Work Text:
He writes.
It is unlike weaving dreams, which comes naturally to him. It’s more difficult, to be sure, but it’s a labor of love.
The Sandman writes what he cannot share.
Almost all of his imaginings, the thoughts and hopes and fantasies of adventures and happiness, are turned into dreams. He gives these to the children of the world, to help grant their wishes, inspire them, and allow them some comfort in their sleep.
But he has thoughts and memories he cannot share, cannot express, not even to his friends and fellow Gaurdians. So his writing is an escape.
He records his memories - recollections of his falling star, plummeting to earth that terrifying night centuries ago. Nostalgia of thousands upon millions of children smiling softly as they dream of delicious food, amazing places, and close friends. He remembers a child he brought a sweet, final dream to as she froze to death, lost and alone in the forest. He records his musing about his comrades - North regaling him with tales of his misspent youth, and a particularly jaunty tale of how he drove away a cavalry troop with nothing but a bent steak knife while he ate.
Sandy likes turning his thoughts into words, but not because he does not speak. He writes for the freedom of expression, to simply know that he can have these thoughts and not have to share them with the children he protects. For some of his memories are sad, and some of his musings are serious. They are not sweet dream material.
And sometimes, when his normally calm, collected emotions become tumultuous and he cannot bear to keep them inside, he writes about his desires.
He never feels ashamed of these feelings when he writes about them. He is the same as anyone else, and is, for the most part, unable to act upon most of his physical needs. So he writes about what he would like to do, were he to have a willing partner.
He always writes about the same partner in these romance novellas.
Pitch.
The Nightmare King’s name begins every fable. A single line, just one word. And then the rest flows freely.
He would be lying if he said he didn’t know why he always chose Pitch and no one else for these imaginary escapades. He has known the King of Nightmares longer than he has known anyone else, and there is an unspoken connection that exists between them. Balance. Some semblance of understanding, the Sandman thinks.
That and the Boogeyman’s legs go on for miles. And the low, plunging neckline of his robe that stops no higher than his navel. Indecent. Sexy.
The scene changes, their conversations - because he writes that words stream from his mouth just as easily as his companion - vary according to the situation Sandy puts them in. Sometimes he writes that he just holds Pitch close, listening to the sound of his breathing. Their fingers twine, and Pitch sleeps in his arms. Sometimes he describes in vivid, loving detail every nuance of lovemaking; mouths parting to whisper encouragement, knees spread, fingers questing for hidden places that make the body arch and nerves tingle. Hair in disarray. Flesh swollen with arousal. Moaning with their lovers’ names on their lips.
Sometimes, they are sweet and gentle. Other times they are decidedly not. Sandy isn’t quite sure which way he enjoys more.
The one he writes now is somewhat rough, a play for dominance. In it, Pitch struggles mildly, not willing to submit. Not at first, anyway.
Sandy worries his lower lip between his teeth as he types out the fantasy in his head. He has found that parchment and quill are somewhat cumbersome. The ink dries, spills, bleeds, and the parchment needs to be stored away when not in use. So he has crafted himself a thin, sleek little notebook; a light laptop made of dream sand. Simple, portable, and perfect for him. Every so often he sets it on the ground of his sand castle and lays on his belly to write, feet swaying in the air. But today he isn‘t. He does not want to be on his stomach while he’s writing steamy scenes. That’s uncomfortable, he had learned the hard way.
So he sits at a makeshift little desk, settled in a rolling chair made of dream sand. His knees do not quite make it over the edge of the seat, leaving his feet to dangle. He doesn’t mind, it happens more often than not when he sits in chairs. And his feet are the last thing on his mind.
He pauses in his typing to reread his work from the beginning, checking for spelling errors, repeated words, and improperly phrased sentences. He finds a few - that ‘or’ should, in fact be ‘of’ - and fixes them before resuming. However, it quickly becomes difficult to pay too much attention to the words, themselves. The scene blooms into fresh life in his mind.
Pitch, firmly pressed to the floor beneath Sandy’s hands, wriggles and grunts out his displeasure at being sat upon. But the Sandman knows better, knows what he’ll feel when he reaches coyly behind him as he straddles his companion’s chest. His hand brushes the Nightmare King’s straining length, and Pitch lurches.
He rears forward to snarl a half-hearted threat, but Sandy cups his hand behind Pitch’s neck and holds him still. And he whispers, lips smirking lightly against the grey skin of his ear, every filthy thing he’s going to do to the taller immortal.
