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You drift back to consciousness gently, gradually. Your head shifts on the pillow—heavy, full of bees and fluff—and your mouth is criminally dry. Your eyes squint open barely a crack; you moan and let them close again. You’re in bed, you think, but the sheets feel different. They smell different too—not of you or your detergent, yet still clean, with a faint edge of sweat and a masculine note.
Where are you. . ?
Your hand brushes down the fabric, rustling it flat as you turn your face toward the light. The blanket is so light and thin you barely notice it—nothing like your usual bedding. You’re sore. Really sore. And you’re wearing. . . nothing? What the hell is—
“Are you awake?”
Oh. Oh holy shit.
You can’t sit up—your body feels leaden—but you can look. Your eyes creak open once more, lids heavy and fluttering in the brightness. Biting the bullet, you force them to focus on the owner of that familiar voice. Your vision fills with purple.
Your first sound is an inhale, a strangled attempt at words, then a cough. You can’t speak yet, and he seems to know that. “Take a second,” he says, a smile in his voice. That's probably a common—side effect? “I can help you sit up.” He settles on the edge of the bed, and you dip towards his weight. One hand ghosts over your hip to your far shoulder, the other curls around the nearer one, and he hefts you upright. “There we go.” Propped against the headboard, your breathing steadies while you memorize the face before you.
He’s quite pretty in person. NightHide, that is—uh, Shinsou Hitoshi? And half clothed. You manage to keep your eyes at collarbone level and above.
“Hi,” you get out. He smiles, his eyes low while his lips do all the work, thought his eyes are still abundantly kind. . .
“Hey.” The hand on your shoulder lifts, brushes your cheek for a second as he pushes some of your hair back. “Or maybe good morning?”
Right. If you’re here—with him—it’s because you and he and it was all. . .
You tuck your chin to your chest, fingers gathering in the folds of the silky robe he must have slipped your arms into and belted at your waist. Oh jeez. . . How could you forget?
. . .Well, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?
“Good—good morning,” you breathe, you find yourself a little frazzled under his attention, despite the fact that you—and he—
Is steam blowing out your ears?
He hums a laugh at your sudden sheepishness but doesn’t comment. Instead his hand pats where yours is twisting before he strokes the bare skin of your wrist. “I’m gonna get you something to eat, something to drink, and then we can talk some more.”
You’re nodding before he finishes, watching his calloused thumb trace arcs over your bone. His leaving will give you room to sort through your thoughts. “I’ll be here.”
“I hope so,” he grins, and pats you again. “Requests?”
“Nuh-uh,” you shake your head and risk looking up at him. He’s watching you with incredible gentleness. You feel a small jolt, your eyes blink on their own, and you whisper, “I love fruit—any kind,” before you can stop yourself.
“Fruit then.” He shifts to stand, but your pinky tangles with his and pulls his attention back to your form. It’s silly, but you don’t want him to leave—you feel. . . odd. “Sweetheart?”
Your heartbeat quickens before you draw a deep breath. “Sorry.” Maybe it’s just early. Maybe it’s just the effect of. . .
NightHide looks down and squeezes your hand tight. “Don’t be. I’ll be back. Stay put for me.”
“I will.”
“I know. You listen very well.” He smirks at your quiet gasp, untangles your fingers, and steps away. Your eyes trace his form the whole time, already craving the warmth he takes with him.
You cover your mouth just in time to squeal before you sink low into the bedding. Your eyes catch the decor you hadn’t noticed the night before: a lamp glowing low—two, actually—a candle burning on a desk, duffle bags and clothes, and—a camera and tripod!
Another squeal has you pulling the blanket over your head and burrowing. You count your breaths. Calm down. This is typical. . . You think.
You need your phone. Peeking from your shelter, you spot it on the side table, charging.
How sweet of him. . .
It’s 4 AM. The warm hue from your phone isn’t enough to keep your eyes from stinging. It’s too close to your face; Face ID won’t work, and it takes more than one try to unlock the thing. The first thing you do is look for that stupid little alien with his antenna.
Reddit. The reason you’re in this situation.
If there’s one thing you’re certain of, it’s that your years online have introduced you to many things. Some you’re thankful for. Others took ages to scrub from your mind. And then there are the things that lodge so deeply inside you, it feels less like chance and more like fate.
Your eyes burn as you trace the caption of a snark you’re already in, just before you lock in and scroll for what you need.
The r/HideintheSHeets sub is about more than people talking about sleeping. It’s about the ones who’ve been fucked by your collective favorite Pro.
That tightness in your belly comes creeping back. . . Yeah, you get a little dizzy just thinking about it.
Over the last few weeks, your Hero of choice has been doing repeats. The verified sub users are all too excited to post their snippets and thoughts about their latest encounter with NightHide. Sleeping bodies recorded, the hovering presence of your favored Hero, the man pressing them into pretzels, lifting them, guiding them—ugh!
And you got jealous.
And drunk-wrote a strongly worded message to his official Reddit account.
That message got answered.
You squeak again, your fingers gone stupid and stiff, nearly dropping your phone on your face.
Good heavens—this is so embarrassing. What is your life? Getting your message answered after being a brat? Being here currently waited on my NightHide?
You don’t know whether to be pissed or grateful.
“Are you hiding from me?”
You lock your phone, miffed that you didn’t even get a single search done before he appeared again. Poking your head out, the air in the room is cooler than the accidental hotbox you’d cocooned yourself into, and his bare chest is the first thing you see.
Grateful. Probably grateful, yeah.
Does he wax or shave?
“No,” your voice quivers, but neither of you pays it any mind. He slides the board onto your lap once you sit up properly. “Oh, thank you.”
He nods once. “I know it’s early, but you should eat something.”
“No, yeah, it’s fine,” you say, your fingers wrapping around a mug handle, smelling—tea.
