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Kant doesn’t really know how they ended up doing what they are doing—they had been discussing something or the other, and Bison had probably mentioned his brother at some point, if Kant recalls correctly—but he doesn’t really care. And he’s definitely not complaining—not when he has Bison straddling him, or how nice the graze of teeth on his neck feels. Or the fingers skimming along his sides, slowly inching closer to the hem and then slipping underneath. Soft lips trail his jawline and down his throat, sucking and nibbling and probably leaving marks behind, and all higher brain function fades to the background as blood rushes south.
Bison pulls at Kant’s shirt almost forcefully, and it quickly gets haphazardly discarded somewhere on the floor. The leather of the tattoo chair creaks quietly as Kant adjusts and leans back more. The material feels cool against his naked skin. His eyes slip closed, and he sighs shakily as Bison finds a spot near his collarbone to abuse. His kisses keep trailing south, and Kant gasps and bites back a moan when a tongue flicks over his nipple. He opens his eyes just enough to look down and see Bison looking up with a teasing smirk, and that’s all the warning Kant gets before Bison latches on, and wow, the way he moves his tongue should be illegal. It’s a mix of sucking and biting and licking and pulling, and pain and pleasure dance along Kant’s skin. Kant feels dizzy with want, and Bison looks downright sinful with his wet and reddened lips and his swirling tongue.
Kant is reminded of another time when they’d sat in this very same tattoo chair, and he feels the phantom pinch of metal instead of a wet, hot mouth. It’s a really nice and vivid memory that he wouldn’t be opposed to to re-create some other time in the future again.
Kant moans and tightens the hand he has twisted in Bison’s hair as Bison pulls away and moves to abuse his other nipple. Kant’s other hand roams freely along Bison’s shoulders and arms and back, down, down, down. When Kant reaches Bison’s ass, he squeezes and pulls him closer, because he’s getting tired of the remaining distance between them and because he needs some semblance of control back.
Bison doesn’t resist, and instead grinds down on him, hard, eliciting a moan from both of them. Kant uses the hand in Bison’s hair to lift his head enough to crash their lips together in a messy kiss. Bison’s lips are soft and he tastes like cherries, and Kant can’t get enough of the way he moves against him. His hips keep grinding in delicious circles, effectively shattering whatever mirage of control Kant thought he had because he is definitely not the one in control right now. No, it’s one hundred percent Bison, who’s like the puppet master, pulling at the strings of his puppets to make them move just the way he wants. Always a step ahead.
Their movements are slowly growing more and more urgent, and soon they are more panting and moaning into each other’s mouths than kissing. Hands keep roaming, squeezing, groping, every touch searing and leaving tingling skin behind.
“Are you just gonna keep teasing me,” Kant breathes against Bison’s lips, “or do I have to take matters into my own hand?”
Bison nips at his bottom lip and smirks. “Well, I’m not stopping you, am I?”
Kant doesn’t waste a second, hands gliding along Bison’s thighs and up to his ass. He leans up to kiss alongside Bison’s jaw, sucking and biting as he goes. The pale skin is almost begging to get bruised. He pays special attention to the junction of Bison’s neck and shoulder when he hears the hitch in his breath and feels the way the fingers that have found their way in his hair tighten, sucking and biting until the skin looks positively mauled.
Once a bruise big enough to satisfy him has started to bloom, he moves upwards again. Bison shivers when Kant’s lips skim the skin behind his ear, and he’s rewarded with a long and high-pitched moan when he latches on. The fingers in his hair tighten even more and the non-stop rocking of Bison’s hips stutters ever so slightly when Kant’s teeth graze against skin, only serving to spur him on. He tugs at the hem of Bison’s shirt, and soon it joins Kant’s long forgotten shirt on the floor.
His fingers find the waistband of Bison’s jeans, and Kant starts working on removing all of the remaining fabrics still stopping him from getting more skin-to-skin contact.
“I changed my mind,” Bison, the devil incarnate, says and snatches Kant’s hands. “I’m doing it myself. You can watch and wait like a good boy.”
Kant groans and throws his head back but doesn’t resist when Bison moves his hands away from the waistband he had been tugging. He places them to rest on Kant’s own thighs and holds them there firmly for a moment, really making it clear that Kant is to keep them there. All Kant can do is bite his lip and watch helplessly, fingers itching, as Bison takes his sweet time to shimmy out of his pants and underwear, chucking them in some random direction, uncaring where they land. He leans closer to Kant, who inhales sharply, his resolve almost breaking because resisting all of the newly exposed naked skin is starting to be a little too difficult. All he wants to do is commit each and every inch of Bison to his memory. With his mouth, preferably.
