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◜◝ "he's warm beneath your hands, hazy with exhaustion and pleasure. half-lidded eyes, flushed cheeks, breath hitching when you touch him into blissful stupidity."♡ ᯓft. pro hero!shinsou hitoshi x afab!reader ✦ synopsis — shinsou has been out on an overseas mission for too long, you help him fall apart before he falls asleep. ✦ content tags — mdni. somnophilia (consensual question mark??). sleepy sex. handjob. (m. recieving). oral (m. recieving). overstimulation. dumbification (if you squint). whimpering. soft!dom reader. sleepy!needy!shinsou.

﹙紫藤 ひとし : shinsou hitoshi

Shinsou stumbles through the door as if he’s been dragged to hell and back, sweat clinging to his skin like a second layer. His breathing is shallow, chest rising and falling in ragged bursts, and those half-lidded, sleep-heavy eyes can barely stay open. He looks ruined—utterly wrecked—and yet, somehow, still unreal in how good he looks.

You don’t even try to hide how your gaze drinks him in. He’s shaky, barely keeping upright, but still so fucking pretty. You’d been so cruel to him all week—sending him videos just to ruin his focus, soft moans and pretty words meant only for his ears. You know he watched them over and over, probably came untouched just listening to your voice. He missed you so much it hurt, all need and no relief. And now? He’s finally here, looking worn down and perfect.

He collapses onto the couch, as if the weight of the world finally let him fall. A low groan escapes him, and his head lolls back against the cushions. You know he’s out cold—or close—but that doesn’t stop you. How could it?

You crawl up beside him, draping a leg over his thigh, fingers gently slipping into the messy strands of his lavender hair. It’s meant to be comforting. Just a little reward for making it home in one piece. But you’re not exactly innocent either—not when your own thighs are pressed together and aching. He smells like smoke and sweat and something distinctly him—warm, sharp, a little bit wild. It clings to his skin, seeps into your lungs, makes you dizzy in the best way. You bury your face in his neck, breathing him in like you've been starved. Then you drag your teeth along the curve of his throat, slow and reverent, like you’re trying to carve the taste of him into your memory.

He shifts, and the thick muscle of his thigh brushes right between your legs, catching your soaked panties just right. You freeze. Breath hitching.

Fuck. You can't help yourself.

Your lip is between your teeth in seconds. Your pulse jumps. You glance down at him—still asleep, still soft and slack with exhaustion—but when his hips twitch ever so slightly, something low in your gut tightens.

Poor thing's still in his hero suit. Sticky with sweat, too warm, probably stiff and uncomfortable. You tell yourself you're just helping by taking it off. You're a good girlfriend, right?

You press in closer, your palm gliding down the hard lines of his torso, dragging slowly over his body. The heat radiating off him makes your skin burn.

Another tiny movement. A flex of his thigh. This time the friction is sharper, deliciously unintentional. And fuck, you feel it now—the firm outline beneath the fabric, already swelling from your touch. Even in sleep, his cock twitches, begging for your touch.

One hand drifts lower, ghosting over the bulge pressing against his boxers. He shivers. The smallest sound slips past his lips—a breathy whine.

He doesn’t open his eyes.

Doesn’t need to.

His body’s already telling you everything.

His thigh is solid beneath you, flexing with each breath, and the friction has your head spinning. You roll your hips again, slower this time, and god—his touch is addicting. A quiet whimper slips from his throat, the sound making you clench around his leg.

Your hand dips lower, tracing the shape of his cock through the fabric, and he twitches again—hips jerking just a little, like his body’s stuck somewhere between a dream and submission. Your hand slips under his boxers, just to feel him.

At this point, he’s rocking his hips upward without thinking, working in slow, clumsy thrusts. He's fucking your fist like it’s instinct—slack-jawed, brainless, cock twitching with every rut. He’s so far gone, he doesn’t even realise he’s humping like an animal in heat. You press your mouth to his ear, a smile curling your lips as you whisper, "You like that, baby? Like being used in your sleep?"

“Mmh—nghh…” he slurrs out, "feels—hnnh—feels good." His hips give a pitiful little thrust into your palm, head lolling to the side like he’s chasing your voice in his dream. He's not really asleep anymore, his body's too responsive, too needy. His brows twitch, lips parted, whispering out broken sounds.

