A.N: I own nothing. Seriously.

A.N#2: Contains rape. Don't like, don't read.

A.N#3: A special thanks to the lovely Nevervana for beta'ing. I suggest y'all check her out.

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Visceral Affections

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This was hell.

Defeat never tasted good in Pitch's mouth. He hated its bitter flavor with all of his being, unable to understand the disastrous turn of events. How, how could he've lost? He'd been so close! There the Guardians were, weak and decrepit, entirely at his mercy. Tooth, unable to fly. North, hobbling like an old man. Bunnymund, nothing but a fluff-ball and Jack Frost, staff broken. And one couldn't forget dear old Sandy, dead by his hands. All of the believing children had been snuffed out, save one. Only one. He had loomed over the pathetic gathering, ready to linger over that child's terror, prepared to destroy its belief, hope, and wonder. But somehow, somehow, victory was snatched from the palm of his claws. He'd been beaten in such a humiliating fashion Pitch cringed to remember it. It'd been insult added to injury when the Sandman, whom he'd been so sure of killing for good, returned, resurrected by the children's belief. His own Nightmares sweeping him away was the final straw.

Let the Guardians have their hurrah. They may've won this time, but Pitch knew his chance would come again. They couldn't keep him away forever.

Pitch slunk through the quiet, nighttime streets of Burgess, keeping out of the orange halos of the streetlights. Every so often a human couple would pass by him, stumbling slightly as if drunk, their arms linked and insipid smiles on their faces. He twitched at their laughter, hating the sound of their mirth and contentment, sullen as they whisked by without a single awareness of his presence. At least there were no children present at the late hour. If he saw one now he probably would've screamed.

Or maybe a brat is just the thing I need, Pitch thought, indulging in the comforting self-pity. They don't have to see for me to give them nightmares.

The idea soothed him. Yes. Scaring a child was just the thing he needed. He looked over his shoulder, wary for any sign of a sleigh or abhorrent do-gooder. If he didn't see the Guardians again, it would still be too soon. But luck seemed to be on his side. The sky was empty of certain winter spirits or boomerang-throwing rabbits, the moon nothing but a slim smile, the filament above as black as tar. Even the stars seemed cold as they gazed down with their pitiless regard. Pitch straightened and let a sneer curl his lips. Though he was weaker than ever and fearling-less, he still had enough power to turn a dream into a nightmare.

The Boogeyman glided soundlessly along the outskirts of the town before stopping in front of a modest house with white trimmings. He could feel the child's glowing essence from where he stood on the immaculate lawn. He bared his teeth in an animal's grin and let himself dissolve, re-materializing under the child's bed. It was a boy; how innocent it appeared as it slumbered, unaware of the monster hovering over him. How peaceful. Pitch bent almost in half over it, listening to the soft, deep breathing with mounting irritation, hating its serenity. He smiled down at it, expression softening, metallic eyes tinted green from the child's Kermit the Frog nightlight.

"Let's add some nightmares, shall we?" he said, extending a hand.

The hand never reached its destination. A golden strand of dreamsand wrapped around his wrist, arresting it in place. Pitch stared down at it, wide-eyed in shock, before being yanked out the open window with the force of a gigantic vacuum. He was hurtling in the air, still bound, before the whip released him with a flick. Before he knew it he was tumbling head-over-heels into the woods, crashing into trees and bushes alike. When he smashed to the ground he left a trail of broken branches, tattered leaves, and a skid-mark more than thirty feet long. He finally came to a stop by a grand oak tree, face buried in the dirt. He rolled onto his back with a groan, wincing. Clutching his head, spitting loam from his mouth, he propped himself up on an elbow and looked up.

"Sandy!" Pitch laughed a little too loudly and sat straight, back pressed against the oak. He placed a hand over his heart in mock fright. "Didn't hear you there."

The diminutive dream-caster was unamused. His round, normally jolly face was set in a flat, unsmiling frown, as if it'd been chiseled from flint, his little arms crossed in front of his chest. Only his eyes moved as he watched Pitch haul himself up. The Boogeyman brushed the worst of the dirt from his person, pretending not to notice the other's heavy, weighted glare. It had taken him only a glance to surmise they were alone. Not that it mattered. Pitch was keenly aware the Sandman was the only one of the Guardians who actually landed a blow, the only one who could send a frisson of unease down his spine. It'd been he with his whips who caused him the most damage, and still could, now that Pitch was weaker than he'd like.

