#cod 2011

GENERAL OVERVIEW —

Sandman wasn’t an impulsive man when it came to sex. He didn’t rush, didn’t go straight for release. With Reader, he liked to take his time — observe, touch, read his body language before making any serious move. He made sure Reader was comfortable, present, and fully in sync with him.

But patience didn’t mean slowness. Once he felt Reader was ready, he took control without hesitation. He’d position him exactly how he wanted — face down on the bed, straddling his lap, or laid out with legs spread — and start fucking him with a steady, deep rhythm that didn’t stop until Reader was left shaking. Every thrust had purpose. Every movement was intentional. There was no wasted energy; Sandman knew exactly how to make him feel every inch.

He paid attention to how Reader responded — how his back arched, how his hands clenched the sheets, how soft noises escaped his lips when he hit the right spot. Sandman watched everything, and he used it.

If Reader was too tense, he didn’t rush things. He took his time — with fingers, tongue, whatever was needed. He prepped him thoroughly, whether with lube or spit, and never pushed in until he was sure Reader could take it — and enjoy it.

He didn’t talk much during sex, but when he did, his voice was low, rough, and right against Reader’s ear while he thrust into him:

“ That’s it… so fucking good for me. ”

“ Look at me. I want to see your face while I’m inside you. ”

Sometimes he’d grip Reader’s chin, tilting it just enough to keep their eyes locked. Not in a demanding way — more like a silent claim. A way to make sure Reader knew: this was his. This moment, this connection — all theirs.

When Sandman was under stress — after a mission, after a long week — sex could become more intense. Rougher. He’d grab Reader by the waist, press him down on the bed, and fuck him hard and fast. No teasing. No pretense. Just the raw need to feel alive again. And Reader knew — it wasn’t about violence. It was about release.

Even at his roughest, he never crossed the line into real brutality. If he felt Reader tightening up or holding his breath, he would slow down instantly. A hand would slide to his chest or his cheek, grounding him, making sure he was okay.

He’d murmur in that gravelly voice:

“ Relax. I’m here. I’m not gonna hurt you. ”

And that was what made it different. Sandman could fuck him hard enough to leave him sore for hours, but he was always present, always careful. He never got lost in the pleasure.

For him, sex with Reader wasn’t just physical. It was one of the only ways he let his guard down. If he allowed himself to be that vulnerable — panting, sweaty, trembling, curled up with Reader afterward — it meant he trusted him completely. And Reader knew it.

When it was over, Sandman didn’t pull away. He stayed inside, laying against Reader’s chest or wrapped around him from behind, breathing steady and slow as their bodies came down from the high. He didn’t talk much, but his hands never left Reader’s skin — firm, warm.

SEXUAL STYLE —

Sandman had a dominant style, but he never needed to raise his voice or use brute force to take control. He made it clear from the start — he liked being in charge, and he showed it in the way he moved Reader, guided him with firm hands into whatever position he wanted: face down, straddling his lap, or flat on his back with his legs wide open. He didn’t ask permission with words, but everything he did carried an unspoken, unmistakable respect. He knew what Reader liked — and more importantly, what he could take.

When he wanted it rough, he didn’t hold back. He’d grab Reader by the hips, pull him into place, and sink in deep with a single thrust, knowing Reader could handle it. Once he was in, he fucked with purpose — deep, steady strokes that kept the pressure exact. No wasted movement, no frantic rhythm. He made sure Reader felt every inch of it, again and again, until his arms gave out or his knees started to shake.

He wasn’t big on dirty talk, but when he did speak, his voice — low, rough, right against Reader’s ear — hit like a punch to the gut:

“ That’s it… just like that. You’re fucking perfect for me. ”

“ Look at me. Don’t look away — I wanna see your face while I fuck you. ”

When he was moving inside him, Sandman kept a hand pressed low on Reader’s back to hold him still, or slid both hands under his thighs to adjust the angle and go deeper. Other times, he sat Reader on his lap and made him ride at his pace, holding his hips down while watching every reaction without blinking.

