[to be titled]
Jan. 4th, 2016 01:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
emeraldembersFic: We’re All Mad Here (Pitch/Sandy, NC17)
Title: We’re All Mad Here
Fandom: Rise of the Guardians
Pairings: Pitch/Sandy (with a light sprinkling of Pitch/Nightlight)
Warning: References to murder, cannibalism, and fetishisation of mental hospitals.
Author’s Notes: Belated birthday fic for xxdaimonxx although inspiration for the prompt itself is entirely thanks to gretchensinister and her post, “If you give me sexy blood red blacksand with Pitch in a straitjacket I will reciprocate with whatever it is in my power to do so with”.
*
Sanderson Mansnoozie had been a hedonist for the major part of his adult life. He had never felt guilt for his indulgences, and while for a period in his late teens he had cultivated a more socially acceptable conscience, he soon realised the reward would not be worth the effort and gave up the pursuit.
Sandy had known Pitch less than a year when he realised he was addicted to the man as surely as any alcoholic or chain smoker. He had invited Pitch to join him in many of his indulgences, and he enjoyed spoiling him with each new experience. Pitch lived for tainted beauty and all things bittersweet, loved sweet wines, urban decay, and murder. Sandy loved to find new tastes for him, new places that they might visit together, victims who would say “thank you”.
Pitch paid little attention to time or anniversaries as a coping mechanism for years of loneliness in a dead-end job, but he obsessed over Halloween like a child over Christmas. Pitch had a deep-seated love for anything with a ritual touch - solstices, equinoxes, and Easter would always capture Pitch’s imagination - and Halloween was no exception. The fact it ended up being the date on which Pitch freed Sandy from prison was an added bonus.
Sandy had been wondering how best to celebrate the third Halloween in their shared home when chance gave him inspiration. He had spent an evening indulging Pitch’s weakness for horror movies, putting up with a marathon of bad decisions and ugly violence, before one of the films caught Sandy’s attention with its use of quiet moments. It felt real in a way the others hadn’t, careful with its subject matter instead of clumsy, and Sandy could feel the difference in Pitch’s reaction to it - the way he had stopped laughing or talking over the scenes and instead leant forward, coiling into himself and biting his lip.
He was excited by the realism, and Sandy slid a hand up the back of Pitch’s sweater, rubbed warm circles across Pitch’s bare skin and felt him relax into the touch.
“I’ve never spent time in an asylum,” Pitch said after the movie finished and they retired to bed together. “I feel like I’ve missed out.”
Sandy pursed his lips as he straddled Pitch, unsurprised to find that he was already hard. “The experience of life in a mental hospital is vastly overrated,” Sandy replied in between kissing Pitch’s neck. “I’d hesitate to recommend it.”
“Spoilsport,” Pitch said, arching to help Sandy lift up his sweater but lying back down as soon as his head was free from it, leaving his arms loosely bound. “Fuck me like this,” Pitch demanded, and Sandy grinned before biting down hard on Pitch’s neck, a plan for Halloween taking shape in his thoughts.
Sandy set a bucket of candy down outside their front door with a note advising they couldn’t come out due to flu, disabled the doorbell, and locked the front door, determined they wouldn’t be interrupted for the night. He’d barred Pitch from entering the attic all week, spent a little time each evening stapling down blankets and pillows on top of the insulation to create comfortable padding and hanging up plastic sheets to create a claustrophobic space, and he meant for his efforts to pay off.
Thankfully the attic lighting was poor and helped add to the atmosphere he’d created, but he’d still had to spray the walls with disinfectant over and over to have that smell replace the previous scent of mothballs and dust.
Sandy knew that his gifts for Pitch would have been enough to satisfy him on their own, but Sandy meant to ruin him completely, and what better time was there to indulge in dress-up and roleplay than Halloween?
Dinner was a tense affair in the best way, the meal Pitch had prepared a light and delicately seasoned dish, and crêpes suzette for dessert. Pitch’s presentation skills had improved in the time Sandy had known him, but his talent for flavours and textures was innate, and Sandy briefly wished the thought of the night ahead wouldn’t affect his ability to savour the orange-sugar decadence.
Much as he would have liked to finish his portion, Sandy knew when anticipation threatened to turn his appetite into nausea, and set down his fork before nursing a glass of wine and waiting for Pitch to finish.
He loved moments like this, when they both knew what was on the other’s mind. Each time they had sensed a kindred spirit back in therapy, each time they took a victim together, each time a moment in public gave them inspiration for what they could do in private. It was an intimacy that didn’t require physical contact.
“Should I brush my teeth now or later?” Pitch asked, and Sandy grinned before standing up and walking around the table to kiss him, tasting the sticky-sweetness on his lips.