He notices your raised brow and tilts his head before speaking. “I know. ‘NightHide drinks tea? Doesn’t he have a coffee brand?’” He mocks his own image, smiling at the giggle you let out at his dramatized delivery, then picks up the other mug and blows lightly. “I’m trying to cut back.”
“Mhm. . .”
His face pulls a little, and you sip the hot steep. “. . .A little.”
“Sounds right,” you smile, looking at the spread before you. “Are you eating too?” He shrugs, plucks a grape, and bites it in half. He chews for a second, meeting your eyes, then reaches forward. The torn skin and soft pulp rest against your lip, and you inhale just a bit, letting him push the half into your mouth. His fingers linger on your lip, his nail scraping the edge of your tooth as he draws back.
“Might. If you don’t mind.” He takes a napkin and spits something into it. “The grapes have seeds, my bad.”
You can’t find your voice, your jaw still tingling from the fruit. A slight shake of your head has him humming before he feeds you a triangle of melon. Your lips wrap around his fingers more than strictly necessary, but he also passes over the toothpicks and gets a little too close, so whose fault is it really? Your tongue flicks over his fingertips, his purple eyes trained on the slip of pink you show.
You chew slowly. This—this isn’t talked about. At least not by anyone you know on the sub. Is this typical? Kept secret, or. . .
Juice slides down your chin, but you just keep chewing. He wipes your chin with his palm, and you decide you don’t need an answer. This can be just for you.
He’s quiet, his eyes darkened even with the light cloaking the room. Your gaze flickers to the window, and you see it’s still plenty dark around the curtains.
“You feel alright?”
“Mhm,” you hum, your feet rubbing together under the blanket. NightHide paints a pretty picture, hovering lazily over you. His hand rests on the other side of your knees, caging you into the bed where he sits and feeds you bites of fruit. “Here,” you whisper, collecting a cherry and biting half of it, removing the pit before you offer the rest to him. It’s a bit messy, dripping but not falling to stain anything, so you hold it out. His mouth parts, his tongue licking the dark juices before they can drip past your palm, and he sucks the fruit from your fingertips. Eyes glued to yours, you feel your heart beating in your head.
You’re broken.
“I wanted to ask. . .” You finally manage to meet his eyes again after sipping your tea, your brows lifting as he stalls his question.
Is he shy? He’s definitely flushed. . .
“Did you want to watch it—” he points over his shoulder toward a desk, where a laptop sits that you hadn’t noticed during your first scan of the room, “—together?”
Okay. You do have to know. Curiosity, the cat, the nines. “Is that. . . what you usually do?”
His lashes flutter, his eyes flickering away from you as he scratches his stubble. “Aha, uh. . .” He glances over the messy bedding before meeting your gaze. “No. It’s not.”
“What do you. . .” How do you even phrase this. . . “Normally do with—”
“I. . . make sure they’re okay. Get them fed, up, and out of the rental. . .”
And now he wants to. . . “And you want to watch it now?”
“. . .Yeah.”
“With me?”
He laughs. “Yes. Together.”
Out of the norm for him and for you, and—
“Okay.”
—you’ll agree to it. Duh. Even if it’s some form of weird-ass aftercare.
“Really?” he asks, his eyes a little wide and surprised, you think.
“Really,” you laugh. He huffs along with you, his fingers playing with the ends of his hair. “Uh, just, lemme go tinkle first, please.”
He pauses, looking at you with a searching depth that edges the smile off your face before he fixes his expression. “Yeah, yeah, sure.” He takes the platter away and helps you up, making sure you’re steady. “Go ‘tinkle’,” he teases, and you swat at him, making him hold his hands up.
You look at yourself in the mirror—it’s. . . rough. Your neck is purpled, your ears red from teeth, you guess, your lashes clumpy and your eyes crusty. This is what he looked at with affection morning.
You. . . shouldn’t think about it too much. . .
You part the robe to see your skin, exposing marks all over your body. Around your tits, your ribcage, your belly. Your thighs are sore and—wet again.
It’s humbling that your body reacts so strongly to a man you barely know personally.
You sit to pee, hissing at a fresh bruise lining your bottom that you hadn’t even thought to check, your hands holding your elbows. Your ankles are bruised too, from a quick glance, something you’re now curious about since you forgot your phone. What’s the right amount of time, though? How soon can you get on your phone after a hookup?
Ugh—nobody you actually know would have a clue either. So what do you say?
“Hey girl! So I let my favorite Pro knock me out and fuck my sleeping body in an Airbnb, and for aftercare he fed me fruit, and just now he asked me to watch the sex tape we made—what’s my next move? Ask him what we are?”
. . .Yeah, they’d have you Baker Acted before you got to the next sentence.
You finish up and turn to wipe, and your body humbles you once again with that sudden lack of friction.
Lovely.
You step out of the bathroom, wringing your slightly damp hands together, and peer around the corner toward the bed where NightHide is.
What are you even supposed to call him?
The laptop is balanced on his lap, one knee bent beneath him as he clicks through something. He’s wearing glasses now, his hair pulled into a neater bun than the loose mess you saw earlier. The space you left behind is half taken up by him—his body planted in the center of the bed.
Where do you sit? Do you even sit? Does he wanna watch you?
“Hey,” he calls, catching you peeking, not at all bothered by it. “Come over?”
You go slowly, keeping your eyes on your feet. The edge of the bed meets your thighs, and you climb on, your mouth parting to ask for some room—but he’s already pushing the laptop aside and holding a hand out to you. “Over here.” He parts his legs. You stare, glancing back at his face. “I don’t bite.” The purple bruise on your ass says something very different.
“Uh-huh, sure.”
“Okay, I won’t bite this time,” he amends, snorting at your wariness. You place your hand in his, letting him take your weight as you swing a leg over his. In the V of his legs, facing him, he helps you lower yourself onto one hip, then guides you to turn and lean back against his chest. “Unless you ask.”
