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Kant is cold.
It’s not strange that he is, sitting shirtless on the floor with their brand new AC at full blast, the place where his cheek is smushed against Bison’s thigh the only point of heat – but it’s unusual. Usually, words of praise are enough to keep him warm. Usually, the scrapping of blunt nails against his scalp works better than an electric blanket. Usually, Bison gets cold first.
Kant doesn’t prefer having his head on Bison’s lap to their typical snuggles, his baby tucked cozy and safe against his chest, but it’s rarer, and thus a little special. He knows exactly what kind of contentment he should be feeling – can almost picture it if he closes his eyes, a drifting, glittering sea of greens and gold – but he can’t seem to reach it. Instead, he’s cold, and Bison is about to get up.
He’s already tried to rise twice, and the signs are there again: changes of pressure in his caresses, a shift in his posture, the cats behind the door getting restless again. They always know when they’re going to be let in.
Bison’s about to get up, no amount of nuzzling or blinking prettily at him will change that now, and he’ll let the cats in and it will be over and Kant–
"Let’s get you something to drink."
"No!"
Like for the two previous attempts, Kant puts little actual strength into keeping him on the bed, and like in his previous attempts, Bison gives in easily. However, he’s frowning. "You need to hydrate."
"I drank the whole bottle." He would be more convincing if his voice wasn’t inventing new ways to sound wrecked.
"I think you could use some honey tea."
"I’m not thirsty. Don’t get up yet? Please?"
"Hm." Bison smiles, affectionate. "Someone’s awfully demanding, tonight."
It’s not true, and there’s no way he believes it is: that’s the first thing Kant has asked for in days.
It’s not what he really wants to ask, of course, but – he licks his lips.
Am I being punished? Did I do something wrong? Are you mad at me? All questions he’s voiced and stopped voicing, because they were all answered negatively.
Stopped, too, because he believed he had figured out what the game was, and found the rules acceptable. He could be good for their whole vacation, easy, no problem. If it was a challenge, then Bison would see.
And Kant had shown him, he really had, but on their last evening there, eating Bison out on his childhood bed, he’d kinda been expecting that the wait would end. It hadn’t.
Same on the drive home, when Bison had dragged him to a gas station’s bathroom and demanded to be fucked there. Kant had been so sure, then – but Bison had come, and tucked himself in, and all he had offered was a quick peck on the mouth and a few pats on the cheek, with a too-sweet "rest, now. I’ll drive."
They’re home, and the cats are fed. Kant has let Bison fuck his face, then kept him in mouth until he was ready for a second, sloppy blowjob. It was intimate and homey and should have been perfect, would have been perfect, if not for the nagging fear of another dismissal. Each had landed harder than the next, and now Bison wants to get up, is calling him demanding, and Kant is starting to panic.
"Bison," he tries. "It’s been two weeks."
"Sixteen days, actually, I’m impressed."
Kant swallows back a Haven’t I been good? He has. It’s the problem. "I have work tomorrow. I’ll need to concentrate."
"You’re right, we should really go to bed."
This time Kant uses real strength to keep him pinned to the mattress. It might be something he’ll pay for, and it might be what his baby was after: there’s no way to know. Bison’s eyes glint above him.
"I’m sorry," Kant rushes out, trying to let go, but Bison grabs his wrist, keeps his hands there, so maybe there’s still hope. "But please, I can’t– I don’t–" This won’t work. He has to remind Bison that he also has something to lose. "What if I come in my sleep?"
"Do you think it could happen?"
"Yes!"
"That would be so disappointing, Kant." The words hurt enough to make his eyes sting, but he'll take it if it gets him what he wants. "Coming just because you can't help yourself, not even aware of what's happening, humping me, perhaps, needy and mindless– " The grip on Kant’s wrist tightens, and the whine he lets out is half want, half reproach.
"Bison, I'm serious, it’s not fun anymore."
