Work Text:
Bruno likes showers, he always has, but now it’s to a different level. When you’re living in the walls of your family home with the mice trying not to be seen by the aforementioned family, showers are few and far between and oftentimes have to be quick and thorough lest you be caught. But now, the miracle is saved, Casita is rebuilt, and he’s home — despite the fact that he was home before just only Dolores knew — so he gets to shower whenever he pleases for however long he pleases.
He still showers at night when everyone is sleeping. Whether it be because he’s used to it or because he doesn’t want to inconvenience anyone with his longer showers, he can’t say, but it affords him an extra semblance of privacy that he enjoys. He loves his family, he left to keep them safe after all, but it seems like now there is always someone around as if when they look away he will disappear back into the walls, and it’s a valid fear because he does often find himself between the walls.
Most times Mirabel finds him because it seems like she has a sixth sense for it, maybe it’s due to both of them being the black sheep of the family for so long. Sometimes it’s Antonio though, following the rats to him and sitting in his chair with him to listen to Bruno’s tamer telenovelas instead of dragging him back out into the light of Casita and their family.
He’s happy to finally be able to talk to his family again, sit with them when they know he’s there with them, and even touch them. The touches are just more now. After ten years of not being touched, everything seems to be dialed up and after a while he can become overstimulated and twitchy which the showers help with greatly.
Most touches are okay. Mirabel touches him a lot and her touches never make his skin itch, but sometimes when too many people touch him, like his sisters and their husbands — who all four are just as tactile as he remembers — he starts to feel the urge to retreat back into the safety of the walls. Fleeting touches always make him smile; Antonio holding his hands, Dolores hip bumping him at the breakfast spread, Luisa’s fingers brushing his as she passes the orange juice.
Camilo is the problem. It’s not like he touches Bruno an overt amount or anything. He’s just so gentle when he touches Bruno as if silently apologizing for his part in the song — which he actually thought was quite catchy — using physical touch instead of words. And that’s fine, more than fine really. He loves the gentle fingers reaching over to push his hair behind his ear when it gets too close to his plate. He relishes the feel of Camilo’s palm against the small of his back when the boy squeezes by him as if telling him I’m here without saying it out loud. He enjoys the way that Camilo plays with his hands, curling their fingers together when he listens to Bruno talking about his telenovelas.
That’s the problem .
Bruno loves it when Camilo touches him. It never makes his skin itch, it never makes him want to hide away, it doesn’t even make him want to wash off the touch. If anything he wants more of it but he knows that it’s so incredibly wrong . Because when Camilo touches him, Bruno feels warm inside like he’s being filled up with coffee, hot and full of energy. He’s never been more thankful for his taste in clothing because in the last several months his ruana — the new one embroidered by Mirabel — has hidden more than a few unfortunate erections.
He’s hard now just thinking about it, with the hot water of the shower sliding through his hair, washing out the suds until they’re sliding over his shoulders and down his body to disappear down the drain. The hard on might also be because of the shampoo he’s just used unthinkingly. It’s not the soap that he, Agustin, Antonio, and Isabela all use. It doesn’t smell like cedar trees and mint. This soap smells like tea leaves. Soap you would think belongs to Julietta or Mirabel but no, it’s Camilo’s shampoo, shampoo that he specially asks Isabela to make when she’s restocking the bathroom.
It’s wrong, so very wrong. Sure it’s not strange to find primos or family close in age marrying in the village, but Bruno is far too old. He shouldn’t be thinking of his sixteen year old sobrino in a sexual sense or any sort of sense other than platonic for that matter.
But when he wraps his fingers around his cock he still imagines them thinner and softer. It’s easy if only because through all Camilo’s touching he knows the boy’s hands are nearly the same size as his. It shouldn’t be easy to think of your sobrino’s fingers wrapped around your cock — sweeping over your body, spreading under your tongue, pressing into you — but by now he’s practiced at it. It’s almost too easy to imagine the fingers around his length are Camilo’s. So easy that if not for the cool breeze of the curtain opening Bruno wouldn’t have known anyone climbed into the shower with him.
He freezes terrified to turn around and find who’s there because he knows only one person would be bold enough to climb into the shower with him and it’s the last person who needs to be near him while he’s naked and wet and hard as a rock in his hand.
Camilo’s fingers dance up the ridges of his spine and curve over his shoulder, the boy stepping close and pressing his nose to Bruno’s wet curls. He audibly breathes the man in before his head dips to the side, lips pressing against Bruno’s other shoulder. He kisses the skin there, lips curving up into a smile against it. “I like that you smell like me, Tío, you should use my body wash too.”
The body wash in question smells like tea and lavender and Bruno knows because it’s the smell that haunts his dirtiest fantasies.
“Camilo you shouldn’t be in here,” he says. Maybe he just says it so that he can say he tried to turn the boy away because his resolve is thin and reedy like a toothpick. There are only two points of contact between them and already Bruno wants to melt into the boy's touch and let his sobrino do anything he wants to him.
“Why don’t I help you,” the shapeshifter says lowly, ignoring his pitiful attempt at trying to keep this from happening. Arms reach past him and a body slides up against his back under the spray of water.
