Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2633846.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      オレん家のフロ事情_|_Orenchi_no_Furo_Jijou_|_The_Circumstances_in_My_Home's
      Bathtub
  Relationship:
      Tatsumi/Wakasa
  Character:
      Wakasa, Tatsumi
  Additional Tags:
      Hand_Jobs, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Bath_Sex,
      Bubble_Bath, Inline_with_canon
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-11-19 Words: 1953
****** Interest ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Tatsumi can’t explain how things got to this point." Wakasa and
     Tatsumi take a bath together, and things start out reasonably, and
     then they escalate.
Tatsumi can’t explain how things got to this point.
Well. That’s not quite true. He knows exactly how things got to this point, can
trace out the entire chain of cause-and-effect all the way back to that first
day, to the effort of lifting Wakasa’s form so he could carry him back to his
house. But it is true that there has been a sudden skip somewhere in the last
two minutes, that he got into the foamy water alongside Wakasa with no
intentions other than making the merman smile, and that now there are
remarkably human fingers tracing the line of his hip under the surface of the
water.
“Wow.” Wakasa sounds stunned, warm with shocked delight as he slides his hand
in across Tatsumi’s stomach, fits his palm to the other’s skin and bumps his
knuckles against Tatsumi’s thighs where the other’s legs are drawn up
defensively in front of him. “It’s really just the same as me.”
“Good.” Tatsumi knows he sounds strangled, like he’s drowning with his head
fully clear of the water, knows that his skin is going hotter than he can
attribute to the warm water. He doesn’t look at Wakasa. The contact is bad
enough, the careful delicacy of the other’s fingertips bringing far more
sensation with them than a firmer touch would. “Are you done?”
“Aww.” Tatsumi can hear Wakasa’s pout, doesn’t need to turn his head to see the
hurt in those sea-blue eyes. “But this isn’t even the interesting part.”
Tatsumi disagrees, vehemently if silently. Wakasa’s touch is more than enough
just on the relative safety of his stomach, verging on more than he can handle
when the merman shifts himself closer and reaches to touch the hunched curve of
Tatsumi’s spine with that same careful consideration. Even when Tatsumi shuts
his eyes and takes a deliberately slow breath, he can’t control the reflexive
response to the other’s touch that burns under his skin to send his whole body
tense and hyper-sensitive.
“These are interesting,” Wakasa says. Tatsumi has never thought of his knees as
being particularly erotic before, but Wakasa’s fingers brush against him like
they’re some sort of artistic marvel, and the electrifying heat runs straight
through him, blows past any mental effort to control himself so he goes
stunningly hard with embarrassing rapidity. At least the lingering foam at the
surface of the water is granting him some plausible deniability, if he can get
Wakasa to stop touching him long enough to compose himself. Tatsumi is just
offering a silent prayer of gratitude to any god that might be listening,
thankful even though he doesn’t see his way clear of the situation, when the
merman’s hand slips across his damp skin, slides under the surface of the water
as he follows the sharp angle of Tatsumi’s leg, and Tatsumi is hissing in
panicked denial a moment before Wakasa’s long fingers brush against his cock.
“Oh.” Wakasa sounds intrigued, faintly curious from what Tatsumi can make out
over the flushing embarrassment ringing loud over his thoughts. “What are --”
“Stop,” Tatsumi chokes, and finally he makes himself move. Keeping his knees in
front of him is useless, now, with Wakasa actually touching him; he lets them
drop sideways, towards the merman as a makeshift defense, reaches out to push
Wakasa away. But his hand hits skin, the warm damp of the other’s shoulder
under his fingers, and when he lifts his head Wakasa is leaning in, so close
all Tatsumi can see is blue eyes and gold lashes.
“You’re red,” he observes, and Tatsumi goes darker, his cheeks flushing under
Wakasa’s gaze even before the skimming touch against his cock slides down,
traces out the shape of him more clearly than vision would do. “Am I hurting
you?”
“Ah.” Tatsumi can’t breathe for the blue of Wakasa’s eyes, the curious curve of
his lips. “It’s not that, it’s --”
“It doesn’t hurt?” Wakasa asks. His fingers come down farther, slip sideways
out over the inside of Tatsumi’s thigh, and by rights that should be better but
in practice it’s almost worse to have the sensation indirectly while still so
near. “But you’re really tense.”
It’s not supposed to be suggestive. Tatsumi knows that, can hear the innocence
all but dripping off Wakasa’s words. That just makes it worse, though, that his
entire body jerks at the word ‘tense’ as if responding to a command in the
other’s voice.
“Yeah, well,” he starts, but Wakasa’s touch is going sideways again, returning
to his original point of contact, and whatever shreds of self-control are left
to Tatsumi are not enough to restrain the instinctive rock of his hips to press
himself against that too-light touch. He shuts his eyes, lifts a wet hand to
cover his face, but it’s not enough to stop the shivering heat under his skin.
“Fuck.”
“Tatsumi.” Wakasa’s voice is closer than it should be. There’s a tickle of hair
against Tatsumi’s wrist, breath coming warm on his cheek. “Does this feel
good?” He sounds sincere, the tenor of his voice turning the question into
legitimate curiosity instead of put-upon drama, and he’s curling his fingers in
around Tatsumi’s length, coming far too close to what Tatsumi is shaking with
want for him to do.