Bison, ever the tease, leans even closer, stopping when there’s only a hair’s breadth between their lips. Kant tries to lean up and close the distance, but Bison, because he’s a cruel, cruel man, threads his fingers in Kant’s hair and pulls just enough to keep him in place. He smiles at Kant, eyes half-lidded and dark with lust. Their lips brush ever so slightly, and then Bison trails them across Kant’s cheekbone until his breath is tickling Kant’s ear. “Where’s the lube?”
Kant, whose blood had abandoned his brain a long time ago, takes a few moments to process and remember where his stash is, but manages eventually to procure a bottle from one of the cabinets that are situated blissfully close to the chair so neither needs to move from their positions. Kant pats his past self on the back for that stroke of genius.
Bison takes the bottle, sits back, and squirts some of the lube on his fingers. He uses one hand on Kant’s upper thigh to support himself, and then moves the lube-slicked fingers behind him. Kant almost whines, because he can’t properly watch what’s happening and it’s wholly unfair. Watching Bison’s face is almost as good, though, because it betrays the exact moment that his finger breaches his rim—he takes a shuddering breath, his eyes closing, and he bites down on his lower lip.
It’s pure torture, watching Bison open himself up and not being allowed to touch him. Kant is painfully hard in his pants, and he’s pretty sure that soon he can’t take it anymore. Blood is rushing in his ears and he’s positive he’s about to burst.
If he could just relieve the pressure just a little bit. Just so it would be a little more bearable.
He doesn’t even realise one of his hands had been travelling towards the bulge in his pants until Bison’s fingers wrap around his wrist and snatches it away. “No, why?” he whines and turns his pleading eyes—he’s not above begging—on Bison, who just tuts at him, all the while keeping up the movement of his fingers behind him. There’s sweat beading on his forehead, and he sounds a little breathy, but otherwise he looks a million times more collected than how Kant is feeling. Kant is feeling drunk. Kant is pretty sure he can taste the arousal in the air. “I said you could watch. Maybe I should have been clearer, but that includes not touching yourself yet.”
Kant’s fingers flex. He could easily break the hold if he wanted to, Bison isn’t holding his hand that tightly. Based on the look on Bison’s face, though, he knows Kant won’t do it. Despite the complaining, Kant is enjoying this just as much as Bison is.
Seconds feel like minutes and minutes feel like hours, and time stretches like taffy until Kant isn’t sure if they’ve been sitting there for five minutes or for five years, but he doesn’t care, because Bison is finally pulling his fingers out and moving to unbuckle Kant’s belt. He does quick work of pulling it off completely, then holds it in his hand, deliberating for a moment. He hums, and then throws it over his shoulder. “Maybe next time.” The way he’s yanking at Kant’s zipper and pulling the pants down not all the way but only just enough betrays how impatient he is feeling, as well. Kant feels a small sense of vindication, knowing he’s not the only one affected.
Then all thoughts leave his brain, when a warm hand wraps around him. Bison moves and twists his wrist expertly, pulling shudders and low moans out of Kant.
“Am I allowed to touch, yet?” he stutters, eyes hazy. The air feels thick with arousal, and he’s pretty sure he will combust if he can’t get his hands on Bison soon. He’s pretty sure he will die if he’s not allowed to properly touch Bison soon.
Bison crawls higher on his lap, knees planted on either side of his hips, and lines Kant up with his entrance. “Sure.” Then he sinks down.
Kant groans, the back of his head hitting the backrest of the tattoo chair hard, hands flying up and seeking purchase on the meat of Bison’s thighs. So hot, so tight, so good.
“Unfair,” he wheezes and peels his eyes open. “You… are unfair.”
Bison chuckles airily and swivels his hips. Kant moans and digs his fingers deeper into Bison’s thighs. He distantly hopes he’ll leave fingerprints behind.
“Yeah?” Bison asks and moves to splay his hands across Kant’s chest. His thighs are already starting to burn as he lifts himself up and drops down again.