And if Reader tried to look away, Sandman would gently grip his jaw and bring his face back into focus — locking eyes like it was non-negotiable.

He knew when to slow down, too. If Reader was overly sensitive or struggling to keep up, he’d pull back on the intensity immediately. Not because he wasn’t still worked up — but because control meant taking care of the person he was with. Sandman didn’t just want to get off — he wanted to see Reader come apart under him. He wanted to hear his moans, feel him shake, watch him fall apart and then ask for more.

He was physical, expressive, and completely present. He liked to touch — neck, thighs, jaw, back, wherever he could reach. If Reader was underneath him, he’d grip hard enough to leave bruises on his hips. If they were face to face, there were usually bites to the neck, hand on the throat, fingers pulling his hair back just enough to keep him open and breathless.

And when he came, he didn’t pull out right away. He liked to finish deep, stay inside, body pressed down on Reader’s, both of them soaked in sweat and breathless. Sometimes he’d even keep moving — slow, lazy thrusts — while running a hand down Reader’s back, grounding him through the aftershocks.

If Reader clung to him or whispered don’t move, Sandman wouldn’t go anywhere.

That was his style : Controlled, physical, focused, and fully centered on the shared experience.

FANTASIES AND PREFERENCES —

One of Sandman’s favorite fantasies—and one of his most frequent practices when he can—is having sex in the shower. Especially after a long, tough day, when his muscles are tense and his mind is overloaded. He’s not looking for rushed or mechanical sex. What he wants is skin-on-skin contact under hot water, where he can touch, fuck, and relax all at once, without saying much.

Reader already knows how it starts: Sandman pulls him close with a firm hand on his waist, positioning him in front of him, steam fogging up the tiles, and slowly caresses his back down to his hips, testing if he’s ready. When he pushes him against the wet wall, it’s never rough, but there’s an intense need to be close, to feel inside him with nothing between them but the warmth of the water.

His thrusts begin at a steady pace. They’re not wild, but they’re firm, deliberate, deep. His wet body aligns with Reader’s, one hand holding his hip, the other pressing his chest against the tile, as he fucks with clenched jaw and taut muscles under the water.

Sometimes he stays like that, barely moaning, lips pressed to his neck. The sound of their bodies meeting, mixed with the running water, is the only thing filling the bathroom. It’s a fantasy he repeats whenever he can.

Another weakness he never hides—though he never speaks of it—is seeing Reader wearing only his military shirt.

Big and loose, falling over his thighs, with the collar slightly open, revealing his collarbone or the edge of his underwear peeking out underneath. That alone can stop Sandman dead in his tracks.

If Reader notices him frown, quietly close the door, and approach silently, he already knows what’s coming: Sandman will gently push him onto the mattress, pull his shirt up over his hip with one hand, and take him like he’s been teasing him all night without saying a word. He doesn’t say anything. His breath says it all.

Though naturally dominant, Sandman doesn’t fear role reversal in bed—but only if he completely trusts Reader. It’s rare for him to let go of control, but when he does, it’s a total surrender.

In those special moments, he likes to lie on his back and let Reader guide him: ride him, kiss him, touch him at his own pace. While Reader looks down at him, Sandman keeps eye contact without breaking it. He’s vulnerable, yes, but calm and steady. He doesn’t feel less of a man by letting himself be cared for; on the contrary, for him, surrendering like that is proof he belongs to Reader in a way deeper than physical.

IN THE PRIVACY OF HOME —

When they’re at home, out of uniform, away from reports, missions, and the weight of command, Sandman changes his pace. He’s in no hurry. He’s not looking to release tension. He wants to savor everything.

And that includes sex : Long, slow, deep, and completely focused on Reader.