Camilo is already hard, his erection pressing against Bruno’s ass and the man whimpers at the feeling of it against his wet skin, sliding along his crack. He watches as the boy grabs his body wash off of his shelf and pours a dollop into his palm, one definitely not large enough to wash him, lavender joining the tea scent in the muggy air of the shower. Bottle placed back down, Camilo rubs his hands together, spreading the soap to his fingers and warming it.
With a hand on Bruno’s shoulder, he steps them back, just barely out of the water’s reach. Soapy fingers curve over his throat tracing his Adam’s apple before continuing a path down. Camilo rubs the soap in circles across the flat expanse of Bruno’s chest and shoulders, scratching his nails through sparse chest hair sending a shiver through him.
It’s foreplay, because Camilo doesn’t have enough soap to actually clean him, he just wants to feel the way Bruno’s breath hitches when he circles soapy thumbs around the man’s nipples and strokes his palms down his ribs. His fingers drag in gentle circles through the hair underneath his navel, following it down to the curls framing his cock. He suds those up too, sending tingles up Bruno’s spine at the feeling.
When Camilo’s hand wraps around his hardness, Bruno actually whimpers, head falling back against his sabrino’s shoulder. Camilo’s chest vibrates against his back at the contented hum the boy lets out and he can hear the smile in the shifter's voice when he speaks. “You’re so good for me, Tío.”
Bruno closes his eyes against the flash of heat and guilt that washes across him in equal measure at those words. Camilo is working his cock slowly and loosely, enough to provide pleasure but not get him to an orgasm, and his other hand drops between Bruno’s thighs, soaping them up with long, broad swipes. He shifts and suddenly Camilo is pressing his own erection between soap slicked thighs.
Camilo presses a hand to the outside of his leg, pressing them together until his cock is trapped there. Bruno just lets the boy move him, arching his neck into the kisses planted there, and is rewarded by being ushered under the spray of hot water again.
“Good boy.” Being called a good boy shouldn’t make Bruno feel such a way. He's a grown man three times Camilo’s age and he shouldn’t melt at the sound of his sobrino praising him, but he does.
Camilo starts thrusting his cock between the squeeze of his thighs, matching the rhythm of his hand on Bruno’s to that of his hips and the man reaches out, trying to catch his fingers on the wall or a shelf to hold on and ground himself. The boy’s free hand catches his, pausing the frantic movement. Fingertips dance along his palm, sliding up to lace together with his fingers and when he closes his hand, squeezing to ground himself, Camilo squeezes back. “I’ve got you, Tío, it’s okay.”
It’s not okay but Camilo’s hand is moving up and down his dick expertly despite the soap being washed away by the rainfall of hot water sliding over their skin. He squeezes under the head and flicks his thumb over the slit, edging the pad of his finger under Bruno’s foreskin to trace the sensitive glands there like he’s been doing it for years and this isn’t his first time. Camilo’s touch has him dancing on a thin razor edge and he hopes that the boy has the lack of stamina that most teens have because he wants to feel the pulse of his sobrino climaxing between his thighs.
He squeezes his legs together a bit tighter and the shifter’s thrusts stutter, going harder for a few scant seconds before the boy seems to get himself under control. Camilo nips his shoulder, smiling against it. “So sweet of you, trying to please me,” he presses kisses up the line of Bruno’s throat and up his jaw to the corner of his mouth, smiling against the man’s lips when he turns to meet him for a kiss.
Camilo kisses slow and soft, gentle just like the way he touches Bruno. He’s a good kisser, albeit a little less skilled at this than in other areas but Bruno can’t judge since Camilo is only the fifth person he’s ever kissed. The boy sucks on his bottom lip and twists his hand just right at the same time and Bruno’s body goes tight to stave off the orgasm that almost slipped past him.
Clicking his tongue as he pulls back, Camilo looks at him with lust blown eyes tutting as he brings their joined hands up to his lips. He presses a kiss to each of Bruno’s fingers, still holding his gaze and then speaks again with his lips still brushing against their fingers. “Be good for me, Tío Bruno, and let me get you off.”
His breath catches in his throat. He wants to say something back, anything. More than that he wants Camilo to kiss him again and he doesn’t spare a thought about how horrible that is because Camilo is so beautiful with water dripping from his curls and eyes dark with arousal, looking at him like he’s something worth looking at. He manages a, “Please, Camilo,” which is breathy and sounds almost broken to him.
The boy smiles like sunshine and leans in, kissing him again, coaxing Bruno into letting him suck on the man’s tongue. He speeds up his rhythm again, giving an extra twist at the base too so that he can drag sweet fleeting touches of his fingers against Bruno’s balls. The man is cuming seconds later, moaning against his sobrino’s lips as he does.
His climax takes him to a floaty place. He’s there but he’s not all at once. Camilo is supporting his weight, murmuring praises into his skin as he peppers kisses against every bit of it that he can reach, still thrusting his own cock between Bruno’s trembling thighs until he’s also ripping over the edge of his own orgasm. He hissed Bruno’s name like it’s a prair and something hot and possessive bubbles up in the man at the sound of it.
They clean each other up with gentle hands covered in lavender tea soap, moving through the motions in a post-orgasmic haze. They trade kisses while they dry off and dress in linen pants for bed and Bruno finds himself being led the opposite direction of his room. He doesn’t bother putting up any argument because it wouldn’t be authentic, which should make him feel guilty but he can’t manage to conjure the feeling when he’s curled around Camilo in soft sheets that smell like lavender tea.