He’s going to suck him until he begs. Penetrate him. Rule him. Ride him like a wily Nightmare, bucking and roiling. Mark the lean grey flesh of his stomach and chest with ropes of his pearly white come when he’s finished, and bask in that gorgeous contrast of dark and light he loves so much.
He’s going to make Pitch his.
And when the Nightmare King opens his mouth to protest, Sandy claims it with his own.
He is in charge tonight. And he‘s going to make sure Pitch never forgets.
Barely into the second page of his tale, Sandy stops reading and squirms in his chair. He’s fully aroused already, and he unconsciously drops his hand to between his short legs. He palms himself through the fabric of his soft pajamas, eyelids fluttering as he manages to parse through another few saucy paragraphs before he gives up. He can’t look for typos when he’s this wound up.
Sandy rolls back from the desk a bit, giving himself some room as he licks his lips and opens the bottoms of his clothes. Maybe once he’s let off some steam, he’ll be able to go back to proofreading without becoming quite so distracted.
His erection is swollen, fully hard as he pulls himself free of his pants. But in his mind, he’s not just indulging in a little self-gratification, no, he’s exposing himself while still sitting astride his tall, dark, lean lover.
Eyes half lidded, he brings his hand to his lips to drag his tongue across the open palm. He does it slowly, deliberately, smirking as he can picture his imagined partner watching with an unblinking stare. He traces invisible patterns on his palm with his tongue, swirling a figure-eight before he swoops the slick, wet trail up his index finger. He thinks Pitch would very much like that visual, and he grins unabashedly.
Sandy wraps his saliva-slicked hand around his length, releasing a low, ragged breath as he does. He begins to stroke in a slow, languid rhythm, letting his head roll back onto the cushion of his chair. He pictures Pitch panting, eager for the Sandman’s attentions, hips rolling.
Just as he starts to imagine himself shimmying down the Boogeyman’s body to ease his tension, something slams against him and knocks him out of his chair and onto the ground in a flurry of surprised golden dream sand.
Black encompasses his vision, whirling like a dervish until he finally rolls to a stop, stuck fast on his back to the floor. Sandy jerks to stand, but he sees, shocked, that his wrists, arm, and legs are wrapped tightly within the twining ropes of a black sand spider’s web.
Uh, oh.
He thrashes, realizing that he has been ambushed and attacked.
By Pitch.
While he was masturbating.
Thinking of Pitch.
His face flushes a deep apricot, and he struggles wildly. Oh, he’s not too worried about Pitch hurting him, he’s confident in his ability to handle himself in battle against the Nightmare King. However, he is not prepared to explain away the still-throbbing erection visible between the hems of his open pajamas. Pitch will never let him live this down. He’ll bring it up in front of the Guardians on purpose, just to screw with him. It would be a thorn in his side for centuries.
And Sandy does not intend to go down without a fight
He summons his dream sand to free him, but it is quickly devoured by the black grains holding him fast to the floor. Flabbergasted, he tries again, netting him the same result. He has a couple of all-too-short seconds to squirm in his futile attempt to cover his nakedness before he catches sight of the Boogeyman emerging from a shadow in a corner of his abode.
Too late, the Sandman thinks with a dry swallow.
The Nightmare King is all smoky darkness and elegant angles, fierce eyes of fool’s gold glinting in the warm twilight of the room.
“Well, well, well, it looks as though I’ve caught a little golden fly in my web,” Pitch drawls, slowly gliding closer.
Sandy squeezes his eyes shut, embarrassment sending fiery tongues of heat and sweat down his face and into his neck and chest. Maybe Pitch won’t notice? He can always hope.
Half of a syllable slips from the Nightmare King’s mouth before he stops suddenly.
There’s a strangled, apprehension-filled silence for a beat that seems to stretch on forever. “Are - Were you pleasuring yourself, Sandman?” He laughs, cruel and haughty.
So much for that, not that he honestly expected Pitch not to see.
Sandy wants more than anything to turn his head away from his tormentor, to hide his shame. But he steels his jaw and looks straight into the Boogeyman’s eyes, unwavering as he purses his lips and arches his brows in a sassy display of ‘yeah, what of it?’. His sand is still being swallowed by the nightmarish black webbing around him when he attempts to form signs to communicate that statement, so he settles for the look only.