You shudder as his mouth finds your unmarked shoulder, lips parted and hot, pressing over your robe. You can’t form an answer, just a soft sound, while his hand grips around your side. "Here?" you squeeze out eventually.
"Nah, closer." Soon that hand crosses your front, pulling you further back, tucking you against him as he pets you once. “There we go,” he says, his breath stirring the hair at your nape. He pats your belly and reaches to settle the laptop over your lap now, still closed. “You need glasses? Blue light blockers?
“Uh, I dunno.”
“Here.” He makes the choice for you, taking care of you, leaning to the side and snagging another pair from the nightstand. Your eyes track the muscles in his arm—the pull, then contraction of strong tendons and tissues. “Lemme help you.” His voice vibrates into you, quieter now that you’re so close. He tucks the arms gently over your ears, nudging the frames up your nose until they sit right. “Alright?”
“Yeah.” You nod, breath catching when his fingers brush past your ears.
“Just tell me, okay—if you need anything.” He stresses the word. “Anything.”
You smile and nod again. “A million dollars?” you joke, feeling his laugh rumble through your back. “Too soon?”
“Nah, I’ll keep you updated on that.” The ease returns, the stiffness gone, and you can breathe again. His chin hooks over your shoulder, and you tilt your head to give him room. It's familiar, did he—have you like this? “Okay, let’s see.”
You reckon you'll find out.
His hands come back to your lap, and you’re silently grateful you’re turned away so he can’t see you practically drooling over the structure and veins of his arms and hands. Oh, you want to bite him. He has no idea what kind of danger he’s in with you around. . .
“It’s not edited at all, so it’s long,” he says, and your eyes finally land on the screen, watching the cursor dart as he minimizes windows to find a recording. You see yourself sitting on the edge of the bed in your skimpy pajamas from the night before, looking up at him, lightly bathed in warm light. “But I kinda remember where stuff is, so. . .”
Of course he would remember. He was the one awake for it. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes, going to full screen while pressing a soft kiss to your neck. It burns and has you breathing deep into your belly. “Do the honors?”
You snort, shaking your head a little, and reach for the touch pad. Your finger bumps into his and accidentally zooms in on your sitting form before he apologizes and lets you fix it. Silence, then the speakers crackle with the fuzzy background noise of the room. And he appears in the frame.
“You want a play-by-play from me, too?” he asks, his hands leaving the laptop to cup your thighs.
You swallow, watching his image. You remember this moment even though you can’t hear it. His last check-in before he really got started: his hand holding yours, stroking your knuckles the way he’s stroking the soft skin of your leg now.
“Uh—if you want.” You see yourself nod, smile softly and tilt your head down. The fingers you drool over lift your chin back up, pinching it to keep your head still, your eyes on him.
He hums, and in the dark reflection on the screen you can see him, his nose tucked into your shoulder as he watches—maybe watching you, maybe the video. . .
Whispers from the recording, the volume not yet high enough, the film not captioned, and you see yourself nod, then fall backward. He catches you before you hit the mattress, cradling you in his arms as he stares down at you.
Just like he stares at your reflection in the screen now.
“M’kay.” He squeezes you, and you press your lips together.
He pushes the laptop partially aside, onto a decorative pillow you hadn’t noticed before. Your gaze follows it unerringly, riveted by the picture and how it bleeds into real life.
Video-NightHide lays you on the bed after the sleep command and hovers. You didn’t think he’d immediately spread your legs, but you didn’t expect this, either: his nose drawn across your body, your skin. You feel hot trails in real time—wrist, forearm, bicep tingling as he works his way up. The man behind you presses his nose from your shoulder to behind your ear when his image does the same, and you can’t swallow the gasp.
“Turn it up.” You do, reaching forward with fingers still tingling from clutching the tie of your robe. A few taps, pulls you back when it's high enough, and he speaks again. “What do you use?” His lips move over your skin.
Your mind is lagging, caught between the image on the screen and his low, raspy commands, his warm touch. “Huh?”
“I couldn’t stop—” he huffs against you again, making you shiver and pull away—only to sink further into him. He sighs, taking your shifting and sinking deeper with you, “—couldn’t stop smelling you. Tell me?”
He asks while you watch his hands rove over your sleeping form, gripping your hips and sides. Your thighs are massaged—tightly, you can see the spill of flesh between his strong fingers—and your eyes nearly close when his real hands imitate those same movements. It almost hurts, stinging with sensitivity, but you bear it.
“Is it a secret?” he teases.
You shake your head and stammer an answer when your brain catches up, chin dipping to your chest. Just this has you hot and wet between your thighs.
On the screen, he kneels before your splayed body, gripping your calves and pushing them up. Your breath catches at the sight of him kneeling there, his mouth kissing up your legs, nose dragging against your soft skin the whole way.
He can’t touch you there right now, but you feel everything—the phantom press of lips, the puff of air, the wetness of his mouth—on your neck. His hands lift your knees, bending them so he can grasp the places his mouth is sucking on the screen. You hiss—you hadn’t noticed those marks yet either. Is he planning to show you every spot his teeth marked you? Every place his lips sucked red and purple?
You bite your lips shut and shift your hips against the bed, deeper, a little tremulous.
He’s been quiet, watching with you, his hands doing nothing more than sending suppressed shivers up your spine. He hums when you whimper on the recording, a soft thing barely audible over the rush of blood in your ears.
A sound builds inside you, then fizzles as he mouths kisses over your thighs, and up and up and—
And you watch the arch of his neck as he licks over your clothed cunt.
A sigh escapes you. Another shift, another wiggle, another squeeze, trying to get a handle on how you react to him touching your unaware, resting body.
The camera shows his hands resting your legs over his shoulders before his fingers ease under your waistband. They pull, pause, and he shakes his head, laughing.