“Brush your teeth and wash, but don’t get changed yet,” Sandy said, rubbing his thumb over Pitch’s chin. “I have plans for you.”
Pitch grinned back and nipped at Sandy’s thumb before helping to clear the table and turn off the few lights remaining downstairs, and Sandy felt a pleasant flutter in his stomach; it was good to see Pitch shared his eagerness.
Sandy drew a line of chalk across the landing floor, taming his grin into a more placid smile as Pitch approached and obeyed it without being asked, feet stopping just short of the white mark.
“Please remove all articles of clothing, shoes, jewellery, and any other accessories you have on your person, and place them in the box provided.”
Pitch eyed the laundry basket, laughed and nodded before stripping down, taking time with each button on his shirt, the zipper of his pants, the fly of his boxers. Not that he needed to undo the fly to remove the latter - he just liked to tease and to test Sandy’s patience.
Sandy allowed himself a quick glance at Pitch’s cock, knowing he’d waste more energy averting his eyes than taking a look, before handing over the bundle of plain white pyjamas he’d chosen specifically for the night. “Once you’re dressed, we’ll handle your initial interview and settle you in your quarters. If you need food, drink, or a bathroom break, you speak to me. Do you understand?”
Pitch’s smirk stuck as he pulled the pyjama pants up to settle on his narrow hips, but he nodded his assent, finished dressing, and followed Sandy up into the attic.
The anticipation-fear-arousal on Pitch’s face when he saw the play area Sandy had created for them made every second of effort worthwhile, and Sandy made a pleased sound at the thought Pitch hadn’t even seen what waited for him in his “cell” yet.
A combination picnic table and bench set Pitch had bought for their camping trips served as Sandy’s “office”, though he had draped it with a white tablecloth and set out a clipboard and some other odds and ends to make it look more official.
Sandy picked up a plastic zip-tie from the table, eager to get on with their game, and Pitch sat down before holding his hands behind his back obediently for Sandy to bind them. Sandy allowed himself a quick smile as he pulled the zip-tie tight, then took a seat on the opposite side of the table.
“Mr Black,” Sandy began in a clipped tone, “You need little introduction. I’ve read plenty in the papers about your proclivities, so let’s keep this simple. I’m Dr Mansnoozie and it is my job to determine how dangerous you are to yourself and others, and we will have weekly sessions to determine if or when you will be permitted to mingle with other guests at this facility. So, my first question to you is this; do you believe you are guilty of the murders for which you have been held?”
Pitch turned his head to the side, keeping Sandy in his peripheral vision, a quizzical look on his face. “Was I found guilty?”
“On all four counts,” Sandy replied.
“All four? Oh yes. I’m quite guilty of four.” Pitch turned back towards Sandy, eyes bright with ideas. “I admitted guilt. I’m not sure why the question needs asking.”
“Procedure, Mr Black, and we want to be sure you believe the words you said on the stand. Some officers of the law can be… persuasive when attempting to extract a confession.” Sandy clicked his pen, ran it over his clipboard idly. “Did you know your victims’ names before the newspapers caught onto your pattern and listed them all? Ivan, Harald, Christopher, Maria - all young or young-looking, athletic immigrants who enjoyed hiking.”
“I didn’t care about their backgrounds,” Pitch said, waving a hand dismissively, “Or their names. The less I knew of them, the easier I could hide that knowledge. How much longer will this take?”
Pitch had relaxed now, sliding into character, and Sandy allowed himself a brief smile before continuing, “Is this why you referred to your first kill as ‘Nightlight’? Ivan, the security guard. Pale and younger looking than -”
“I know who Nightlight is, thank you,” Pitch interrupted, and Sandy nodded, keeping his manner calm and bland.
There had been other kills with Pitch, but Nightlight was his first solo kill. The first of four that Sandy had missed. “What made you choose to kill Ivan? He was in uniform and would have visibly carried arms when you took him. Not an obvious or easy first choice.”
“I like it when they struggle. I want good hearts and the ability to struggle is proof of one.”
“I see,” Sandy said, breaking eye contact as he started sketching Pitch’s face on his clipboard so as to look busy without creating something distracting or incriminating. “You described your murders as a cure for nightmares - was your victims’ fear important in that?”
“That’s a stupid question.”
“Some would say there are only stupid answers,” Sandy replied easily, looking up from the clipboard. “How did killing Ivan make you feel?”
“Nightlight. He made me feel - relieved. It was dark, he was bright and alone in the woods… he was practically gift-wrapped.”
“Walk me through what happened. Step by step.”
Pitch sat up straight and proud, grinning like a shark. “I wouldn’t want to upset you, doctor.”