Pitch’s voice ripples with wicked laughter above him, and he refuses to break eye contact as the Nightmare King circles him like a vulture. He takes in the sight of the Sandman exposed before him, expression full of devious amusement as he leers shamelessly. “So sorry to interrupt,” he lies easily. His gaze is pointedly focused between Sandy‘s legs. “I didn’t realize you were busy putting on a one-man show.”
His face stings at that, and his hands clench helplessly in humiliation. He can deal with this. Eventually, he is sure, Pitch will grow bored with teasing him and leave. At least the Nightmare King can’t read his mind, so he will only have to endure the physical aspect of the torment.
Unless…
And of course the second he thinks of it, Pitch’s clever eyes catch the soft golden glow of his laptop screen.
Sandy lurches, eyes wild and limbs struggling against his bonds to do anything to stop Pitch from taking interest in the little computer on the desk. His golden sand explodes into shape above his head desperately, only to be consumed by the black grit at his sides within an instant. It is no use.
The Nightmare King sees his struggling and smirks savagely. “Oh, sweet little Sandman, not so innocent after all, are you?” He ceases his pacing, eyes now lingering on the screen a few steps away. “Now, I wonder…” He begins to walk, one slow, torturous step at a time, and he keeps Sandy in his peripheral vision to gauge his reaction as he nears the laptop. “…What sort of entertainment serves as pornography for the Guardian of Dreams?”
Sandy closes his eyes, trying to swallow down the overwhelming sensation of doom. He hopes Pitch will be scandalized, disgusted, and leave without a word. He wishes he could just explode into a pile of dust and not have to face his nemesis any longer, face scrunched as he awaits the response he knows is coming.
Pitch’s condescending, horribly delighted laughing seems to fill the entirety of the Island of Sleepy Sand.
“How flattering,” Pitch crows gleefully, and Sandy grits his teeth, absolutely mortified. “Does this consist entirely of your hands, my thighs, and- oh, would you look at that!” Another lilting chuckle, and Sandy wishes he could just die. “Well, let’s start at the beginning then, shall we?”
Pitch scrolls to the top of the first page, and begins reading Sandy’s private fantasy. He can’t lie there and allow this; he tries so hard to free himself. He heaves and bucks until he’s panting desperately, and is still unable to move an inch.
Frustrated, the Sandman unleashes his golden weaponry in a wild torrent, trying to force it to lash at the Boogeyman before it can be corrupted and choked back by Pitch’s vicious web. They fail, falling short scant inches from the villain’s face before collapsing, useless and tarnished to the floor, and Sandy writhes in blind rage. He puts everything he has into a few more desperate attempts, all quelled by the hungry ropes of black sand binding him.
Not one grain of sand reaches Pitch, no matter how fiercely he fights. It is in vain, and the villain laughs at his wild trashing.
When he has nothing left to exert, when he gasps for air, face contorted in a wince, bereft of energy, he flops back to the ground, defeated. He lays, still and humiliated, and only hopes Pitch will destroy him when he finishes and just be done with it.
The Nightmare King resumes parsing through the words on the screen, a mild smirk on his lips. Sandy struggles to regain his composure.
Why should he be made to feel inferior and perverse just because he has desires like any other being? He takes a shaking breath, resolving to not let Pitch make him feel this way. He has always been modestly confident in himself, his body, his beliefs. He will not be made to feel ashamed of himself because of teasing and cruelty.
And then Pitch begins to read aloud.
Sandy feels blood rushing to his face as the familiar words he’d written sound seductive and exotic on the taller immortal’s tongue.
The intent may have been to humiliate, but the effect it has on Sandy is quite far from that. Not that he isn’t embarrassed, of course, but those words in Pitch’s velvety, smooth voice is the best thing that the Sandman has ever heard.
The Nightmare King recites an entire, sexually charged paragraph, brow rising at particular phrases that seem to catch his fancy. Sandy bites his lip in response. His arousal, which had begun to ebb and leave his length soft and relaxed, now returns full-force. It throbs between his legs as each word paints hot, vivid pictures in his mind.
Pitch reads a few more steamy sentences before his voice trails into silence. Sandy isn’t sure whether he is disappointed or glad, because he could have listened to Pitch narrate his sexual fantasies for the rest of his days.
When the Nightmare King finally finishes the fable he straightens fluidly, standing with a flourish and glancing down fleetingly at the flushed dream weaved trapped on the floor. “It seems you have a wild imagination for more than just dreams,” he says smoothly, malice on his grinning black lips. “But really, there is one obvious problem I see in your writing style.”