What—oh, right. . .
Your shorts are pulled down, leaving you bare, no underwear in sight.
The man holding you huffs again, seeing it happen. His hands drift down your legs in real life, cupping the fat in his palms and squeezing. You hiss at the nasty bite being touched, but he doesn’t acknowledge that. You need to keep watching—need to see where he gave you that stinging mark.
Strong fingers grip the fold of your hips and thighs, pulling you close to his kneeling form, letting your ass hang off the edge of the bed. Your legs hang over his broad shoulders in the low light, foot twitching at the first dip of his head. You catch a kissing sound from the speakers, and you let your eyes close.
Oh, jeez. . .
He laughs behind you, pressing his cheek to yours as your head lolls back onto his shoulder. “You’re not gonna watch?”
“I—I will, just—” Another wet sound filters through, muffled only a little by white noise and the pillow. You curse yourself for turning the volume so high. Your fingers tangle in the robe bunched up on your thighs, and you whine quietly. NightHide's breath deepens at the sound.
He rubs you gently, palms flat and soothing, voice matching the motion. “Sweetheart? You wanna pause?”
“No, no.” You cover your mouth as his fingers edge too close to your cunt, and another wet sound hits you. “No. It’s fine,” you whisper beneath your fingers.
Your heart feels like it wants to escape your chest. You’re utterly embarrassed by the wantonness of your sleeping body.
He just hums behind you—not helping—and kisses your jaw.
The affection while you’re awake isn’t helping either. You’ll be stuck on this moment for the rest of your life, trying to chase that high.
A sound comes from the laptop—not you, but you on the screen—a pitchy, drawn-out, tired thing. Video-him answers with another messy suck before you hear him spit loudly on your pussy.
You jolt in his arms. “Oh God—”
“This pretty little thing,” he says over the speakers, and you muffle a sound in real life.
He’s pulled you even further back against him—somehow—his hands now over your belly, reaching up to cup your ribs. His breathing is steady, almost forced steady if the occasional twitch of his fingers into your skin at those wet sounds is any clue. He shifts his hips, pressing against your lower back, rolling once—clearly affected. . .
You finally look back, eyes blurry from squeezing them shut. On the screen, he’s still between your thighs, feasting like a man starved. His hair has fallen from the neat ponytail you saw at the beginning, and you press your legs together, knowing those ends tickled your inner thighs less than twelve hours ago.
Your hand falls from your mouth, fingers gathering in the fabric of his sweatpants and bunching it up. Another sound pours from the speakers, and from the pitch you know you’re close. You didn’t even realize that was possible—not that you dismiss anyone who’s claimed otherwise, just that—you understand now that the fantasy of being coaxed into a sleeping orgasm is something you needed to see for yourself. . .
From yourself.
Your thighs box NightHide's ears, his hands pressing them tighter while you lie in that weak, sleeping state. He groans above you, into you, and you watch your limp hand curl a little before relaxing, your lax legs straightening only to drape back over his shoulders. He hums at something behind you, and you look for him in the reflection, catching nothing but his glowing eyes barely lit by the dim light.
"There we go," he says, glancing down at what must be your fluttering, wet, swelling cunt, worked open around his tongue. "Fuck. . ."
His face must have been wet—from you, his own spit—lips raw and pink. Face shiny. You know it would be a pretty sight, but now you only get his back, his hands petting your skin, his mouth audibly pressing kisses into you.
"Was that. . . alright?" He sounds almost nervous, like he crossed a line he hadn't known was there.
None really exist.
You swallow and nod, breathless as his hand curls under your breast, his thumb resting neatly over your heart. "Yeah, for sure. . ." He squeezes you into a hug, kisses you, and then redirects you again.
Casual with his strength, he pushes you up the bed, rustling the covers. The sticky insides of your thighs catch the dim light—an embarrassing, erotic detail. He settles you near the pillows gently, shifting you onto your side. You go, of course, sleepily parting your mouth as he arranges your arm over your side and steps away.
He moves the camera, and you catch his chin, the stubble there holding your combined fluid in perfectly round, dewy drops. You lick your lips, looking at his wet mouth, his lips red and nose flushed. . . Pretty, like you thought.
"Think so?"
Oh, you said that out loud. . . "Mhm," you bite your lip afterward, watching his tongue poke out while he adjusts the tripod, feeling jealous of his own mouth. "Very."
He snorts quietly behind you, fingers pressing together and squeezing your tit lightly—just the bottom, where it rests heaviest against you, his hand hot through the thin robe that cloaks you. "That's kind of you, sweet girl," he whispers, undoubtedly feeling you shiver in his arms at the intimate name.
"Yeah," you repeat, reduced to a single syllable in your embarrassment. But it means nothing to him—the man whose words are his power—he simply understands your slips, hums, and one-tone answers.
Your eyes fix on the picture you paint on the screen: the man zooming in on your features. It lingers a while, you watching your sleeping self—a sight you never see unless a friend records you—catching the curve of your lips and the depth of your breaths. You feel. . . seen by it. Exposed, maybe. Is he showing the parts of you he likes? The ones prettiest at first glance?
He's shy when he speaks up, craning his neck to peek at your actual face. "I can blur it—take it out altogether, actually," he says. His hand, not groping you but rather counting your breaths, pinches the satiny fabric of your robe together and rubs it.
You think. . .
You watch the way his fingers trace your nose and your cupid's bow. His fingers trail the furls of your ear. The brush of your hair from your brow, the way his thumb smooths the tail end and the fan of your lashes. . .
. . .You want it just between the two of you.
"Can you take it out?"
". . .Sure?"
He senses your hesitation, patting you softly until you can sort through the mess in your head. "Will I get," you inhale deeply, seeing your mouth edged open and watching him press his pointer into the sharp end of your canines, just to the point of pain. "Will I get a clean copy?" You glance over your shoulder, and he leans back.