Sandy returned his attention to the clipboard and his sketch. “I assure you, you couldn’t.”
“Once upon a time there was a beautiful park ranger, his skin and hair as white as snow. He patrolled the woods, searching for hunters and poachers and all kinds of men, but he forgot all about the big bad wolf. You know how these stories go, doctor.”
“I’m not afraid of the big bad wolf,” Sandy said, eyes on Pitch’s mouth as he copied them onto the sketch.
“You should be,” Pitch teased, licking his teeth, voice dropping to a near whisper as he continued, “The wolf pounced and wrestled the ranger to the floor, wrapped its paws around his thin, pretty neck, and squeezed. And oh, did that ranger fight - he kicked and he punched and he snapped his teeth - but the wolf stole his voice and his air and the light from his pale green eyes. And, like all wolves do, it gobbled him up.”
Sandy closed his eyes for a moment to imagine the scene, remembering with photographic clarity the pictures dear Toothiana had brought to his cell all those years ago. White hair and white skin on a boy’s face, not a man’s despite his age, draped across a bed of autumn leaves with a gaping red wound on the left side of his chest. Were it not Pitch sat in front of him, he would have been reluctant to open his eyes again and give up the sight. “After you strangled him, you cut out his heart. What made you take that trophy?”
“He was strong,” Pitch said, shrugging elegantly, “So I took his strength. I carried it to the stream, I washed it, and I ate it.”
“They were right to put you in my care, Mr Black,” Sandy said, standing up. “You are a very sick man in need of a lot of help, and that’s what our facility is for. Follow me, please.”
Pitch looked disappointed for a moment as he joined Sandy, but quickly perked up when Sandy lifted the plastic sheeting for him to enter his “cell”, the outline of his aroused cock through his pyjama bottoms all the more evident.
“You’ll have to excuse the precautions, Mr Black, but you have a reputation for violence.” Sandy picked up shears and the neatly folded straitjacket from the cell floor. “Arms up, please.”
Pitch’s absolute stillness as Sandy cut the zip tie from his wrists before slipping the straitjacket’s long sleeves over his arms was telling. The way he obediently dipped his head to get it through the neck hole without being asked was even more so.
Sandy took his time tightening the straps at the back of Pitch’s neck, brushing his knuckles against the tense length of it as often as he could. “Can you breathe comfortably?”
Pitch swallowed thickly before nodding, and Sandy placed his hands on Pitch’s shoulders, pushed down to lower Pitch’s arms so he could manhandle them into the necessary self-hugging position.
Words would have spoiled the moment; it felt heightened, as if Sandy could share in everything Pitch felt - the nervous excitement of being restrained, the whisper-softness of breath against his skin, the relief of absolute trust.
Sandy tightened the straps at Pitch’s stomach to hold his arms in place before pulling the ends of the sleeves tight behind Pitch, fixing them together along with the numerous buckles and loops on the back of the straitjacket, locking everything into place.
One strap remained.
Sandy reached under and between Pitch’s legs, groped Pitch’s cock until he was fully hard before taking the straitjacket’s crotch strap and pulling it back to fix it in place, tightening it cruelly.
“I chose your cell for a specific reason, Mr Black,” Sandy whispered before manhandling him to the floor, straddling his narrow hips. “There are no cameras in here. I can give you all the help you need.” He ground his ass against Pitch’s crotch, chuckled at the strangled moan he got in response. “Please don’t misunderstand - I won’t be setting you free, because we both know how stories about the big bad wolf play out,” Sandy moved a hand to run his fingers through Pitch’s hair, scratching his scalp, “But I do like to reward my best behaved patients. Are you going to be a good patient for me?”
Pitch let out a quiet, pleased whine and nodded, arms straining against their bonds momentarily before settling, and Sandy smiled down at him before tightening his grip on Pitch’s hair and pulling hard.
“Show me how good you can be, Mr Black,” Sandy ordered as he unzipped his pants with his free hand and tugged down his boxers, crawling up Pitch’s body to rub the head of his cock against Pitch’s lips. “Open wide.”
Sandy loved everything about Pitch’s mouth, loved its shape, its heat, the sounds Pitch made with it and the unusual shape of his teeth; even in a position that made it difficult to move, Pitch knew how to make him shiver and groan.
Sandy didn’t intend to finish in Pitch’s mouth on this occasion, though. Pitch was already squirming and hungry for him, swallowing and swallowing around Sandy’s cock as if anticipating his come already, but Sandy wanted to satisfy any needs Pitch had first.
It was getting harder to think of anything but coming down Pitch’s throat thanks to that insistent swallowing, and Sandy pulled back, kissing Pitch and licking his own taste from thin lips. “You are good,” Sandy said, nuzzling his nose against Pitch’s. “I have another present for you, if you want it. Can you wait for me while I get it?”