He likes to start slowly. He doesn’t just dive in. He kisses. He touches. He runs his hands along Reader’s back, across his chest, slowly down to his thighs, as if he has all the time in the world. He wants Reader to be relaxed, open, willing—not out of urgency, but because he desires it.

When he slides between his legs, he does it gently. He eases in the tip first, feels him give way, stays there a few seconds, caressing him inside with barely noticeable movements until Reader fully wraps around him.

And then he starts moving.

Not fast. Not wild. But with measured strength and steady depth. Long strokes that go all the way in and pull almost all the way out, only to fill him up again and again, until Reader can do nothing but cling to him, nails digging into his back.

Sandman doesn’t just want Reader to feel him—he wants him to remember. To have his legs tremble. To struggle to speak. To not be able to stop moaning, even if quietly.

And he likes to be looked at. If Reader looks away, Sandman reminds him—hand on his jaw, or simply :

“ Don’t look away. I want to see everything. ”

His movements are rhythmic, controlled, but undeniably sexual. He likes to lean on Reader, chest against his back or face to face, holding him tight by the waist or with a firm hand on the nape of his neck.

And when the climax approaches, he doesn’t rush. He changes the angle, picks up the pace slightly, watching how Reader twists, how his abdomen trembles, how he calls his name with a broken voice.

That moment when Reader surrenders, gives himself completely, and lets him finish inside—that’s one of Sandman’s most intense pleasures.

And it doesn’t end there.

Sandman doesn’t pull out after finishing. He likes to stay inside Reader, close, without separating their bodies. Sometimes he continues with gentle thrusts just to prolong the contact. Other times he simply breathes against his neck, hand on his waist or intertwined with Reader’s fingers, as their body heat slowly fades.

He loves to sleep like that—still inside, embraced, completely wrapped in the other’s intimacy. If Reader falls asleep first—as often happens—he stays quiet, breathing slowly, caressing his back or hair, not moving an inch away.

And although he never says it aloud, one of his secret pleasures is watching Reader open up to him without fear. How he looks at him, lets himself be guided, arches his back, sighs his name without holding back. Sandman doesn’t show it with exaggerated expressions, but his eyes always give him away.

It’s his way of loving—with his body, with control, with absolute presence.

AFTER SEX —

Post-sex care with Sandman doesn’t involve big words or dramatic gestures. It’s quiet, but absolutely present. After coming inside Reader, he doesn’t pull away or roll over. He stays right there—breathing heavily, body still pressed to Reader’s—unbothered by the sweat, the heat, or the exhaustion.

Without saying a word, he pulls Reader into his chest with one arm. Firm. Steady. The kind of strength that doesn’t ask for permission, but never feels forced. Reader ends up curled against him, face resting on his neck or collarbone, while Sandman wraps himself fully around him. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t ask questions. He’s just there.

His hand never stays still. It runs down Reader’s back, slips into his hair, or gently presses against his waist—just to remind him he’s still there. If Reader shivers, he steadies him. If his breathing shakes, he adjusts his grip. And if he feels his body go too quiet beneath him, he touches him again, seeks out his skin, keeps him close.

Reader usually falls asleep first—which happens often—and when he does, Sandman quietly shifts their position to make him more comfortable. He’ll move a pillow, pull a sheet over his back if the air gets cold, or drape a leg over Reader’s to keep him anchored in place.

He never asks if Reader’s okay. He knows. He can feel it in the loosened muscles, the slow, deep breathing, in the way Reader completely gives into his arms after every time they fuck. And that, more than anything, tells him he did exactly what he needed to do.

Sometimes, if Reader wakes in the middle of the night, he finds Sandman exactly the same—not having moved an inch, his arm still wrapped around his torso, body still pressed against his back. It doesn’t matter if he’s uncomfortable, doesn’t matter if he has to get up early. Sandman won’t let go until he knows Reader is completely rested.

That’s how he cares. No promises. No sweet talk.

Just being there. Touching him, holding him, staying with him—even when nothing is being said.