His eyes dart between you and the screen—awake you versus unaware you.
He meets your eyes and nods. "You will."
You find your certainty there. "Then take it out."
"Okay."
"Please."
"Oh-kay," he laughs a little, pressing you back to his chest and hugging you tight. You let out a breath from the strength. "Don't have to ask me twice. Promise." You can take him at his word.
Your hands cover his thick forearms, and you let your bent knees fall against his thigh, watching over them as you once again bend to his will. Heat spreads down your side—his hand—falling to cup your hip and pat you with whatever fingers land on your ass. You silently look on as he delicately fixes the strap of your shirt before retracting. His hand falls back in the recording, reaching behind his neck to tug at the collar of his shirt. It comes off in one smooth motion, tossed somewhere away from the bed. You bite your tongue, convincing yourself that's why your mouth floods with saliva.
It should be a common sight to you—hell, you're leaning against the man's naked chest—but still. . . He's unwittingly handsome, and your mind splinters thinking about the things he's done on video to others and seems about to do with you.
Swallowing thickly, you watch your form dip as he climbs onto the bed behind you. Those deft fingers wrap around your hip, pushing you just a touch forward, and his other hand disappears, making your sleeping form gasp. At least, you think it's a gasp—a ragged little thing that even makes NightHide slow down.
"You're okay," he whispers to your form.
He leans down, pressing a kiss to the apple of your cheek before moving on. Only a few slick sounds filter through the poor speakers this time, the rhythm of his movements already working their way into you. It's like you remember more than just a passive thing, like. . . like you were less than asleep for this. . .
Aware of the man behind you, you shift just a touch when his hand finds the curve of your waist again. Comfortable here. Familiar.
Your eyes catch the same on the screen. Familiar it certainly is.
A thumb—the same one that felt the point of your tooth, that pushed fruit into your mouth, that stroked over your robe—tucks into dark sweatpants, pulling until they reveal—
Underwear.
"Oh." You don't mean to sound so disappointed.
"One of us had to wear a pair," he jokes, fingers tickling over your side. You giggle, trapping his hand before letting go and refocusing on the reveal.
You've seen his dick—feel it currently, as much as you try to ignore—but it's kind of your favorite among them all.
Well, Dynamite and that gold glans ring are up there, too. . .
Never mind that.
His fingers wrap around the last layer and pull down. You see nothing but the trimmed hair of his pelvis, barely lower than his adonis belt. But he hisses on screen, stroking himself, and palms your ass to spread you wider. Your skin feels set on fire from the show of his white teeth, the whitened knuckles of his hand, that flood of almost bashful energy as you hear the wet slide of him dragging the head of his cock through your lips.
"Fuck," he curses again in the recording, rocking too far forward before righting himself and taking a deep breath. "Fuck, fuck, oh, your pussy, baby. . ."
You inhale sharply through your nose, shaking your head with fluttering eyes before you can make sense of it.
"Baby." you whisper. The hand on your side tightens with your tone.
"All wet and—" you see him sink forward, closer to you, to the camera, "—ready for me."
Your slack mouth lets out the softest whine as he slips in, gaining his hushed attention and heeding. "No, no, you're alright." Your brow furrows before relaxing to his rocking: in, out, in, out. Smooth, smooth, slick, smooth. "Thaaat's it, get back soft for me."
Soft for him. . .
You don't think you'll ever understand the unerring softness of a sleeping cunt or hole, but you have to take his word for it. There's a reason he has a sub dedicated to those wanting to be knocked out and diddled by him, and you're guessing it's because he—and you—are not alone.
He touches your side, smoothing over it before you can think past the need to shift your hand between your legs. You do move, settling onto your hip a little heavier, a little further into his embrace, and he takes you, cheek pillowed on your head with a gentle weight.
Video-him squeezes your side just as your sleeping image gasps again, your fingers curling up near your chin, moving forward in short rocking motions. Your mouth lies parted, breathy sounds leaving you under the deeper tones expelled above you. His chiseled belly is tight, flexed with every thrust forward into your sleeping-softness.
Sleeping?
Your lax lips mouth something. You can't focus enough to read your own lips, eyes taken by a pale hand crawling over your side. It takes your wrist, curling gently around and pulling up, settling your limb on your other side. Chest bared to the camera, still clothed and showing the nubs of your hardened nipples, he palms your breast. A squeeze, another, his strong fingers massaging the fat into his hand.
You feel yourself get itchy again, your heart in your throat as one of his hands on your awake body lays flat, smoothing up under a breast again. Your rib cage deflates, the curve of your tit resting over those strong digits.
The fingers on screen drop your tit, all focused on searching for the peak there, finding, and pinching. Your body reacts almost lazily: a long sound drawn from your belly, achingly soft and sonorous, loud enough for a comment.
"Fucking adorable—"
"So fucking cute—"
The words overlap from him on both ends, your eyes fluttering from the barrage of praise, unsure who said what. You bite your lips shut, brows drawing together lightly as you watch your form rocked to another orgasm, lips parting once again to cry from a sharp pinch to your nipple.
NightHide at your back exhales, the air tickling your shoulder and making you twitch. You feel a phantom pain in your tit from it—what you think is phantom. A look down confirms he is not touching you, and you are indeed just sensitive from it.
"There you go," you hear.
His hand on your side moves to rub over your back as you tilt your head closer. "Is that a you thing?" he asks, fingers now massaging your neck as you watch drool fall from the corner of your mouth.
"W-what? The—" Multiple orgasms? The dastardly soft nature of your moans? The aching vulnerability displayed? "Me?"
"Mhm," he says, instead of making you think too much about it.
"I—" The man folds over your body a second, panting loudly as your body constricts around him. He curses, a soft thing, holding still before he works himself back up to fucking you again. It's wetter, somehow, stickier. You see his hand grip your ass and stretch it again, grunting at whatever he sees before "I think so. I guess, yeah."