It was a serious enough question - sometimes Pitch couldn’t bear to be parted from him when aroused - and he was glad to have asked it when Pitch shook his head, replied, “Fuck me, doctor.”
Sandy smiled and kissed Pitch again, deep and slow and thorough, before saying, “You know my name. Use it.”
“Sandy,” Pitch breathed, and Sandy decided he was tired of the layers separating them, stood up to strip off his pants and boxers entirely before settling between Pitch’s legs, unfastening the crotch strap on the straitjacket and pulling off his pyjama bottoms.
Normally Sandy would ask how Pitch wanted him, but Pitch could barely breathe for arousal and he wasn’t faring much better himself; he tugged the packet of lubricant from his shirt pocket, tore it open with his teeth, and lubed up his fingers before stretching Pitch open with them, two then three, glad of his short fingernails as he rushed.
“Please, Sandy,” Pitch said, and Sandy slicked up his cock quickly, nodded before obeying Pitch’s request.
Both of them went silent for a moment after Sandy pushed in, and it was a moment Sandy could have lived in forever - Pitch’s heat, his trembling thighs, his parted lips and heavy-lidded eyes were too much for one man to take, and Sandy felt inhuman for surviving it.
Then Pitch moved, and Sandy with him, and it was perfect - even better than that frantic night after their escape when Pitch had clutched at Sandy as if he would die should they separate, and fucked him like a wild thing, begging for more. It was perfect because they had all the time they needed now, and had spent so much time since then practising making it perfect, learning each other’s weaknesses and kinks and sweet spots.
When Pitch gathered his breath enough to speak again, he only made one more request. “Tell me about my present.”
Sandy wrapped both arms around Pitch’s waist and lifted him up into his lap, loving the size difference between them, how it forced him to keep his hands on Pitch’s back so that they wouldn’t fall over, and forced Pitch to clutch Sandy tight between his thighs as they fucked. “I bought a glass dildo,” Sandy replied, watching Pitch’s face, the sweet tension in it; he was so close to coming, even without direct touch, Sandy’s stomach the only source of friction for Pitch’s cock. “You’re so beautiful when you’re fucked, but I can’t see you stretch for me, and that -” Sandy grit his teeth, swallowed back a groan, “- it would let me see you, see inside you, how you look when I fuck you.”
Sandy tilted his head up as Pitch dipped his own so their lips could meet, and their kiss wasn’t as messy as it should have been, it was deep and heated, broken only when one of them needed to gasp for air, until Pitch rested his forehead against Sandy’s and held his breath, coming over the straitjacket and Sandy’s shirt.
Sandy didn’t know how the straitjacket should be cleaned and didn’t care, knowing Pitch would be worth any expense, and cradling him through orgasm, holding him close until Pitch started breathing again, hot, damp air warming Sandy’s face. “I’ve got you,” Sandy murmured, struggling with the buckles on the back of Pitch’s neck and on the sleeves of the straitjacket, forcing himself to hold still until he had unfastened both, and then Pitch was riding him again, repeating Sandy’s name in quiet whispers between kisses, and Sandy came so hard he forgot what that name even meant.
They stayed together a good long while, joined at the hip and ignoring the cooling stickiness between them, occasionally kissing whatever skin they could reach and laughing or sighing. It wasn’t a moment they were in any hurry to end.
“Happy Halloween,” Sandy said after another kiss, smiling as he met Pitch’s eyes, and Pitch smiled right back at him.
“Happy anniversary,” Pitch replied. “I didn’t get to tell you about the other three, about Harald, Maria, or… I forget.”
“Christopher,” Sandy said, stroking his hands up and down Pitch’s back. “I didn’t rent the straitjacket. You can tell me their stories another time.”
Pitch nodded, tugging at the loosened straitjacket sleeves until he could lift his arms up and wrap them around Sandy’s neck. “Is that a promise, doctor?”
“It’s a promise,” Sandy replied, “And if you run out of stories, I would suggest going out and creating new ones.”
Pitch’s next kiss was more of a bite than anything else, and Sandy gladly licked the taste of his own blood from Pitch’s teeth. It had been too long since he let Pitch kill for fun, not just for food, and he was eager to see the results.
“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” Pitch said quietly, teeth still red when he grinned, and Sandy wondered at a universe that had allowed the two of them to meet. It was as if they had been made for one another, and if they were proof of intelligent design, they were also proof that God liked the games humans played.
Sandy pulled out from Pitch only so that they could lie down together, side by side in comfort, and relaxed at the thought of a Halloween well-shared.