"So what do I owe for this joyous reunion?" the Boogeyman said when he was free of vegetation. "Did you miss me? No, no, wait, don't say anything. We wouldn't want you breaking your silence, now would we."

If anything, the Sandman's face hardened and congealed, frown deepening. Over his head came a burst of images, one clearer than the rest. It was scene of his death, a great arrow slicing through his back. As the Boogeyman watched he chuckled. He shook his head. When the Tooth Fairy got her revenge by smashing his jaw and breaking a tooth, at least she appeared dangerous. On such a rotund, ridiculous-looking body, the Sandman's grave seriousness was almost amusing.

"C'mon, Sandy. Surely you can't still be upset over that, can you? What's done is done. No hard feelings meant. Really."

As it'd been on the rooftop the Sandman's whips came out of nowhere, zooming at Pitch with lightening speed. Pitch ducked and dodged them the best he could, whooping every time he evaded a strike. Soon it became apparent he wasn't at his full strength; twice the whips licked across his shoulders and face. Corkscrews of pain swirled behind his eyes. He tried to escape into the nighttime murk of the forest, but the golden aura around the Sandman kept the darkness at bay. He was there, here, always in the way. He blocked off the Nightmare King's retreat, his lashes singing in the air with harsh cracks. When a golden strand caught his ankle, Pitch barely had enough time to brace himself before he was being tossed around the forest like a giant's plaything, whizzing through treetops and smashing on the ground with remorseless force. For the second time in five minutes Pitch found himself crashing head-over-heels through the woods, stopping upside-down at the foot of a tree. It took him longer to right himself out, his immortal body battered and weary. The first niggles of fear gnawed on him as a dog would a bone when the Sandman made his way towards him, mouth set in a hard, thin line. Pitch held up a charcoal hand as if to stay the Sandman's advance.

"Okay. I can tell you're mad. I'd be too if that happened to me, but we shouldn't let the past get between us. You know what? How about I don't cast any nightmares tonight. How does that sound?"

Pitch liked to think himself immortal, but staring into the depths of the Sandman's anger, he suddenly wasn't so sure. The Guardian wasn't going to try and return the favor, was he?

"Sandy, wait. If you'd just give me a chance to explain, I'm sure we—"

When the whips came out again they were different than last time. When they struck they didn't snap back but remained, entwining around the lithe body like golden snakes. Pitch pulled and slapped at them before tripping over a root in his haste to escape their touch, crashing to the forest floor with a pained oof. They were as remorseless as their master. With the unyielding relentlessness of strangler figs they soon bound Pitch tight. His arms and hands were fixed to his side, and no amount of wiggling or struggling could remove them. He didn't like the constrained, bound feeling. There was enough freedom around his legs for him to stand, for which he was thankful.

He was standing up, arms bound, when a whip lashed out. It licked around his backside with a loud snap, causing Pitch to lurch forward and yelp in the most undignified manner. The lash came again and this time he jumped, yowling at its sting. He tried to run, but the dreamsand was there, always there, catching him no matter how many time he spun. Soon he was smarting in pain. Seeing no choice, he stopped and turned to face his aggressor.

"Enough! Alright, you've made your point!"

The little Sandman crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head. He tapped a tiny foot on the ground, waiting.

"You want me to say sorry, is that it?" Pitch said.

The Sandman nodded, his frown relaxing.

"Would you like me to kiss your feet to make it better?" he asked, unable to stop the dripping sarcasm. To his disgusted astonishment, the Sandman made a show of considering it, rubbing his chin. He can't be serious, Pitch thought. Then he realized this was his chance. He manipulated his face in his most contrite expression and lowered himself down until he was almost kneeling, shoulders hunched in supplication. "I'm sorry. It was really bad form, the shooting in the back and all. Please accept my apology."

The Guardian moved closer, imperious. Pitch waited until he was within reach before lashing a foot out, kicking the Sandman square in the jaw. Yes! Pitch thought, crowing. The dream-caster tumbled head-over-heels into the bushes, but Pitch wasn't there to see because he was running, running like he'd never run before, crashing into the forest as if hell was ripping at his heels. He made it almost out of the woods before something swept the legs from under him. He toppled face-first into the dirt, grunting as his chin made contact with the ground. He remained there, dazed, for all of two seconds before rolling onto his back. The downed Nightmare King watched as the Sandman made his way towards him, little hands balled into fists. The wide face was pulled in a grim, furious scowl, eyes almost hidden beneath the weight of their glare, but there was a undercurrent of something else, a heightened scent in the air where none had been previously. Pitch didn't like it. He especially didn't like the way the Sandman was looking at him. The dream-caster conjured a whip's handle in his hand and began deliberately tapping it into the other palm.

