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Title: Breaking Even
Fandom: Rise of the Guardians
Pairing: Pitch Black/Sanderson Mansnoozie
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 1868
Summary: Written for the DW kink meme: After years of Sandy doing good deeds for others, somebody unexpected decides to return the favour.



You have never asked for appreciation. You accepted your role many years ago; you were made to love, not to be loved. You are warm and wide, soft and short. You smell like vanilla and honey, like cinnamon and nutmeg, whatever people need to feel comforted and safe. When people hold you, they remember happy nights in the arms of parents, friends, lovers. It isn't their fault, and while it can be upsetting in lonelier times, you don't resent them for it.

You give dreams to others. You don't take them.

Being a dreamweaver is a privilege like no other, and for all the battles you and Pitch have fought, you can't help but respect each other's work to some degree. You know the innermost hopes and dreams of every child - their truest, unguarded desires - and you take care of those secrets. The little girl who dreams of being a princess. The little girl who dreams of marrying a princess.

Pitch knows the darker mirrors of those hopes and even if he is cruel, even if he teaches lessons no child should have to learn, you can see the craftsmanship in his work.

There's nothing admirable about the creature pinning Pitch to the floor, pouring dark thoughts into his ear that have him scrabbling at the air for help, teeth bared with a hiss, and you urge it away with a crack of your whip. Black sand surrounds Pitch's bed, would stain your feet if you stopped floating, and you wonder how many creatures he took care of before this one haunted his sleep.

You can't help how a little more black sand falls to the floor when a second lash of your whip destroys the creature. It isn't your fault if it lacked the sense to leave you alone.

It's only natural that you feel some relief as you watch the grimace on Pitch's face disappear.

You leave him in the dark and return to the sky, sending threads of sand down to those who want them and a few more who outright need them. One happens to stray down to Pitch that night - and for several nights after that. You figure you can let him choose what to do with them.

You don't expect a night to come when he shapes one of them into an invitation.



You don't fear Pitch, and you never will. You are more than aware of what frightens you, even if you don't embrace it. Pitch has always found that trait of yours peculiarly offensive; you find his decision to take offense charming.

"I owe you a debt," Pitch says, and a light blue mist escapes his lips when he speaks.

You shape a woman's face with your thoughts, her eyes covered and her mouth wide. Justine LeGris. The Lady Justice, to those who believe in her.

"Yes," Pitch says, tension written in the taut line of his neck. "You gave me dreams after I gave you nothing but nightmares. Justine feels I should rectify that. She's a heavy-handed sort of woman."

Pitch smirks awkwardly, and you grin back in solidarity. You are well aware of Justine's methods of restoring balance.

"Thank you," Pitch says, and it's strange how you can hear the same words over and over in a lifetime without ever tiring of them. Hearing them from an unexpected source is all the sweeter.

You nod, still grinning, and turn to leave before Pitch catches your waist with a shadow, pulls you back to him, and kisses you.

A hundred thoughts blossom and burst over your head, none of them taking solid shape except for a huge, unwavering, question mark.

Pitch kissed you. Nobody kisses you.

Pitch settles his hands on your waist, letting the shadow disappear, and doesn't show any hint of distaste at how his fingers sink in where your body is soft.

Pitch drops to his knees and sets you down on the clean-swept floor of his lair, looks at the question mark above your head.

"Justine's idea of fair play," he replies with a shrug, though the blue mist has gone from his lips. She isn't controlling his tongue.

You point at the question mark for emphasis. Justine is a spirit of truth and honesty, capable of drawing confessions from those who would rather lie or stay silent, but it doesn't explain the kiss.

"You're going to make me say it, aren't you?" Pitch groans, bowing his head and glaring. You prod him in the chest with a finger. He's the one who kissed you; he has no right taking offense when you ask questions. "I have to repay the debt I owe you. As much as it pains me to say it, not all of your fears are valid." He puts on a brave face, as if he is about to confess something hideous even by his own standards, and you prepare for the worst. "You aren't unattractive."

It isn't quite the confession you were expecting, and even though it explains enough to make the question mark above your head shrink, it doesn't make it disappear altogether. You tease him by adding a heart to the mixture, and he rolls his eyes.

"I never said that. You know perfectly well you are loved. All you Guardians are." He sneers at that line, and you float up a little, kiss him on the nose and watch him splutter.