You can feel his eyes stick to you, tracing your profile as his momentarily pixelated pointer finger circles your tit through fabric. "You guess. . ?" It sounds like a challenge from him—for him.
You find that you've wrapped your arms around your own form, your fingers pressing into your skin as if to hold yourself together where you're contained in the vee of his legs. You're safe here, possibly the safest you'll ever be, but still. . .
A kiss is pressed to your nape.
You don't know if he's kissed you on the lips yet. . .
You let your eyes fall shut at the tender gesture. Let him gather you and keep you warm from the cool room. Let him—
"Open up," he says on the screen.
Your eyes fall on his fingers edging their way past your lax lips. The picture has you drawing the insides of your cheeks between your teeth, picking as he presses his digits back while fucking you slowly.
"There you go," he whispers, surprisingly caught by the camera. "There you go, sweetheart."
Your heart picks up, watching as sleeping you gets your mouth plundered by fingers that have their own Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and subreddit pages. Probably an insurance policy as well.
They fuck your mouth wide, slipping over your tongue as you pant and snuffle quietly. Your jaw is open wide; it would be nearly embarrassing if it weren't for the litany of his praise. You don't know if you've even heard him speak that sweetly to the others in their videos. Or maybe you're just biased. . .
But you are here. . . watching with him. . . not his normal. . .
"Ow," he laughs over the video, and your attention is caught again. Your white teeth prick divots into his skin, biting meanly on what's landed in your mouth. "Bite-y girl." He still leaves them in, dripping in your drool, fucking back until your spit gets tacky and thick and hard to swallow.
"Oh, god," you say, sitting up a little. His hand slips down your back, and you shift to look at him, finally. He's flushed, eyes lower than when you saw him before, and you can't look down— "I—I'm sorry, are you—"
He cuts you off, "I'm fine," and you watch his eyes catch your teeth again biting—this time your lip.
You choke a little on them on screen, and he looks at it over your shoulder. You can just about see through the lens of his glasses; he's still fucking forward, the force rocking you back. It makes your teeth dig deeper and deeper into his skin. He says something, and the man in front of you smirks about it.
"Yeah," he says, looking back to you, "I'm fine." He looks back to your mouth, biting and twitching and—oh. . .
Your eyes fall to his hand on his thigh now, knocked off in your need to check in with him. That's the one, yeah. Your hand reaches for his, observing him passively. He lets it stay there, and when you grasp it, he twitches only a little. It's the first touch you've initiated. . . He can't be. . .? No. . .
Your fingers trace over the two fingers your teeth dug into, seeing red marks. You swallow, ignoring the wet sounds over your shoulder to examine him. "I. . ." He said it's alright. . .
So it's alright. He probably likes it—does, by his content smile.
His hand flips between your own hands, reaching up to your face. His thumb strokes your skin softly, cradling your jaw with his fingers as your hands wrap around his wrist and forearm. Your fingers play over prominent veins before you instinctively lean into his touch, lips parting to his brush. Your dewy, thin skin catches on his dry thumb, and you breathe out deeply when his thumb taps your front tooth.
"Want another try?"
"Yeah," it's drawn from you so fast you nearly fear he used his quirk on you, but it's a passing worry.
"Something smaller, huh?" His thumb slips past, resting on the bed of your tongue. You close your mouth around it, eyes slipping closed before opening to his content face.
"You're all good, sweetheart."
Fuck.
You're sucking before you know it, circling your tongue around the digit, letting the hard nail press against the roof of your mouth, lulled into comfort despite the loud fucking behind you. Breath slowing, he pulls you forward to kiss your cheek, gentling you back when you whine softly.
He sighs deeply. "Don't do that." Your eyes open to see his free hand slipping between his legs, see the muscles of his bicep shift as he presses and gropes himself. You find yourself rocking too, into your heel and hand, needy, with your heart in your ears. "No, no, sweet girl," he says, shaking his head. "Don't be that cute."
You whine, brows pulled tight before relaxing. You un-suction, a pop signaling it before drool slips down your chin and his palm. He doesn't try to clean you up, spreading your spit over your cheek and mouth, rubbing the sensitive skin before he pulls a short frown. "We shouldn't. . ."
Right. . . You shouldn't. You let him go, holding back a whimper for not having those fingers fucking down your throat again.
You nod, biting your lip before sighing.
"Don't do that either," he says. "I don't like making pretty things like you sad—"
"Stop," you whisper instead. He's not making any of this better on you either. "Talking to me like—" you stop, shaking your head minutely to get rid of the thought.
He's silent but nods once, wiping his thumb on the bedspread before sitting back into the pillows fitted around him. His arms spread, and you go after his fingers wiggle, slow to tuck yourself back into him, knowing with the wearing down of your will you'd jump his bones.
Now you can watch yourself.
You look back and see your body shifted—on your belly, hips hiked up into him. He holds you there, still, and once again your limp form rocks along the sheets, shuffling forward only for him to wrangle you back. You swallow thickly, tuck your shin, and watch, rapt. The lower half of his face is visible now, not just his defined chest and core; the line of his jaw is clenched as he drives forward with solid thrusts. Your skin smacks together, barely covering the sticky sound beneath.
The scene must have been playing for a while, because you catch the edge of your voice climbing higher and higher, the twitch of your fingers, the jump of your muscles—you orgasm, and the man behind you hisses.
Then you hear hissing. See your body still tensing, and understand what happened much too quickly.
You’d thought that twinge was from not peeing after sex, but remembering how he looked at you earlier when you asked to pee—to “tinkle”—you. . . well, you can put two and two together. You hide your face in your hands after seeing the lower half of his face shift. A confused frown, a shocked half-gape, the ghost of a smile, the twitch of his belly as he sucks in a surprised breath.