Sandy shoots him a look, chest heaving, but no longer in anger, and watches as Pitch comes close enough to touch. That angular face leans in, and Sandy realizes that his companion’s pupils are blown wide. Pitch is aroused? By reading what he wrote about them together?
He whispers against the small, golden ear, dark voice svelte and husky. “When push comes to shove, and we meet together in the dark, you will not be calling the shots. I will.” Sandy feels his breath leave him in a rush, and the Boogeyman continues, spidery grey fingers beginning to dance upon the exposed, creamy skin of his stomach. His muscles twitch beneath the feather-light touches. “You’ll bend to my every whim, every command I can think to give. And do you know why?”
Sandy barely manages to shake his head, gaze locked in disbelief with Pitch’s confident, smoldering eyes.
“Because I am bigger than you.” Those meandering fingers begin to travel lower across Sandy’s body. He tenses. “Stronger than you.” His fingertips are so, so painfully close to brushing against the swollen tip of his erection, and Sandy’s breath catches, willing himself to stay still and not buck up to meet them. “And, most of all,” he whispers as a single digit ghosts over his eager cock head, “because you‘ll let me.”
Those fingers, Pitch’s damnable, blessed, bony fingers, finally close around his shaft.
Sandy’s jaw falls slack, the pressure so perfect. His mouth moves in a silent, thankful litany as Pitch begins to slide his hand along the length. He rolls his hips up to meet the grey fist grasping him, relishing the indescribable way it feels to have another person touching him, and having that person be Pitch.
He realizes quickly that he is not going to be able to hold out. Between becoming aroused over his vivid fantasy, beginning to masturbate, listening to the Nightmare King recite said story out loud in that flawless voice, and now this, Sandy is feeling pressure building at a rapid pace within his rounded abdomen. He squirms in Pitch’s grip, whishing he could bat his hand away. He does not want this to be over so quickly.
Sandy locks eyes with Pitch, pleading with his lust-filled gaze even as he gasps and wriggles in pleasure.
Pitch always manages to read him like a book, even without his sand signs. “Relax,” he hisses, low and soft, hand never stilling as he thumbs over the leaking head of Sandy’s pretty little cock. “You’ll last much longer later if we rub out this easy one first.”
His head swims at the idea of lasting longer later and this being considered first in a series of something he very, very much wants to continue. So he takes Pitch’s advice and slumps against the ground, thighs trembling. The Boogeyman smirks, increasing the pace of his stroking. His thumb slides tantalizingly soft over the taut cord of flesh just beneath the flushed glans before circling the slit.
Sandy jerks, mouth locking open as he starts rocking his hips wildly. Pitch touching him, bringing him to orgasm; it’s all he’s ever wanted, and it’s amazing, too much, and he quivers as he suddenly and violently spills his seed against his lover’s hand.
Pitch milks him with a few more gentle squeezes, watching as the ecstasy slowly drains from the Sandman’s soft features.
He lays still, trying to catch his breath, worried that if he opens his eyes it will all have been just a fantastic wet dream, waiting to vanish upon his waking. Then Pitch is leaning over him, speaking softly against his ear once more as he slurps gently on the lobe. “I’d love to remove that web. We could free your eager little hands, hmm? I can think of a more practical position to put you in for what’s coming next.” The Nightmare King presses a breathy, soft kiss to his cheek. “If you’ll pardon the pun.”
Sandy manages an enthusiastic nod, turning his head and opening his eyes to look at the taller immortal. Pitch looks all but ravenous, eyes feral and grin hungry.
“But you will have to behave,” he warns with a smirk, gathering his companion’s creamy semen, still warm and slick, against his fingertips. He flicks his wrist, and the black sand returns to him, swirling and vanishing from Sandy’s body.
He remains on his back for a few seconds, drawing his arms in to rub at his strained wrists. He hadn‘t realized how fiercely he had struggled; his skin is marred with dark indents where the strands of black sand had dug in to resist his movement. But his mind is still buzzing with afterglow, and he really isn’t concerned with his wrists right now, not when Pitch is still kneeling beside him with a predatory look.
Sandy slowly removes his disheveled clothing, gazing into Pitch’s eyes and smirking devilishly. He can see the straining tent in the other’s trousers, can see how he watches him greedily. Sandy has had his release, but Pitch still yearns for his own. He rises to step out of his pajamas, fully naked and feeling only a little vulnerable in front of the taller immortal. But the apprehension is overshadowed by the all-encompassing desire to return the favor. He wants to make Pitch feel good, wants to hear his voice crack in rapture, to see his expression as he loses himself to Sandy’s touch.