It seemed Pitch would be making arrangements for their next celebration. Sandy just had to decide what to cook.
Title: We’re All Mad Here
Fandom: Rise of the Guardians
Pairings: Pitch/Sandy (with a light sprinkling of Pitch/Nightlight)
Warning: References to murder, cannibalism, and fetishisation of mental hospitals.
Author’s Notes: Belated birthday fic for xxdaimonxx although inspiration for the prompt itself is entirely thanks to gretchensinister and her post, “If you give me sexy blood red blacksand with Pitch in a straitjacket I will reciprocate with whatever it is in my power to do so with”.
*
Sanderson Mansnoozie had been a hedonist for the major part of his adult life. He had never felt guilt for his indulgences, and while for a period in his late teens he had cultivated a more socially acceptable conscience, he soon realised the reward would not be worth the effort and gave up the pursuit.
Sandy had known Pitch less than a year when he realised he was addicted to the man as surely as any alcoholic or chain smoker. He had invited Pitch to join him in many of his indulgences, and he enjoyed spoiling him with each new experience. Pitch lived for tainted beauty and all things bittersweet, loved sweet wines, urban decay, and murder. Sandy loved to find new tastes for him, new places that they might visit together, victims who would say “thank you”.
Pitch paid little attention to time or anniversaries as a coping mechanism for years of loneliness in a dead-end job, but he obsessed over Halloween like a child over Christmas. Pitch had a deep-seated love for anything with a ritual touch - solstices, equinoxes, and Easter would always capture Pitch’s imagination - and Halloween was no exception. The fact it ended up being the date on which Pitch freed Sandy from prison was an added bonus.
Sandy had been wondering how best to celebrate the third Halloween in their shared home when chance gave him inspiration. He had spent an evening indulging Pitch’s weakness for horror movies, putting up with a marathon of bad decisions and ugly violence, before one of the films caught Sandy’s attention with its use of quiet moments. It felt real in a way the others hadn’t, careful with its subject matter instead of clumsy, and Sandy could feel the difference in Pitch’s reaction to it - the way he had stopped laughing or talking over the scenes and instead leant forward, coiling into himself and biting his lip.
He was excited by the realism, and Sandy slid a hand up the back of Pitch’s sweater, rubbed warm circles across Pitch’s bare skin and felt him relax into the touch.
“I’ve never spent time in an asylum,” Pitch said after the movie finished and they retired to bed together. “I feel like I’ve missed out.”
Sandy pursed his lips as he straddled Pitch, unsurprised to find that he was already hard. “The experience of life in a mental hospital is vastly overrated,” Sandy replied in between kissing Pitch’s neck. “I’d hesitate to recommend it.”
“Spoilsport,” Pitch said, arching to help Sandy lift up his sweater but lying back down as soon as his head was free from it, leaving his arms loosely bound. “Fuck me like this,” Pitch demanded, and Sandy grinned before biting down hard on Pitch’s neck, a plan for Halloween taking shape in his thoughts.
Sandy set a bucket of candy down outside their front door with a note advising they couldn’t come out due to flu, disabled the doorbell, and locked the front door, determined they wouldn’t be interrupted for the night. He’d barred Pitch from entering the attic all week, spent a little time each evening stapling down blankets and pillows on top of the insulation to create comfortable padding and hanging up plastic sheets to create a claustrophobic space, and he meant for his efforts to pay off.
Thankfully the attic lighting was poor and helped add to the atmosphere he’d created, but he’d still had to spray the walls with disinfectant over and over to have that smell replace the previous scent of mothballs and dust.
Sandy knew that his gifts for Pitch would have been enough to satisfy him on their own, but Sandy meant to ruin him completely, and what better time was there to indulge in dress-up and roleplay than Halloween?
Dinner was a tense affair in the best way, the meal Pitch had prepared a light and delicately seasoned dish, and crêpes suzette for dessert. Pitch’s presentation skills had improved in the time Sandy had known him, but his talent for flavours and textures was innate, and Sandy briefly wished the thought of the night ahead wouldn’t affect his ability to savour the orange-sugar decadence.
Much as he would have liked to finish his portion, Sandy knew when anticipation threatened to turn his appetite into nausea, and set down his fork before nursing a glass of wine and waiting for Pitch to finish.
He loved moments like this, when they both knew what was on the other’s mind. Each time they had sensed a kindred spirit back in therapy, each time they took a victim together, each time a moment in public gave them inspiration for what they could do in private. It was an intimacy that didn’t require physical contact.
“Should I brush my teeth now or later?” Pitch asked, and Sandy grinned before standing up and walking around the table to kiss him, tasting the sticky-sweetness on his lips.
