Erotic short. Aimé wakes up earlier than Jean-Pierre for once, and decides to take advantage.
1.2k, rated E. Cis M/trans M, previously negotiated consensual somnophilia, oral sex, teasing, sleepy sex.
It wasn’t an easy thing, to wake up before Jean-Pierre did. The angel loved to sleep and he slept like the dead when he wanted to, but he slept like a cat, too, had little naps throughout the day and dozed here and there, in Aimé’s lap or Asmodeus’, in quiet moments between volunteering or classes or clubs…
So he’d go to bed a little later in the night than expected, and then he’d wake up at five or six in the morning, just as early as Asmodeus woke up to go to dance practice or whatever the Hell else he did in the mornings, or as early as Colm got up to work on the allotment, or in the yard.
Aimé was no real stranger to getting up early — he’d done it all the time, when he was a kid, just to get away from his family, to go to box at the gym. Nowadays, he got up early to walk the dog, or help Colm, or watch De or Jean dance… Or, on days like this, when he woke up on a night where Jean-Pierre was out of it, when Jean was fully passed out even as the minutes passed five-thirty…
Mornings like this, he could slide between Jean-Pierre’s legs with his elbows resting on the mattress, carefully push up underneath the heavy weight of Jean-Pierre’s muscular thighs and delicately nudge l’ange onto his back instead of on his side. They’d talked about this a few times before, about how much Jean-Pierre enjoyed it, how much it made him feel loved and possessed when Aimé touched him when he was asleep, and Aimé didn’t understand it, exactly, or maybe he didn’t want to understand —
Except that he did understand, because he felt pretty much the same, when he woke up with Jean-Pierre’s mouth on his thighs or between his legs, with Aimé’s cock down his throat or buried in his arse, his cunt; once or twice, he’d woken up to the slide of one of Jean-Pierre’s straps inside him, and it just made him howl as he came awake.
It was fucked up, probably, but not nearly as fucked up as half of the other shit they got onto. By his and Jean’s usual standard of practice, putting his tongue in Jean’s cunt while he was sleeping was a healthy relationship practice worthy of a listicle.
Jean-Pierre was breathing quietly and evenly, his hair spread around him on the pillow — he’d been letting it grow long and although De hadn’t mentioned it himself, Colm had twice hinted that Jean should ask Asmodeus to cut his hair already. Aimé liked how it looked, when it was long like this, because it made Jean-Pierre look classical, somehow, like a knight or a character in a fantasy story or something, but the only reason Colm kept mentioning it was because Jean-Pierre kept getting irritated by it, the weight of it, how much more work it was when it was this long. Aimé leaned over his thigh, not touching his lips or his mouth to the hairless skin just yet, but breathing on it, exhaling against it, watching the skin slightly twitch and move.
If Jean-Pierre had any hair on his body, outside of the hair on his head and the little thin fibres that made up the downy feathers on his wings, he’d be able to see those hairs move, see them twitch and shift. It was harder to see the movement of his skin and his muscles, especially with the room still dark, even though he knew it was happening.
He did that for a while, kept his arms flat against the bed as he breathed hot, his mouth open, over the insides of Jean-Pierre’s thighs, finding where the skin was sensitive and teasingly breathing over the crease of his thighs, the base of his belly and his mons, over his cunt. The longer he did it, the more Jean-Pierre fidgeted and moved in his sleep, his waist tilting up, seeking out more touch, more stimulation.
In the dim light, most of it only coming from the street lamp outside, he could see the fat, pink bud of Jean’s clit twitch and jump, see the increasing wetness on his lips and in his hole catch the light.
He put his lips closer together, forming an O instead of keeping his mouth open, and this time, and he gently blew on the flesh of Jean-Pierre’s lips, where the skin was as thin and shining and delicate as the skin on the inside of his mouth.
In his sleep, Jean-Pierre softly moaned, an edge of strain and frustration in it, and Aimé stifled his laugh at the way his clit jumped, his hole clenching, leaned back to look at Jean-Pierre’s face in his sleep. He was still out of it, Aimé was pretty sure, based more on the steady beat of his heart and the evenness of his breathing than anything else, but Jean-Pierre’s brows were furrowed, his lips twisted.
Aimé leaned forward, inhaled and smelt the musk of Jean-Pierre’s wetness, the salt, sweat, and taste of him on the air, before he put out his tongue and touched it as delicately as he could against the tip of Jean-Pierre’s clit.
Jean moaned in his sleep, and his hips shoved right up against Aimé’s mouth, but Aimé leaned back to stop him, and then did it again, touched his tongue to the tip of Jean-Pierre’s clit, the wrinkled flesh of his little inner lips, swiping up between each set of lips —
Jean-Pierre was sopping wet now, his hips moving in little rocking movements against the air, his hands twitching at his sides. Aimé was hard, his cock heavy in his boxers and rested down against the bed, and he wanted to come up and just sink right into Jean, wanted to feel the hot, wet clench of him around Aimé’s cock and hear his broken whine and feel him open up and let himself over to Aimé, but he wanted this, too.
He leaned in, and this time when he opened his lips and gently took Jean-Pierre’s clit in his mouth, he didn’t pull away when Jean-Pierre rocked his hips up. Aimé sucked gently as Jean, still asleep, ground up and into his mouth, fucked up against his tongue and mostly between his lips, and Jean-Pierre moaned, hands clenching more at the fabric underneath them, dragging at it.
Aimé waited until he could feel more of Jean-Pierre’s tension underneath him, feel his cunt clenching tighter and tighter where it twitched against Aimé’s chin, and only when he thought Jean-Pierre was right on the cusp did he fully take him in his mouth, suck as hard as he could, and watch Jean-Pierre suddenly sit up with a sharp yell of pleasure, wide awake, and feel him come at the same time.
Aimé slid three fingers into him as he thrust into Aimé’s hands, sleepy and relaxed and tense and desperate all at once, and Jean-Pierre gasped raggedly as he all but wrenched at Aimé’s hair, shoving up and into his mouth to ride his face.
Jean-Pierre was dazed and breathless when he’d stopped riding through the aftershocks, looking down at Aimé with his eyes not quite focused, his cheeks pink with blood, skin flushed. Aimé’s face was covered in Jean-Pierre.
“G’morning,” Jean-Pierre mumbled, blinking himself awake. “More?”
“More,” Aimé agreed contentedly, feeling satisfied and pleased, and he pushed Jean-Pierre down on the bed again.
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