You kiss him again before he can make himself look any sillier and smile when you're done. It's an honest smile; he looks beautiful in his surprise.

"If you don't mind," Pitch says, digging his fingers into the folds of your robe while allowing the shadows of his own clothing to melt away, "I'd like to get on with repaying my debt."

You laugh and cover your mouth quickly, embarrassed by the sound even though there is no one nearby to wake up.

Pitch's eyes turn wicked as he pulls your hands away from your mouth. "You'll make more interesting noises than that tonight," he says, nipping your lower lip with his teeth and licking the pain away after. This is probably a terrible idea, but you don't believe in looking a gift horse in the mouth - especially when that gift horse bites. "That I can guarantee my dear, dear Sandman."



You don’t have the patience to tease back for long - not when Pitch is naked before you, his fingers clever, spindly things searching for the fastenings of your robes and finding none. You wait for him to carry you over to his bed before revealing the secret of how your clothing works, snapping your fingers and letting it shatter into dust.

"You're cleaning that up later," Pitch says, and you roll your eyes before wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss. The hard flat of his chest presses against the soft swell of your belly, but you barely feel self-conscious at all - not when you can see his cock hanging hard and heavy between his legs, a break from all the clean, sharp, tidy lines of the rest of him. It makes you hungry knowing he's too big for you to take, and the knowledge doesn't stop you wanting to.

Pitch eyes the shapes above your head as he breaks away from the latest kiss, tsks at you quietly before he dips his head, spreading your thighs with his hands and peppering them with kisses that sink black into the gold of your skin. You don't know how long the stains will last, and you don't care as much as you probably should.

You never thought another person would want to see you hard.

"I've never heard you talk," Pitch says, his breath cool on skin left wet by the attentions of his tongue. "I sometimes wonder if you can." You're not a selfish person by nature, but with his mouth so close to your cock, the promise of oblivion in the twist of his lips, you wish he would shut up. "Do you want me to make you come?"

You don't say a word. You think several.

Pitch grins before cupping your balls in one hand and guiding your cock into his mouth with the other.

You dig your hands into the soft darkness of his hair quickly, worried by what you might write with your sand if you don't keep them occupied. There are dreams you don't want to share with the world. This is one of them.

Pitch closes his eyes and you wonder as you look down at him, his bobbing head and hollowed cheeks, how you'll ever keep this particular secret. You know human adults manage it. But you're not human, your thoughts turn into swirls of sand with little control, and you've never felt anything like this.

You can feel one of Pitch's hands carefully massaging and kneading your balls but it takes you a few moments to work out where his other hand has gone, and when a roll of Pitch's hips and muffled groan give it away, the thought sears itself into your memory. He's using his free hand to stroke his own cock.

Sucking your cock is making Pitch want to come.

You moan at the idea, helpless in a way, because receiving this as a gift is one thing, having Pitch enjoy giving it is another. You buck hard and he takes it, offering only a brief grunt of protest when your cock nudges the back of his throat, and when your balls draw up tight he urges you on, swallowing around you as you come. When he finally pulls back, licking your cock clean and watching you tremble, you can see the satisfaction in his eyes when he looks up at you.

You watch and he watches you as he strokes himself, fisting his cock rapidly, and every time he licks his lips or gasps and reveals the dark shape of his tongue, it reminds you that he can still taste your come.

You're half-hard again by the time he keens and spurts all over his fist, wet and filthy, his neck arched and a whine on his lips.

It's a display, but not one of dominance or submission. And it's aimed at you.



This truce won't last long. They never do - Pitch has places to go, people to scare, and you'll have to clean up the mess. It doesn't make the moment any less honest when you reshape your robes and curl up at Pitch's side, admiring the play of light on his grey skin and replaying every last second you spent with him in a loop, committing it to memory.

You don't want to leave while he still smells like you.

"I will make you scream my name one day," Pitch says, his eyes dark but his expression soft. "I'd prefer to wring it from you this way."

You raise an eyebrow before leaning over and whispering in his ear.

What you say doesn't matter. It's worth saying just to watch Pitch's cheeks flush purple.

You try to use your powers for good, but after a lifetime of selfless deeds, there's nothing wrong with a little mischief.

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