You tighten your grip.

That earns you a sharper gasp—still quiet, still sleepy, but ragged now, like it’s scraping out of his chest. “Ah—h-hnnn...” His mouth's slack, spit glistening at the corner like he’s too far gone to care. So fucking helpless. So fucking easy.

“Bet you’ve been thinking about this all week,” you murmur, dragging your thumb over his swollen tip, smearing the mess he’s already made. “Wearing that earpiece listening to me moan like a pervert… jerking yourself off in some shitty hotel bathroom, huh?”

He twitches hard. “Mmh—yes...ngh—” Just noise now, nonsense. His thighs tremble beneath you, and his breathing stutters. His head tips toward you like he’s trying to respond, back arching into your touch. His body caught on the edge.

“You couldn’t even touch me, baby,” you coo, sweet and cruel. “Couldn’t have me, couldn’t cum for me—not really. You need me to do it, don’t you?”

“Y...yeah…” he breathes out, voice mumbled and distant, so soft you barely catch it. “Need... need you—mmmph—”

His whole body tenses—then melts, collapsing into you with a broken moan as he spills over your fingers. He curls in on himself as he cums, your name slipping from his lips like a prayer, "hahh… feels s'nice—'m cumming—m'sorry—"

He falls out of sheer exhaustion, breath shallow and shaky as he sinks into the cushions like he’s boneless. But you’re not done. Not even close.

You shift in his lap, fingers curled around the base of his softening cock—still messy, still leaking. The head is flushed pink, angry and overstimulated, and you can’t resist.

You lower your head, tongue dragging a slow, wet stripe up his shaft—cleaning him up, sure, but savouring it too. You moan as the taste hits your tongue, and he jolts under you, a broken whimper punching out of him. His hips twitch, helpless. "Nnh—d-don't," he whines, voice hoarse, but there's no real protest in it. His thighs are trembling.

You just smile against him, licking up the rest, slow and warm and too much. His whole body shudders. “Hhmmph—’s too much—c-can’t—I can’t…”

“Shhh, I’m just cleaning you up, baby,” you coo, but your voice is all honey and poison. “You made such a mess. Let me take care of you.” He's warm beneath your hands, hazy with exhaustion and pleasure as you ease him into blissful stupidity.

He’s trying not to cry now. His chest is rising too fast, soft little gasps tumbling out of his mouth every time your tongue flicks over his tip. You don’t stop. He’s just too pretty like this.

You move higher, straddling his thigh again, grinding down slow—your soaked panties dragging over the same spot you used earlier. The muscle underneath flexes weakly in response, and god, the sound he makes? Desperate, fragile. “S’wet—dripping—can’t even breathe,” You feel his tears before you see them—warm against your fingers when you cup his face.

“Poor baby,” you murmur, rocking your hips in slow circles, “are you crying? Is it too much?”

He frantically nods, too fucked out to form a proper response, sobbing quietly now—but his hips are still moving, weak little thrusts that tell you he needs this even if he can’t take it.

You moan into his mouth as you kiss him, one hand wrapped around his spent cock again, rubbing him raw and dripping. Your clit catches on the curve of his thigh just right, and you rut harder, chasing your own orgasm.

You’re lost in the way his skin feels under yours, slick and burning with need, and with every movement, you make sure he knows just how much you want it, how much you want him.

He’s sobbing now—eyes fluttering, mouth open, voice ragged—but his hands clutch at your hips like he needs you to keep going.

You drag yourself along his thigh with more force, and it hits—hard. You moan, high and needy, hips jerking as you cum against his skin, grinding yourself into a trembling mess. He gasps, so overwhelmed by the heat and mess, that it doesn't take long for him to finish again—not without a chorus of whiney moans and “please, please, please…“

When you finally stop moving, he’s panting against your chest, your thighs twitching around him, he’s still crying—soft and silent now, face wet, body limp.

But you kiss the tears away. You always do.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” you whisper, brushing the hair from his forehead. “Missed you so much.”

And he nods, wrecked and grateful, clinging to you like a lifeline.

He’s always been such a pretty crier.