“You’re. . . you squirted.” Peeking between your fingers, you watch him stare at your sleeping back before he lumbers down and presses a kiss to your nape. “That’s so—”
Terrible! Embarrassing!
"Hot."
—you were pissing.
“I—”
“Sweetheart,” he says before you can get another word out. “You’re asleep, letting a man—” his hand flexes on your arms as he sits forward. “There’s worse—”
“I just fuckin’ pissed,” you squeeze out. “Everywhere—”
“After you came—again—you squirted, on my dick—” you squeak, folding in on yourself, wanting to cover your ears from the sloppy sounds pouring from the speakers. “And it felt good,” he deadpans. The empty space fills again with the wet slap of skin.
“Please—I—”
“You didn’t watch long enough,” he says, gathering you up even though you’d rather sink through the floor. “You didn’t see me have to choke my fucking dick after,” he laughs sardonically. “Almost came in you after that, baby.”
Baby. “I. . .” You’re at a loss, with nothing of note to argue. An errant groan comes from the laptop, and you scream internally to forget it, no matter how hot it sounds. “Oh my God. . .”
“It was hot.” He says, “You "pissing"—I say squirting,” he draws out despite your muffled moan of despair, pulling you in until his lips are against your neck. “—On me. Sexiest thing to ever happen to me."
There have to be other things—other people, who top you—doing that. Yet you can’t help the curl of satisfaction at being labeled as such.
What a life.
With the video still playing, those loud graphic sounds filling the room, you’re hard-pressed to look back. He guides your head into his neck, rubbing up and down your back while you cringe away and simultaneously fall a little more in love with him.
“You wanna stop?”
You’re shaking your head before you can think. “Can we—you—skip the rest?” The cleanup he surely had to do. Oh, jeez, that was this bed. You squeak, burrowing deeper, and he chuckles, his hand cupping the back of your neck as he leans forward.
“I can skip to the next part, yeah, just. . .” He trails off, and finally the sound cuts, if only for a few seconds at a time as he taps through. “Nothing. I’ll tell you when you can look back, okay?”
“’Kay.”
You feel a touch silly like this, but it’s more comforting than nothing. If you delude yourself, you could pretend he’s saving you from a mugger at night, or something. Maybe he guides you to the train and you slip him your number, and he comes over for ice cream and a movie, and you end up cuddling on your bed. . .
Okay, you’re not shaking anymore.
“Here we go.”
You blink slowly, clearing your vision before your eyes fall on the device pulled closer, brighter now, showing your body folded over the arm of the couch a room over.
Oh, he wasn’t done. You knew he didn’t come, but. . . well, you didn’t expect him to still be up to—
He said it was sexy. Is that a kink of his? A fetish only you’re privy to?
The wet smacking your skin makes your mind go a little blank, honed in on the sound of NightHide's noises in your soft, wet-ter pussy. That has to be the bruises on your hips, deep from his strength lifting you and fucking you back onto him lewdly.
Well. . .
You lick your lips, staying curled in his arms while video-you settles behind your upturned butt. He palms you apart, gets closer, and from your exhale slides in as easily as before. You wiggle as he pushes forward, aware of his cock pressed into your side, hot and stiff.
You can ignore it. . .
The floodgates broken, it takes less time for you to orgasm a third—fourth?—time, again, pissi—squirting—this time onto a towel you hadn’t even noticed he set under you. Was that his plan?
It's something you can’t get away with this time without comment.
“What the fu—you’re so cute,” he says, a smile obvious in his drawn vowels. “Your body’s so honest. God. That—I’m gonna—gonna fuckin’ cum—”
Your brows pinch watching him pull out of you before painting your skin. The lines are visible on your ass, white and thick, dripping a little. Your tongue slips out before you can stop it, and you feel another throb from the organ pressed into you. You’re focused on his sounds, all aching like yours, rumbled and throaty—attractive.
He groans over the speaker, and you watch him rub across your back, counting your breaths before he pulls back to kneel again behind you.
“Pretty girl,” you know your pussy is soft and parted, swollen—ruined and messy.
You feel faint.
You can see his head bobbing over the curve of your ass, and go still a second before you watch your body twitch—hard.
The bite. . .
And after he kisses up your body, to your mouth, he presses his nose to yours, petting your hair back before leaving you. His dick is half-hard on his thigh, still untucked from his sweats, skin taking on a slight shine as he reaches around to cut the recording.
And you’re left with a black screen, looking at your forms curled around each other. It could be a cute sight—a couple watching a movie or something, sharing space and heat and comfort—but you’re strangers, perverted strangers at that, watching back your dubious sex tape as some form of aftercare. . .
Good heavens, what is your problem?
“Was that good?”
“Yeah.”
You’ll never know.
“Yeah, yes, it was,” you want to elaborate, but can’t get your mind off how slick you are between the thighs, and how you can’t stop arching your back and wiggling your hips to relieve yourself. “It was. . .” You trail off again, lost in the feeling of him petting you again. It would be easier if he weren’t so strangely affectionate, not so hot or your favorite or—
“You want my help, sweet girl?”
Don’t do it. Say no, take the file from him, and go home. Then lose yourself with your toys, crying out his hero name, gripping yourself too tightly, keeping this thing on repeat until you’ve pushed past overstimulation and kept going.
“Please.” It’s aching, like the sounds you made under his quirk. You’re still subject to him, you’d think, but no. It’s all you. “Please?”
"Yeah." He’s already shifting you, opening your thighs to splay with his, hands tracing warm up your skin. “I’ve got you, baby.”
Baby. You melt at that, muttering it. You can feel how he preens to your your reaction and adds it to his arsenal.
His fingers find where you need them, rubbing gentle circles after he felt how wet you are, weeping. “Didn’t need to touch this earlier,” no he didn’t, so it’s not sensitive in the slightest, but still you jump away a little, muffle a whine, let your brows knit up real tight, because pleasure sometimes feels like it could make you insane. “I’ll touch it now, that alright?”