Pitch ignored his mounting unease and tried his most disarming smile. "Sandy. Please. Let's talk about this. I'm sorry now, truly. That was a stupid thing for me to do. I won't do it again, I promise."

His mind was still trying to reason the situation out when the diminutive orange Guardian pushed him onto his stomach. Pitch tried to stand. The Sandman sat atop his lower back. It was as if a concrete slab landed on his spine. How could the weightless fool be so heavy? The Boogeyman let himself slump, knowing further struggle would only add more humiliation; it was bad enough he was hogtied like a shot deer. Pitch stiffened when tiny hands began to tug at the bottom of his robes. He kicked, hoping to land another chance shot, but the Sandman evaded the thrashes. The golden sands around Pitch's body tightened to the point of discomfort before slithering down and wrapping around one of his legs. The dreamsand bound it to a tree root, holding it immobile. Pitch was suddenly glad they were alone in the dark forest, because should anyone else appeared, like a certain winter spirit, Pitch would've gladly fallen off the face of the earth. He fumed, bearing the inexorable touches with the suffering of a martyr, not willing to give the Sandman the satisfaction.

That was before the mute Guardian pushed the robes aside to expose his most intimate entrance. Pitch's mind felt as if coated in molasses, clogged to an unbearably slow, surreal crawl. It took several more moments of silent fumblings before a horrible idea came to him. It was impossible. Sandy wouldn't dare. The idea only solidified when the whip's handle was set against him. The Boogeyman froze, unable to comprehend the turn of events.

"What are you doing, you mad creature? No, no—wait, Sandy wait, don't do thiMMMNN!"

In one fluid motion the handle was shoved deep inside him. Pitch went ramrod stiff, eyes screwed shut, pain he couldn't imagine gripping his bowels. The handle had been composed of sand, utterly dry. The friction was agonizing. Pitch breathed hard through his nose, trying to ride through the waves of white hot pressure. It seared like fire. It wiped away all coherent thought. Pitch could do nothing but clench around the intrusion, panting low and fast, every so often an involuntary MMMN escaping him, his free foot digging a furrow in the forest floor. He didn't know how long he stayed prone, unable to move.

After a time he found the agony hadn't exactly lessened, but neither did it get worse. He became aware of himself in incriminates. His hands were fisting the robes at his sides, knuckles white. His face was shoved in the dirt, as if he'd been trying to bury it. When he sensed the other positioning behind him he almost shrieked.

"Nnnn Sandy, wainhhahaha wait!"

The other paused, not moving from his sitting position on Pitch's lower back, still holding him immobile. Though Pitch couldn't turn his head to look at the Sandman, he could sense the dream-caster indulging him, patient like a vast, immovable force. The Boogeyman forced himself to think through the searing ache, groaning. He had bitten his lip so hard he could taste blood in his mouth.

"What do you want? I'll give anything, anything, just stop. Just tell me what—nnng—what you want—ah!—and I'll give it, I'll give it I swear to the Moon."

There was no verbal response—Pitch hadn't expected any—but the Sandman jiggled the handle, sending Pitch hissing and tightening again. After a minute or two he relaxed a margin, body trembling under the strain. He resisted shouting when he felt the handle slowly drag out, every inch dry as bone. With equal slowness it was shoved back inside. Pitch panted and clenched through it all, trying to find a rhythm, but he couldn't, just couldn't, the pain a burning fire inside him. He couldn't think over its blaze, couldn't move. He lost count of the strokes, grunting, his free foot kicking out every so often. When the intrusion slipped out and never reentered, Pitch took the moment to gather himself, still gasping like he'd raced across seven continents. Was it finally over? What more could the Sandman do? He groaned when the handle reinserted itself.

"Nnnah! Stop. Stop, I can't take it. Please, stop."

For answer the Sandman continued his ministrations, except this time was different. What had been bone dry before was now slick. The whip's handle entered him with almost slippery ease. The burning was still there, but it was easier to pretend this wasn't happening to him, he wasn't here on the ground with Sandy behind him, humiliating and debasing him in a way he hadn't thought possible. After a few strokes Pitch found he was stretched enough to accommodate its girth. The pain, once so scalding hot, simmered now to a low, aching burn. He could almost imagine himself somewhere else. Anywhere but here. He tried to let his mind drift, groaning. On a particularly deep shove he quivered, breath hitching from something other than just pain, an involuntary Oh! pulled from his lips. He squirmed on his stomach, hating the tiny bloom of pleasure worse than the previous agony. He tried to ignore it. The Sandman did it again. Pitch lurched forward on his stomach, another surprised mmm! rising in the air.