"Safeword, then."
Now that is plain unfair. Kant doesn't need to safeword, he's fine, he just needs to come. His next whine is 100% protest.
Bison sighs. "Why are you allergic to using your safeword?"
"I use it all the time."
"Sure, as a nickname. Never in the bedroom."
"You said I couldn’t use the nickname in the bedroom." It’s not even a lie, Bison was adamant the two shouldn’t be mixed, yet his hand is suddenly in Kant’s hair, yanking his head back.
"Do not play dumb with me Kant, you know I don’t like it."
Kant swallows. "I used it on the island," he reminds.
"That was different."
It doesn’t have to be, Kant almost says. Gulps that down as well and digs his heels in: "I haven’t needed it since."
"Well then," just like that, the hold is released. Bison pushes himself off the bed. "If you don’t need it now, I’m going to make tea. You should stretch in the meantime. Or get yourself off when I’m not looking, I guess, see what punish–" Bison stops talking then, presumably because Kant is crying.
Not quietly either, not in a manner that he could hide by bowing his head: big, fat, lumpy tears – like in those animated movies he used to watch with Babe – are splashing on his trousers, soaking through the linen.
"Kant?"
Attempting to answer only worsens the flow. He’s starting to breathe weird, too.
"Kant, hey, hey, hey. Eyes up, gorgeous. Let me see you."
Kant obeys. He knows Bison loves when he cries, wouldn’t refuse him the view – even though, while he’s teared up before, it was never so intense, and he worries he looks stupid. He can’t even see Bison through the downpour.
He hears a noise, a sucked-in breath that could mean many things, and the next second Bison’s kneeling on the floor, both hands cupping Kant’s face, not letting him look away. "Oh, sweetheart. Is it that bad?"
No, Kant thinks. Then, yes. He has no idea. He hasn’t bawled like that since the night of Bison’s arrest, so he’s definitely being ridiculous, but knowing that doesn’t help him calm down.
"What’s happening, hm? Is it what I said? About jerking off?"
The ugly sob that tears out of Kant probably answers the question – convenient, in a sense, because he couldn’t have begun to do it himself.
"But you know you don’t have to, right? I won’t punish you if you don’t disobey."
"You don’t want to touch me," Kant accuses.
"...what," Bison says, still holding Kant’s face – but Kant’s not about to repeat the dumbest thing that’s ever left his mouth. He bends to hide in Bison’s collarbone, and Bison allows it, merciful or too bemused not to. His hands leave Kant’s cheek to cradle his neck.
"Kant, my love," he huffs against the crown of Kant’s hair. "When have I ever not wanted to touch you?"
Kant knows, of course he knows. The tears won’t stop falling.
"Handsome devil like you, who wouldn’t want to touch? And sweet, too, so sweet. I’m so lucky you’re mine."
He keeps talking, and more than the words it’s the tone that helps. Warm and certain, with just a hint of mischief: they’re fine. Kant’s the lucky one. He hasn’t ruined everything.
He inhales as much as he can of Bison’s smell, his sweat and his cologne and the powdery scent of his skin, that always reminds Kant of milk formula. Something settles.
"– it’s a real struggle not to touch you sometimes, do you know that? But watching you wrestle with yourself to stay good for me – it’s such a rush, Kant, I’ll never get tired of it. I’m sorry I got greedy this time." Nonsense. Bison is perfect and Kant is fine, but he still feels too unsteady to object out loud. "Are you feeling better?"
"Mhm."
"Tell me, what do you need?"
Kant shivers. "I’m okay, now, baby. You–"
"Good. Answer the other question." It’s said like a warning, yet when Kant looks up again, Bison’s smile is deep. "There you are. So? It’s not a test, you know, the game is over. Just tell me what you need."
What does he need? For Bison’s hands to stay on him. For his eyes to stay pleased. For – "Can we turn off the AC?"