“Mhm, it is, Shi—Nigh—”
“I’m Hitoshi, baby.”
“Hitoshi,” you let your thighs splay wider, heels digging in to push into his fingers. “Hitoshi, Hitoshi, oh fuck.”
He kisses your neck, taking the way you thrash and move with ease. “Sound so cute awake, too, jeezus.” Your clit is strummed side-to-side, and the slight burn you felt before tries to rise, but you press it down, choking on it a bit. “Close?”
“Close, keep—”
He bunches your robe in his other hand, peeking over your shoulder, past your heaving breasts to watching his fingers grow wet. "Feels good?"
"Yes, yes, just keep—" He won’t stop. Your belly twinges with the thought, but you pull back, hoping, knowing. “Don’t stop, Hitoshi.” You hiccup at the thought of him not stopping after you orgasm, maybe the man wants to push you there again.
“I'm not gonna, sweet girl.”
He doesn’t, and when you reach the cresting wave of your orgasm, you hit it head-on, eyes growing blurry alongside it. Hitoshi catches you, pressing his palm over your pussy, willing to be of use. You grind your hips forward, panting now, fingers digging into strong thighs as you keen.
He must find it attractive, still throbbing at your back. You catch your breath on his chest, letting your thighs close around his hand still on your pussy.
Hips circling, he snorts behind you. “How long can you chase that?” He bites your neck a little and you breathe sharply.
“As long as I like, if it feels right. . .” He hums thoughtfully, and at the same time you feel your skin heat up.
"This feels right, then?"
"Very," you simper, hands squeezing his thighs.
He’s still—behind you—
His other hand is there, the nondominant one, stroking himself over his sweats. You pull his hand from your legs to turn and watch as he slides it under the waistband, covered in you. His head tilts back, strong neck on show as he continues stroking. You bite your lip, hovering closer as his groans dip to familiar territory. You’ve played them before—heard them while getting off yourself.
Your hand touches his forearm, and his head shoots to you, eyes a little wild and searching. You won’t touch him there—he hasn’t asked—but you will look at him working himself over. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing, you think. . .
You keep his gaze, fingers stroking over veins as he gets closer and closer to bursting. His jaw drops a second, eyes falling to your lips, and you remember—
Does he kiss?
He leans forward, and so do you.
He does now.
He muffles groans onto your lips, not opening his mouth to tangle tongues but letting your lips do the work, sucking lightly before pecking over and over. It’s offensively sweet in comparison, but what’s new?
His muscles relax after a few seconds, his head falling back again onto the pillows, and you simply watch. Your skin is tacky—sweat, yours and his, more—and you feel heat under your skin. Nothing you’d trouble him with.
He catches his breath, and you let your eyes wander. Arms, neck, chest, belly—he raises his least dirty hand to wipe down his face, and you spot the tufts of his pit hair. . .
Handsome. . .
“Do you put us—someone—me. Did you put me to sleep halfway?” Your mind is an echo chamber filled with your bared, vulnerable sounds knocking around it. You can’t help the thought with him so open before you.
He takes a second, recalibrating to your interesting question, then inhales deeply. “Yeah—uh, sometimes, it’s different person to person.”
You nod, leaning in to press a kiss to his pulse. He laughs sharply, vibrations felt through him to you, and you smile. You should suck a mark there, see him try to hide it from the press for a a few days. . .
You’re pulled into his chest—another hug—and you also let yourself contemplate your earlier thoughts.
Maybe he is. . . touch-starved. . .
You hunker down into him, and he sighs deeply, patting your butt with a hand. You don’t mind that either.
Aftercare is actual aftercare this time. He guides you both into the bathroom to shower and change. You smile as he gripes about washing your scent away, still kissing up your throat and burrowing his nose into your hair. You work a solid mark onto his skin—on his pec, because you’re a decent human. He grins down at you.
“Happy?”
“Very.” You feel like the cat who got the canary, and he clearly likes it too from the way he already presses his thumb into the bruise.
He sits you on the counter and brushes your teeth, and you get way too giddy over that, kicking your feet and letting his pruned hand grope you. He kisses your nose, pulls back to kiss your lips once, then makes you gargle and spit. His hands stroke over your towel, and he lifts you down gently, holding you again.
You dress yourself—barely, pulling up your undies before he slips a shirt over your head. You’re stuffed into a sweatshirt that smells like him, too, your ass grabbed and slapped before he lets you go slip your shoes on.
A box of electrolytes gets tucked into your bag, and you part ways after he pulls you in for another kiss. It’s sweet, short, and he nuzzles your noses together before pressing you into the car he called for you.
You thumb the flash drive in your pocket the whole way home.
Later, you’re tickled pink with your new flair, drowning in comments from the edited video posted later that day. His official account comments, and you feel heat from the inside joke of the "💦" emoji.
Evil man.
Your phone vibrates twice on your nightstand, and you grumble a little before reaching it. Reading the name has your heart rate pick up.
Sweetie girl, tell me if you ever want to do that again.
Awake.
Is tomorrow too soon? Probably. No, it just is too soon.
hmm, not tomorrow?
ack… tonight? (,,>﹏<,,)
my window could be unlocked…
you just need to somehow find my addy…
Time passes, and you set your phone down, giggling at the antics of the commenters under your video. The Insomniac's are all feinding for what was said around the last minute mark, and there's a dozen more on a different post asking why you treat you all like chew toys.
Not that it's a bad thing.
Ten minutes, and your phone buzzes, twice, thrice? Your friend then?
The name—his name. Your brows raise.
Oh… I'm looking at you right now, sweetheart
Blow me a kiss
Your heart jumps to your throat, skin breaking out in goosebumps all over.
You never said soon was a bad thing.