“Brush your teeth and wash, but don’t get changed yet,” Sandy said, rubbing his thumb over Pitch’s chin. “I have plans for you.”
Pitch grinned back and nipped at Sandy’s thumb before helping to clear the table and turn off the few lights remaining downstairs, and Sandy felt a pleasant flutter in his stomach; it was good to see Pitch shared his eagerness.
Sandy drew a line of chalk across the landing floor, taming his grin into a more placid smile as Pitch approached and obeyed it without being asked, feet stopping just short of the white mark.
“Please remove all articles of clothing, shoes, jewellery, and any other accessories you have on your person, and place them in the box provided.”
Pitch eyed the laundry basket, laughed and nodded before stripping down, taking time with each button on his shirt, the zipper of his pants, the fly of his boxers. Not that he needed to undo the fly to remove the latter - he just liked to tease and to test Sandy’s patience.
Sandy allowed himself a quick glance at Pitch’s cock, knowing he’d waste more energy averting his eyes than taking a look, before handing over the bundle of plain white pyjamas he’d chosen specifically for the night. “Once you’re dressed, we’ll handle your initial interview and settle you in your quarters. If you need food, drink, or a bathroom break, you speak to me. Do you understand?”
Pitch’s smirk stuck as he pulled the pyjama pants up to settle on his narrow hips, but he nodded his assent, finished dressing, and followed Sandy up into the attic.
The anticipation-fear-arousal on Pitch’s face when he saw the play area Sandy had created for them made every second of effort worthwhile, and Sandy made a pleased sound at the thought Pitch hadn’t even seen what waited for him in his “cell” yet.
A combination picnic table and bench set Pitch had bought for their camping trips served as Sandy’s “office”, though he had draped it with a white tablecloth and set out a clipboard and some other odds and ends to make it look more official.
Sandy picked up a plastic zip-tie from the table, eager to get on with their game, and Pitch sat down before holding his hands behind his back obediently for Sandy to bind them. Sandy allowed himself a quick smile as he pulled the zip-tie tight, then took a seat on the opposite side of the table.
“Mr Black,” Sandy began in a clipped tone, “You need little introduction. I’ve read plenty in the papers about your proclivities, so let’s keep this simple. I’m Dr Mansnoozie and it is my job to determine how dangerous you are to yourself and others, and we will have weekly sessions to determine if or when you will be permitted to mingle with other guests at this facility. So, my first question to you is this; do you believe you are guilty of the murders for which you have been held?”
Pitch turned his head to the side, keeping Sandy in his peripheral vision, a quizzical look on his face. “Was I found guilty?”
“On all four counts,” Sandy replied.
“All four? Oh yes. I’m quite guilty of four.” Pitch turned back towards Sandy, eyes bright with ideas. “I admitted guilt. I’m not sure why the question needs asking.”
“Procedure, Mr Black, and we want to be sure you believe the words you said on the stand. Some officers of the law can be… persuasive when attempting to extract a confession.” Sandy clicked his pen, ran it over his clipboard idly. “Did you know your victims’ names before the newspapers caught onto your pattern and listed them all? Ivan, Harald, Christopher, Maria - all young or young-looking, athletic immigrants who enjoyed hiking.”
“I didn’t care about their backgrounds,” Pitch said, waving a hand dismissively, “Or their names. The less I knew of them, the easier I could hide that knowledge. How much longer will this take?”
Pitch had relaxed now, sliding into character, and Sandy allowed himself a brief smile before continuing, “Is this why you referred to your first kill as ‘Nightlight’? Ivan, the security guard. Pale and younger looking than -”
“I know who Nightlight is, thank you,” Pitch interrupted, and Sandy nodded, keeping his manner calm and bland.
There had been other kills with Pitch, but Nightlight was his first solo kill. The first of four that Sandy had missed. “What made you choose to kill Ivan? He was in uniform and would have visibly carried arms when you took him. Not an obvious or easy first choice.”
“I like it when they struggle. I want good hearts and the ability to struggle is proof of one.”
“I see,” Sandy said, breaking eye contact as he started sketching Pitch’s face on his clipboard so as to look busy without creating something distracting or incriminating. “You described your murders as a cure for nightmares - was your victims’ fear important in that?”
“That’s a stupid question.”
“Some would say there are only stupid answers,” Sandy replied easily, looking up from the clipboard. “How did killing Ivan make you feel?”
“Nightlight. He made me feel - relieved. It was dark, he was bright and alone in the woods… he was practically gift-wrapped.”
“Walk me through what happened. Step by step.”
Pitch sat up straight and proud, grinning like a shark. “I wouldn’t want to upset you, doctor.”
Sandy returned his attention to the clipboard and his sketch. “I assure you, you couldn’t.”
