide and wriggling for more, just for me.”
He leans back in with renewed vigor, Pitch’s lips and mouth returning to their post, and Sandy supposes that he can forgive the transgression of a brief pause in their romp. With the way his partner is humming against his entrance while his tongue swirls, sending shivers and tremors up his spine, it’s difficult for the Sandman to begrudge him anything.
Petite hand once again gripping at the Boogeyman’s scalp, perhaps this time hard enough to deter any thoughts of pulling away again, Sandy strokes and presses into the thick, wild hair as his other hand wanders the expanse of his stomach to take his own length into his hand. With Pitch’s deep licks and gentle scrapes of his teeth, he’s so close, and, if his lover’s furious, uneven breathing through his nose is anything to go by, the taller spirit is close behind.
Eyes clenched shut, he revels in the overload of sensation as he thumbs the head of his member, teasing fingertips against the pale foreskin before pumping himself in earnest. Too much foreplay to take it slow, too much attention from Pitch between his taut thighs, too full, too hot, mind buzzing as his ears fill with only the sound of the Nightmare King’s muffled grunts of pleasure.
He comes hard, head thrown back as he fists dark hair and cants his hips up wildly to meet the sweet, squirming tongue inside. Thick, hot seed coats his belly, and as Pitch is drawing out his orgasm with more feverish licking, he feels more than hears his strangled moan of climax reverberating through his body.
When his fingers finally loosen their hold after several long, glorious, breathless seconds, the taller spirit repositions himself to lay beside his lover on the cracked surface of the roof. Sandy finds it hard to catch his breath, disheveled and ravished, and he turns his head to smile weakly at the Boogeyman. He catches the still-trembling, grey wrist in his hands and draws it to his golden lips, smirking as he licks and sucks Pitch’s come from his spindly fingers.
It draws a beautiful sounds from him, a deep, contented groan, and when he looks he sees eyelids fluttering on the face of his lover and black lips parted to suck in a rasp of breath.
And Sandy thinks, pulling Pitch’s hand to cup his own soft cheek, that there truly are some things better than the sweet dreams of children on a cloudless night. Not many, but he certainly seems to have found one.