"Of course, don’t move." Shifting a hand to Kant’s shoulder for balance, Bison reaches for the remote, and the whirr of the AC stops, sinking the room into quiet. "There. Are you cold?"
"A little."
"That won’t do." As he tugs the duvet off the mattress and starts wrapping it around them both, settling into Kant’s lap, he adds, "how long have you been cold?"
"Not very?"
"Hmph," Bison pouts. "Tell me next time." The duvet’s static is puffing up his hair in every direction. Kant feels the beginning of a smile tug at his lips.
"You look like a baby puffin."
"Don’t change the subject."
"An angry one."
"I’m not angry yet. Will you tell me next time?"
"I will, I promise." He tries to seal it with a kiss, but is stopped by two fingers, coming to rest against his mouth. Bison is searching his face intently enough that Kant regrets not properly wiping his tears.
"Is that what you need now?"
Kant – encased in the blanket, his boyfriend in his lap and his back to the mattress – is caught, it dawns on him, and while their bed and those plush fingertips might make the opposite of a rock and a hard place, the thrill’s not that different. An immediate, almost brutal reminder of his own body.
When he nods, the fingers move to press his jaw open, coaxing a groan out of him as a tongue swipes hotly against his, and a second one, much more alarmed, when Bison’s slide forward puts pressure on his groin. "Baby–" he warns, trying to push away a weight that he’s quite sure is making itself unmovable. "If you – I won’t –"
"Poor Kant," Bison whispers into his ear. The grin is perfectly audible. "So, so, so needy."
"It’s not fair, you said –"
"But you were so pretty, too. I think that deserves a reward."
That sounds a lot like a trap. "I can – I can be good."
"I know you can. You’re being very good right now." Kant whimpers, and closes his eyes, but he can feel Bison shaking with laughter. "Don’t you want your reward? Because it’s right there, daddy, if you still know how to take it."
And fuck it, Kant doesn’t care anymore. He bucks up, grabbing two handfuls of his boyfriend’s ass to pull him down, because he’s gotten permission, and Bison can decide later that it wasn’t real permission, but right now it is, and Kant has it, and they grind four, five times before he comes, pleasure swept away by a wave of all-consuming relief. He’s crying again, with embarrassing, keening little noises, but those are normal tears, he thinks. He’s pretty sure. He just needs to catch his breath.
"Better?" Bison asks after a while, and then, while Kant’s still gathering an answer, "your back okay?"
The bed’s digging into it a little, and Kant might regret it tomorrow – he already knows he’ll be sore all over – but right now it’s not a problem. "Back’s fine."
"Good. Not too hot?"
"No, it’s nice. Are you?"
"Not yet, no. Thirsty?"
The cats have started scratching at the door again. Kant tightens his grip on Bison just in case. "That can wait. Stay there a little?"
"Sure." As if to prove he’s not going anywhere, Bison wriggles into the blanket nest until he’s resting against Kant’s side, heavy and sweet, his head on Kant’s shoulder. "Kant?"
"Hm?"
" You know you don’t have to – to be good all the time."
"Yeah, I know. You like it when I fight back." He pinches Bison’s side, and gets his pec slapped in return.
"Don’t get cocky."
"Little late for that warning, I think."
The second swat makes him yelp, because Bison aimed for the nipple. He kisses above it immediately after, though, so Kant has no complaint.
"I’m sorry," he says, threading through Bison’s hair. "For earlier. I don’t know what came over me."
"Actually I think it was subdrop! Your brain ran out of endorphins." Bison’s voice, like often when they talk about these things, is bright and excited. "Which is not very good, of course," he continues more subdued, "but, I mean – it’s good that we dealt with it, right?"
He’s so cute.
"Yeah, you did great. You’re the best, Penguin."
Bison straightens so fast their faces almost collide. "Oh now you’re willing to use it?"
Kant shrugs, unrepentant: the game is over, Bison said.
He’s allowed.