“Once upon a time there was a beautiful park ranger, his skin and hair as white as snow. He patrolled the woods, searching for hunters and poachers and all kinds of men, but he forgot all about the big bad wolf. You know how these stories go, doctor.”
“I’m not afraid of the big bad wolf,” Sandy said, eyes on Pitch’s mouth as he copied them onto the sketch.
“You should be,” Pitch teased, licking his teeth, voice dropping to a near whisper as he continued, “The wolf pounced and wrestled the ranger to the floor, wrapped its paws around his thin, pretty neck, and squeezed. And oh, did that ranger fight - he kicked and he punched and he snapped his teeth - but the wolf stole his voice and his air and the light from his pale green eyes. And, like all wolves do, it gobbled him up.”
Sandy closed his eyes for a moment to imagine the scene, remembering with photographic clarity the pictures dear Toothiana had brought to his cell all those years ago. White hair and white skin on a boy’s face, not a man’s despite his age, draped across a bed of autumn leaves with a gaping red wound on the left side of his chest. Were it not Pitch sat in front of him, he would have been reluctant to open his eyes again and give up the sight. “After you strangled him, you cut out his heart. What made you take that trophy?”
“He was strong,” Pitch said, shrugging elegantly, “So I took his strength. I carried it to the stream, I washed it, and I ate it.”
“They were right to put you in my care, Mr Black,” Sandy said, standing up. “You are a very sick man in need of a lot of help, and that’s what our facility is for. Follow me, please.”
Pitch looked disappointed for a moment as he joined Sandy, but quickly perked up when Sandy lifted the plastic sheeting for him to enter his “cell”, the outline of his aroused cock through his pyjama bottoms all the more evident.
“You’ll have to excuse the precautions, Mr Black, but you have a reputation for violence.” Sandy picked up shears and the neatly folded straitjacket from the cell floor. “Arms up, please.”
Pitch’s absolute stillness as Sandy cut the zip tie from his wrists before slipping the straitjacket’s long sleeves over his arms was telling. The way he obediently dipped his head to get it through the neck hole without being asked was even more so.
Sandy took his time tightening the straps at the back of Pitch’s neck, brushing his knuckles against the tense length of it as often as he could. “Can you breathe comfortably?”
Pitch swallowed thickly before nodding, and Sandy placed his hands on Pitch’s shoulders, pushed down to lower Pitch’s arms so he could manhandle them into the necessary self-hugging position.
Words would have spoiled the moment; it felt heightened, as if Sandy could share in everything Pitch felt - the nervous excitement of being restrained, the whisper-softness of breath against his skin, the relief of absolute trust.
Sandy tightened the straps at Pitch’s stomach to hold his arms in place before pulling the ends of the sleeves tight behind Pitch, fixing them together along with the numerous buckles and loops on the back of the straitjacket, locking everything into place.
One strap remained.
Sandy reached under and between Pitch’s legs, groped Pitch’s cock until he was fully hard before taking the straitjacket’s crotch strap and pulling it back to fix it in place, tightening it cruelly.
“I chose your cell for a specific reason, Mr Black,” Sandy whispered before manhandling him to the floor, straddling his narrow hips. “There are no cameras in here. I can give you all the help you need.” He ground his ass against Pitch’s crotch, chuckled at the strangled moan he got in response. “Please don’t misunderstand - I won’t be setting you free, because we both know how stories about the big bad wolf play out,” Sandy moved a hand to run his fingers through Pitch’s hair, scratching his scalp, “But I do like to reward my best behaved patients. Are you going to be a good patient for me?”
Pitch let out a quiet, pleased whine and nodded, arms straining against their bonds momentarily before settling, and Sandy smiled down at him before tightening his grip on Pitch’s hair and pulling hard.
“Show me how good you can be, Mr Black,” Sandy ordered as he unzipped his pants with his free hand and tugged down his boxers, crawling up Pitch’s body to rub the head of his cock against Pitch’s lips. “Open wide.”
Sandy loved everything about Pitch’s mouth, loved its shape, its heat, the sounds Pitch made with it and the unusual shape of his teeth; even in a position that made it difficult to move, Pitch knew how to make him shiver and groan.
Sandy didn’t intend to finish in Pitch’s mouth on this occasion, though. Pitch was already squirming and hungry for him, swallowing and swallowing around Sandy’s cock as if anticipating his come already, but Sandy wanted to satisfy any needs Pitch had first.
It was getting harder to think of anything but coming down Pitch’s throat thanks to that insistent swallowing, and Sandy pulled back, kissing Pitch and licking his own taste from thin lips. “You are good,” Sandy said, nuzzling his nose against Pitch’s. “I have another present for you, if you want it. Can you wait for me while I get it?”