“Yeah—fuck, you feel good, just like that—”
Kant feels like he’s already losing his mind. The warm pressure around him feels incredible, and the sounds Bison is making are like an angel’s song in his ears. He wishes he could burn this moment into his brain for all of eternity.
“Fuck, you’re amazing, keep going—”
Bison sets a steady pace and keeps going even when his thighs start to tremble. The sounds of heavy breathing and skin slapping fill the room. Lips meet lips, teeth graze skin, tongues lap salty sweat, moans are swallowed or breathed into each other’s mouths. Fingers squeeze hard enough to bruise, nails rake across skin hard enough to leave red streaks behind.
Kant knows Bison has found the exact right angle when he throws his head back and makes a high-pitched, strangled noise. Kant almost sees stars when Bison clenches around him.
Everything starts to blur together. Time simultaneously moves at the speed of light and stands still. Bison’s movements grow faster, hungrier, more desperate as he chases the high. Fire pools low in his stomach, and he’s starting to lose the rhythm he had set.
“Fuck, I’m so close, Kant—”
A pressure builds within him, and he feels akin to a volcano about to erupt. He’s grinding deep circles, and it feels so good, sparks of electricity zapping up his spine every time he hits his prostate, but it’s not enough, he needs more—
He almost cries out when he feels one of Kant’s hands wrapping around his cock.
*“F-fuck, just like that—*hah… keep going—”
“Jesus, Bison—”
The Earth stutters on its axis and Bison’s vision momentarily whites out as he slumps forward and comes hard. He moans a garbled mixture of curses and Kant’s name into Kant’s ear, his heart beating erratically in his chest.
He doesn’t have any time to recover when Kant is grabbing him harshly by the hips to hold him up. He plants his feet on the chair and starts pistoning up with a fast pace. Bison mewls, digging his fingers in Kant’s shoulders. Kant must’ve been close already as well, because it only takes a few thrusts for him to stutter and then come to an almost complete stop with one final deep push and a grunt. Bison clenches and bites into the skin on Kant’s neck as he feels him emptying inside him.
They spend the next few minutes just clinging to each other, panting and trying to catch their breath. It’s when the sweat on their skin and the cum between them starts to dry that Bison has had enough. He turns his head just enough so his lips brush against Kant’s earlobe. He nips at it gently. “We should go clean up. I’m feeling sticky and gross.”
Kant hums, sounding just as spent as Bison is feeling. “Then why don’t you get up?”
“I don’t think I can get up. My legs are cooked macaroni because I did all the work.”
“Well, who told you to do all the work, huh?”
“Fuck you.”
“I just did.”
Bison snorts and reaches to pinch one of Kant’s nipples in retaliation. Kant yelps and squirms underneath him, swatting his hand away. “Stop abusing my nipples!”
“You like it when I abuse your nipples.”
Kant laughs and pinches his side. “Not right now, I don’t.”
“So… you want me to stop, is that it?” Bison asks innocently, his hand slowly drifting down again.
Kant snatches him by the wrist. “Yes.”
“Then carry me to the bathroom so we can clean up.”
Bison can almost hear the way Kant rolls his eyes. He definitely hears the exaggerated sigh he lets out before wrapping his arms securely around Bison and sitting up. “Fine,” he says, sounding overly exasperated. Bison knows it’s all just for show. “I guess I don’t have any other choice.” His hands slide under Bison’s thighs to hold him close as he stands up, manages to somehow shimmy and kick his pants finally all the way off, and starts walking towards the back of the room.
“That’s hot,” Bison says as he wraps his legs around Kant’s waist and winds his arms around his neck. Sure, Bison isn’t the tallest or heaviest man on the planet, but still, there’s no hesitation, no stumbling in Kant’s movements. It’s like Bison doesn’t weigh anything to him. Bison leans down to give him a kiss, and pulls his lower lip between his teeth for a second. “You’re hot.”
“And you’re distracting,“ Kant grins at him and continues walking. Bison leans down to kiss him again, one of his hands finding a home in Kant’s soft hair.
They don’t get very far. Bison’s back hits the nearest wall as Kant presses against him.
“I thought you wanted to go clean up?” Kant asks him and mouths along his throat.
“Hmm, I did—oh, that feels nice,” Bison says, eyes falling closed and the back of his head hitting the wall as he tries to give Kant better access. “But I guess this is okay, too.”
It’s fair to say that they don’t make it all the way to the bathroom before round two.