The Nightmare King nods approvingly, allowing his eyes to devour the expansive curves of golden flesh before him. Softening cock, milky thighs, supple hips, flushed chest, and pert apricot nipples alike greet him in a mouth-watering display. “Very nice,” he breathes, almost as if he had not intended it to be spoken aloud. His free hand trails absently up Sandy’s soft stomach and ribs. Purposely, he curls his fingers around Sandy‘s neck, hovering there with the barest of pressure. The Guardian cannot suppress his shiver, and Pitch delights in the little trill of fear it earns him. Satisfied, he slides his palm up to cup his companion’s soft, round cheek. “Get on your knees,” he whispers, voice rough with lust.
Sandy eagerly obeys, trembling with excitement as he turns his back to the Nightmare King and kneels. He knows how very, very vulnerable this makes him, how easy it would be for Pitch to smite him in one smooth move. But he doesn’t dwell on it, instead he lowers himself onto his palms and cants his hips up for his lover’s perusal.
And he grins in triumph when he wins a strangled groan from Pitch’s throat. Victory. Almost as sexy and satisfying as the Boogeyman fisting his cock. Almost.
“Completely at my mercy, and still so insolent,” Pitch snarls, but the snap in his words is all aching arousal. The Nightmare King grips his lover’s hip with one hand, digging in his fingertips hard enough to leave bruises. He eyes the puckered entrance between Sandy’s plump cheeks and growls, low and dangerous. “We’ll see how long you can keep up your sassy façade,” he mutters, lips peeled back. He circles the pad of his index finger, sticky and smeared with come, against the tight, warm muscle.
The contact is electric, and he nearly jumps. He releases a low, ragged breath, trying to resist tensing at the insistent touch against his opening. He hasn’t even been penetrated yet, and he feels his member stirring back to life, heavy between his legs.
Then, Pitch presses inside, and Sandy bites his lower lip and struggles to breathe. Pitch’s finger is so unbelievably long, questing and probing deeper. Despite the smear of ejaculate against his inner walls, it still burns in the most pleasurable way Sandy could ever imagine. His knuckles are rough when they burrow into him, and he loves it. Pitch snickers and pumps his finger in and out slowly, deeply. He pulls back until his fingertip nearly comes free before slipping it back inside Sandy’s willing body.
“Aren’t you just loving this?” Pitch whispers, adding his middle finger into his lover. He feels him spasm in response. “I am.” He smiles, pumping both digits in and out with fervor now. “You should see your little virgin hole opening up for me.”
Sandy trembles, lost in the rough burn and the arcing pleasure pulsing through him. He didn’t think he would, but he absolutely loves that filthy mouth of Pitch’s almost as much as the feeling of being breached. He finds that he craves hearing the next lewd thing to leave his lips, wondering if it will be about his wide hips, or his growing arousal. He doesn’t really care, he just wants to hear it, to feel embarrassment prickle against his face.
He starts rocking back against those long, lean fingers, panting heavily. He needs more. He tries to form images to convey his urgency, but the sand jitters and flutters and won’t properly take shape. He can’t focus enough to keep it still, so he stops trying, conceding control to Pitch to set the pace.
The Nightmare King begins to scissor his fingers, spreading him wide. He takes his time with the action, both for his lover’s pleasure and the added bonus of making Sandy positively writhe. “Hmm? I can’t understand you when you stammer.” He licks his black lips, sliding his free hand down the curves of the smaller immortal’s spine to soothe him. “Is it too much? Would you like to stop?” He smirks because he knows exactly what Sandy’s answer will be.
The Sandman looks over his shoulder, craning to view Pitch as desperate longing crosses his features. He shakes his head emphatically. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Pitch stops now. He needs him, wants so badly to finish with him, to make the Nightmare King come. He takes a shaking breath, trying to steady his sand as it forms above him.
Please don’t stop. Please don’t stop, I love it, I want to please you too, don’t stop, please Pitch.
The shapes still quiver, grains tumbling from their places, but the Nightmare King deciphers them with ease. His grin spreads wide, and he presses a naughty kiss to the swell of Sandy’s ass as he crooks his fingers several times in succession. “Ah, good. For once, I’m glad you’re a team player.”