It was a serious enough question - sometimes Pitch couldn’t bear to be parted from him when aroused - and he was glad to have asked it when Pitch shook his head, replied, “Fuck me, doctor.”
Sandy smiled and kissed Pitch again, deep and slow and thorough, before saying, “You know my name. Use it.”
“Sandy,” Pitch breathed, and Sandy decided he was tired of the layers separating them, stood up to strip off his pants and boxers entirely before settling between Pitch’s legs, unfastening the crotch strap on the straitjacket and pulling off his pyjama bottoms.
Normally Sandy would ask how Pitch wanted him, but Pitch could barely breathe for arousal and he wasn’t faring much better himself; he tugged the packet of lubricant from his shirt pocket, tore it open with his teeth, and lubed up his fingers before stretching Pitch open with them, two then three, glad of his short fingernails as he rushed.
“Please, Sandy,” Pitch said, and Sandy slicked up his cock quickly, nodded before obeying Pitch’s request.
Both of them went silent for a moment after Sandy pushed in, and it was a moment Sandy could have lived in forever - Pitch’s heat, his trembling thighs, his parted lips and heavy-lidded eyes were too much for one man to take, and Sandy felt inhuman for surviving it.
Then Pitch moved, and Sandy with him, and it was perfect - even better than that frantic night after their escape when Pitch had clutched at Sandy as if he would die should they separate, and fucked him like a wild thing, begging for more. It was perfect because they had all the time they needed now, and had spent so much time since then practising making it perfect, learning each other’s weaknesses and kinks and sweet spots.
When Pitch gathered his breath enough to speak again, he only made one more request. “Tell me about my present.”
Sandy wrapped both arms around Pitch’s waist and lifted him up into his lap, loving the size difference between them, how it forced him to keep his hands on Pitch’s back so that they wouldn’t fall over, and forced Pitch to clutch Sandy tight between his thighs as they fucked. “I bought a glass dildo,” Sandy replied, watching Pitch’s face, the sweet tension in it; he was so close to coming, even without direct touch, Sandy’s stomach the only source of friction for Pitch’s cock. “You’re so beautiful when you’re fucked, but I can’t see you stretch for me, and that -” Sandy grit his teeth, swallowed back a groan, “- it would let me see you, see inside you, how you look when I fuck you.”
Sandy tilted his head up as Pitch dipped his own so their lips could meet, and their kiss wasn’t as messy as it should have been, it was deep and heated, broken only when one of them needed to gasp for air, until Pitch rested his forehead against Sandy’s and held his breath, coming over the straitjacket and Sandy’s shirt.
Sandy didn’t know how the straitjacket should be cleaned and didn’t care, knowing Pitch would be worth any expense, and cradling him through orgasm, holding him close until Pitch started breathing again, hot, damp air warming Sandy’s face. “I’ve got you,” Sandy murmured, struggling with the buckles on the back of Pitch’s neck and on the sleeves of the straitjacket, forcing himself to hold still until he had unfastened both, and then Pitch was riding him again, repeating Sandy’s name in quiet whispers between kisses, and Sandy came so hard he forgot what that name even meant.
They stayed together a good long while, joined at the hip and ignoring the cooling stickiness between them, occasionally kissing whatever skin they could reach and laughing or sighing. It wasn’t a moment they were in any hurry to end.
“Happy Halloween,” Sandy said after another kiss, smiling as he met Pitch’s eyes, and Pitch smiled right back at him.
“Happy anniversary,” Pitch replied. “I didn’t get to tell you about the other three, about Harald, Maria, or… I forget.”
“Christopher,” Sandy said, stroking his hands up and down Pitch’s back. “I didn’t rent the straitjacket. You can tell me their stories another time.”
Pitch nodded, tugging at the loosened straitjacket sleeves until he could lift his arms up and wrap them around Sandy’s neck. “Is that a promise, doctor?”
“It’s a promise,” Sandy replied, “And if you run out of stories, I would suggest going out and creating new ones.”
Pitch’s next kiss was more of a bite than anything else, and Sandy gladly licked the taste of his own blood from Pitch’s teeth. It had been too long since he let Pitch kill for fun, not just for food, and he was eager to see the results.
“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” Pitch said quietly, teeth still red when he grinned, and Sandy wondered at a universe that had allowed the two of them to meet. It was as if they had been made for one another, and if they were proof of intelligent design, they were also proof that God liked the games humans played.
Sandy pulled out from Pitch only so that they could lie down together, side by side in comfort, and relaxed at the thought of a Halloween well-shared.
It seemed Pitch would be making arrangements for their next celebration. Sandy just had to decide what to cook.