When the dream-caster paused, experimenting with the angle of the handle, Pitch said, "Stop this. Please. You can't do this to me, I'll do anything, anyNNNNHG!"

His coherency dissolved under another thrust, this one deepest of all. The angle had changed, maneuvered to brush over a sensitive bundle of nerves. He twisted, free leg thrashing, but he couldn't avoid the pleasure. He shuddered when it left him, gasping. He began to kick and wrench in earnest, trying to dislodge the monster off his back but the Sandman rode out the worst of the jerks, waiting until Pitch tired himself out. The golden bindings still held fast, never loosening an inch. When the Boogeyman slumped the Sandman reached down and patted him between the shoulder blades, as if to say Nice try. Pitch spat and tried to sit up.

"I'll kill you, and this time you'll stay dead! You hear me, Sandman? I'll—"

He almost howled in fury when a little hand reached down between his legs and up, stroking his length through his robes. Pitch began bucking and squirming from the touch, snarling, but found his struggles were actually aiding the Sandman find access. He forced himself still, unable to avoid it either way, clenching his jagged teeth at the sweet, agonizing pleasure, strangled mmmmnnnngs escaping him. His free foot was digging a trench, finding no relief. He moaned, hating himself, hating Sandy, hating how good it felt. Experiencing bliss at his enemy's hand was worse than any agony, and he wished for the white, scalding pain from before. This wasn't supposed to be happening. This couldn't—it wasn't— He bucked and groaned as the stroking inside and outside continued in tandem. The little hand was manipulative and skillful; after a few well-placed fondles and touches his length hardened despite Pitch's desperate attempts not to. This was beyond mortification. The Sandman wouldn't stop, wouldn't leave him a moment's break. Wave after wave of pleasure jolted him every time the handle entered him. The Sandman was remorseless, and soon Pitch was almost sobbing from the stimulation, bound, unable to evade its enjoyment.

"Please no, no more, pleannng, no moooh, oh, ohhhh—"

A swell of pleasure like none before grew at the base of his spine, blooming until it reached an unbearable peak. Pitch writhed, unable to utter a single sound in the thrall of the inexpressible ecstasy. A different type of heat exploded within him, taking him to insurmountable heights. All other thoughts or sensations were obliterated, torn from their hinges, and Pitch hung, unable to stop the tsunami. Time lost meaning. He didn't know how long he floated on bliss, surely dying. Then, like clouds overtaking the sun, the rapture began to diminished, slowly at first, then with gaining speed. The wake of its aftermath left the Boogeyman spasming and shuddering. He lay there, spent, unable to move for an entirely different reason than his bindings. He barely flinched when the heavy weight rolled off, or when the intrusion was removed from his body.

A minute passed, maybe five; Pitch couldn't tell. His earlier panting slowed to a deep breathing. He slowly returned back to his body. The golden bindings had melted away without his notice, leaving him free to move. There was a hard, aching throb between his legs, twinging as he curled his feet beneath his body. He winced as he propped himself up on an elbow, dirt and grass plastering his front, the warm stain of his spilled release already drying. Pitch stared at it, horrified, uncomprehending. He looked up. A warm, golden glow surrounded the little Guardian. The Sandman tried to keep his face carefully blank, but Pitch could read the blatant satisfaction in the golden eyes. His aura simply oozed with smugness and, beneath it all, appeased vengeance. The Boogeyman tried to get up on shaking arms, mouth wrinkling in a terrible, unholy snarl.

"How . . . dare you—"

The snarl morphed into abject fear when the diminutive dream-caster began strolling towards him, an index finger outstretched. Pitch recoiled, crab-walking backwards. He slammed into the nearest tree but wasn't in time to miss the sharp flick to his nose. Pitch snorted, eyes crossing. He barely had enough time to blink before the Sandman was throwing a ball of dreamsand straight into his face. Within seconds the Boogeyman was asleep, slumping forward where he sat, miniature whips floating around his head.

The Sandman regarded his handiwork and nodded sharply once, wiping his hands in a dainty show, his appetite for justice well sated. He turned, unperturbed, as Bunnymund and Jack Frost emerged from the woodwork, identical expressions of horrified fascination on their faces. The giant rabbit looked at the winter spirit and said, voice full of awe,

"Bloody hell, you were right: you really don't want to get on his bad side."

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-fin-