Then he’s leaning heavily over him, fingers slipped free of clenching muscles. He wants to protest, but Pitch positively overshadows his smaller form, and he feels intimidated, as if the Nightmare King’s mere presence and weight over his back will swallow him whole. Sandy trembles beneath him, a feeble flame waiting to be snuffed out by the dark. Their size difference has never been more painfully obvious to him.
A long, thin hand strokes up his belly, tracing soft, comforting circles upon the rounded flesh, and Sandy’s worries vanish. “What do you use for lubricant when you pleasure yourself?” Pitch asks, quiet and even against the shell of his ear, grey fingers idly flicking over the hard nubs on Sandy’s chest.
His tone is almost conversational, save for the hard, sharp edge of need laced within it. The Sandman tries to make himself think clearly, mind lingering on the sensation of fingers gliding in and out of him and too muddled in the haze of arousal to understand what and why Pitch is asking.
At Sandy’s drawn out silence, his companion elaborates curtly, lightly pinching a nipple. “Pay attention, Sandman, this is important. Lubricant.”
He blinks, the request finally coming through clearly, and he nods, face flushed.
“Fetch it, we will be making very good use of it. As much as I would love to make you take every inch of me right now...” He snickers and presses his confined, engorged length up against Sandy’s soft, naked rear and grinds. The smaller immortal buckles under him at the intensity of searing heat beneath fabric. “I’m afraid you will need a few sessions of thorough stretching before you’re ready for that. And what we’re going to do instead will be much better wet.”
Although he is bit disappointed that he isn’t ready to take Pitch’s cock inside him this night, he is more than a little curious about what the taller immortal has in mind for them as an alternative. That, and the concept of thorough stretching at another time to season his body for his lover makes his stomach twirl in excitement.
Releasing a steady exhale, he focuses on rallying his sand. A faintly shaking golden tendril extends before him, unfurling and stretching further into the open rooms of Sandy’s home. The curiosity gnawing at the back of his mind wreaks havoc with his concentration, but he manages somehow. He closes his eyes, panting heavily, as he focuses on finding the little bottle of lotion that he uses to both moisturize his dry elbows and, on occasion, slick himself up at night when his stories of moaning beneath Pitch reach a frenzied crescendo in his mind.
The glimmering sand wraps around it, lifting the small container from his bedside table, and returns to him with treasure in tow. He’s grateful that Pitch easily snatches it from the grasp of his dream sand, because he does not think his own arms have the strength.
Then the Boogeyman’s warm, firm weight lifts off of him, and Sandy recoils at the sudden chill. He twists to see where his lover has gone, and is greeted by the sight of Pitch leaning back on his heels, parting his robe along the low neckline.
As he strips, he smirks dangerously, sharp teeth peeking between his lips. Catching Sandy’s eye, he makes a show of undressing slowly. The dark, simple robe parts to expose his wide shoulders and thin chest. It slips like liquid off of his frame, pooling around his knees. His collarbones are sharp beneath his skin, his pectorals and abdominal muscles lithe and lean. Pitch’s head tilts to the side, angled down almost shyly, but his grin is all carnivorous intent and his eyes glint in the half light. Sandy stares, and appreciates the sight. He wants that skin, wants it rough against his back, sliding against every inch of his rotund body.
Then the pants come undone, and Pitch repositions himself to shed them. The Sandman’s mouth runs dry.
He sees another man’s bulging erection for the first time, and he sucks in a hasty breath. Pitch’s member is flushed dark and dripping precome, slender and grey and perfect, just like the rest of him. He is overcome with a deep, needy hunger, and heat sparks in his loins. And the Sandman is so proud, knowing that it is all for him. He squirms in anticipation.
“You look like a starving man at a feast,” Pitch whispers, never removing his wild, glittering eyes from his lover’s face. He opens the bottle and pours its contents onto his hand. It is oily, thin, and it feels like silk. Oh, is that going to feel so nice.
Sandy smiles, lip caught between his teeth and so, so eager to have Pitch touching him again.
I am.
The Nightmare King leers smugly at the response, very pleased with his partner’s enthusiasm. “Well. Then let me satisfy you.”
He slides his slick hand up the inside of Sandy’s plump thigh, thumb brushing against his soft sac and massaging his balls. The Sandman throws his head back, mouth wide, and Pitch can just imagine the beautiful sound he would be making if he weren’t remaining silent. He continues the gentle rolling for a few seconds before reaching beyond them and curling his fingers against the root of his lover’s length. Sandy wriggles, relishing the teasing touches and long, sliding pressure of skin on skin.