“Oh my god.” Tatsumi lifts his other hand from the water, accidentally catching
his fingers on blond hair heavy with water before he pulls his hand away and
free so he can hide his face more thoroughly. Wakasa isn’t moving, either to
pull away or stroke over Tatsumi; his fingers are just hovering right at the
edge of sensation, burning with intensity without actually doing anything. It’s
easier to handle when Tatsumi has his eyes shut and his hands over his face,
easier to breathe and easier to let himself indulge in the pleasure of fingers
around him against his better judgment.
“Yeah,” he finally says, the word muffled against his palms. “Yeah, it does.
Which is why you should stop.”
“I don’t understand,” Wakasa says. Tatsumi can hear the pout of confusion under
his words, can perfectly picture the merman’s expression without having to risk
opening his eyes. “Don’t you want me to keep going?”
Tatsumi opens his mouth, and he means to say no, he really does, even if his
skin is trembling with want and the purr at the back of his head is arguing for
more. But something stalls his words, a moment of hesitation before he can
commit himself to the statement, and Wakasa leans in closer, bumps his chest
against Tatsumi’s shoulder, and when he tightens his grip to fit his fingers in
flush with the other’s length the moan in Tatsumi’s throat is nothing like a
negative.
“Oh,” Wakasa says, and slides his hand up, and Tatsumi tips his head back and
stops worrying about whether his fingers are covering the heat in his face.
Wakasa’s free hand touches at his waist, there’s a ripple in the water as the
merman shifts his tail to lean in closer, and Tatsumi is absolutely sure he
could claim a kiss, if he trusted himself enough to let his hand fall from his
mouth. “That’s better.”
It’s not a question but a statement, which is for the best as Tatsumi can’t
formulate words at all. His skin is flushing with a combination of
embarrassment and arousal, the latter rapidly overtaking the former, and when
Wakasa’s grip goes too tight Tatsumi’s hiss is for adjustment instead of
cessation.
“Ah, sorry!” but Wakasa’s not stopping, he’s letting his fingers go looser,
moving in low, slow strokes instead of just squeezing against Tatsumi’s length,
and every passing second brings him more in line with Tatsumi’s own
preferences. It’s only a few minutes before his grip is consistent, less before
he finds the slow-build rhythm Tatsumi favors for himself, and somewhere
between the two Tatsumi recognizes that he’s not going to do anything to stop
this, that in fact Wakasa stopping for any reason at all is a crisis to be
avoided at all costs. The water around them sloshes when he moves his legs so
he can spread them wider and more comfortably, again when he lets his hand fall
from his mouth to splash into the liquid, but he’s not concerned with the mess
they’re making on the bathroom floor. Wakasa’s too close for him to think about
anything else, leaning in until his hair is sticking more to Tatsumi’s damp
skin than to the merman’s own and eyes so wide with interest it’s an effort for
Tatsumi to look anywhere else.
“Wakasa,” he finally manages to frame, after he succeeds to dragging his gaze
down to the corner of the merman’s parted lips instead of stuck on the yellow-
gold of his lashes.
“Tatsumi,” Wakasa says, in a voice low and shadowed like Tatsumi has never
heard him. “This feels good.” That’s a statement too, as certain in tone as the
fingers now pressing steady and bracing against Tatsumi’s back. He looks less
human than Tatsumi has ever seen him, his eyes all but glowing with intensity
and his chin tipped down so the alien delicacy of his features is thrown into
relief. “I’m doing this.”
“Oh god,” Tatsumi says, reaches out to let one damp hand drop heavy onto
Wakasa’s shoulder. He wants to duck his head into the merman’s shoulder, hide
the rising heat under his skin, but he’s trapped by those eyes, held steady by
the intent curiosity in the other’s expression. “Yes.”
It’s agreement, affirmation and encouragement at the same time, and Wakasa
leans in without smiling, his eyes dropping to Tatsumi’s mouth with so little
hesitation the movement screams his intent. Tatsumi takes a breath, ready for
the damp heat of lips on his own; then Wakasa’s thumb catches against him,
presses unexpected friction against his cock, and pleasure shudders through him
without any warning at all. His fingers clench at Wakasa’s shoulder, he tips
forward and chokes on a whimper, and the contact of their mouths together isn’t
a kiss as much as it is Tatsumi shivering and gasping against Wakasa’s lips as
he comes. It feels like it goes on forever, the sensation rushing through him
in distinct waves, and Wakasa doesn’t stop moving, keeps stroking over him
until it is abruptly too much, until Tatsumi has to snatch at his hand to stop
the flood of sensation.
“Stop.” It would be harsh if his voice weren’t soft and melting over his
tongue, if the words didn’t slip out of anger and into quivering pleasure as
they pass his lips. “Enough.”
“Did you enjoy it?” Wakasa asks, the question so heavy with sincerity Tatsumi
doesn’t feel even a flicker of an urge to laugh at the absurdity. There’s some
shiver low against his spine, his body making a futile effort to panic, but
he’s overwarm and flushed and it seems like far too much work to actually
dissemble any kind of a denial.
“Yeah,” Tatsumi admits instead, leans back against the edge of the tub and lets
his fingers go loose on Wakasa’s wrist. There’s a twist of movement, Wakasa
turning his hand to fit their fingers together as slowly and carefully as if
he’s never done it before, and Tatsumi doesn’t pull away. Wakasa’s hand is soft
against his, pressed close enough that there’s not even water between them, and
Tatsumi knows in a minute he’ll have to open his eyes, and sit up, and go
through the entire process of cleaning the tub for the second time in as many
hours. But right now he’s warm, and relaxed, and when there’s the slide of
scales against his knee he doesn’t even think of pulling away.
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