He pours more liquid into his hand before he smears it along Sandy’s opposite leg, and then along the sensitive expanse of skin between his balls and ass. It is smooth, warm, and velvety beneath his touch.
Sandy squirms, overwhelmed and hot, fingers scratching at the floor in desperation. He wants more.
“Put your knees together,” Pitch breathes, spreading the lubricant over his own length with a hiss. “As if you’re clenching your legs shut.”
The smaller immortal hesitates for a moment before complying, wondering exactly what it is the Nightmare King is getting at. Sandy pulls his thighs tightly together, delighting in the way they slip against each other from the oil.
Pitch presses in close against him, guiding his erection to the small diamond of space formed by Sandy’s closed legs and testicles. His erection slides easily into the gap, eliciting a strangled moan of pleasure from dark lips.
Sandy opens his mouth in a loud exhale, pulling his thighs in closer to provide Pitch with a little more friction now that he realizes his intent. His lover begins to thrust, length throbbing against his testicles and the crook of his hip. It isn’t inside him, but it feels as if it might as well be, hot and slick and held lovingly between his legs and sac as Pitch ruts and groans.
His two slippery fingers find their way back to Sandy’s entrance, burying themselves easily into the squirming warmth with the aid of the lubricant, and the smaller immortal bucks back, thrilled. His sand forms a half-aborted sign of encouragement before he looses the ability to control it, golden grains tumbling back to their guide.
Pitch moans, eyes closing as he works his hand deep inside his lover, pumping in and out in time with his own wanton thrusting. His free hand grasps the Sandman’s fleshy hip, pulling him close against his body as they move in unison, back and forth, striving for more of the sweet friction.
From this angle, his fingers rub against just the right spot and Sandy begins to quake. The sensation is deep and hot, and it sends a violent rush straight into his abdomen. Struggling to support his weight, he reaches down to stroke his own length, mouth wide as he feels himself teetering desperately on the brink. Mindless ecstasy lies just beyond, and he’s eager to drown in it.
He lets his fisted hand trail lower, fingers opening when he finds the head of Pitch’s cock nudging past his balls. He lets his finger press against the head, to feel the heat and the clear fluid leaking from it.
The taller immortal jerks, thighs and arms taut as he begins wildly rocking against Sandy, pulling him in hard and tight as he thrusts toward climax. He whispers his lover’s name, raspy, rough, desperate, and loud, and a growl escapes his throat as he comes, pearly essence dribbling down the Sandman’s supple thighs.
Sandy throws his head back one last time, eyes clenched shut as Pitch’s name burns brightly in his mind. He gasps in orgasm, his seed splashing against his stomach and fingers, hips still undulating between the Nightmare King’s hand and his own.
He slumps, spent, a whimper on the tip of his tongue as Pitch holds him close, preventing him from spilling to the ground in a boneless heap. He slips his fingers free and lifts Sandy’s weight into his arms, leaning the golden head against his shoulder with a comforting murmur.
He peppers the flat planes of Pitch’s angular face with lazy, sated kisses, eyes closed in comfortable silence as he lavishes his gratitude and joy upon his lover with his lips. Pitch slowly, carefully lays on his back, pulling Sandy on top of his stomach and chest, a hand slipping through unkempt golden hair.
Several long, peaceful minutes of quiet pass by, both men struggling to calm their rapid breathing and regain their bearings.
Sandy is the first to recover, leaning forward from his prone position on top of Pitch to steal a kiss from slack black lips. The Nightmare King’s eyes flutter open, hand curling against the nape of the Sandman’s neck. When he pulls back, he’s smiling, golden eyes half-lidded and warm.
You being here is better than any encounter I could ever imagine, hands down.
Pitch smirks softly. “Of course it is. Though you had best not stop writing about us. When I return next time, I may want to read another of your scintillating tales.”
The smaller immortal leans his chin in his palm, tilting his head cheekily despite his heart skipping a beat at the words ‘next time’.
You won’t need to. We’ll act one out from the beginning instead.
The Boogeyman scowls a little, but the expression is smoothly kissed away by Sandy’s sweet, full lips. That doesn’t sound so bad at all, and Pitch closes his eyes to revel in the feeling of the plump dream weaver held closely in his arms.