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Every twist of his wrists only serves to pull at the roots of his hair – yanking his own self-bondage tighter and yielding little pinpricks of pain that bloom along Shibusawa’s scalp. He groans softly, half-hooded and semi-vacant scarlet eyes searching for a perch, before they settle on the demon that put him into this position: who grins a too-broad smile in front of him on the bed and takes a delicate hand to place against the expanse of his pale chest and push, teetering Shibusawa backwards onto the plush mattress.
Pain sparks anew as his wrists subconsciously yank and his head is pulled with it.
“It was the perfect length, you know.” Fyodor drawls, with all the patience of a saint as they crawl after, caging their bound prey to the bed. Shibusawa levels his gaze though doesn’t meet the Russian’s – they’re just outside of his visual range: he can’t quite make out where their eyes are. A frustrating downside of his albinism. “Your beautiful hair makes an even more lovely rope for your wrists. I would never cut it, though. It’s better this way: still attached so you can feel everything. You did complain about that, didn’t you? Having a lack of sensation?”
Shibusawa narrows his gaze. “This is not what I meant.”
“You have never complained before. You only have a qualm now that I have changed the field slightly. Were it me with bound hands you would have no issue picking me apart.”
“As I have before.” he finds himself correcting, rolling his wrists and hissing as he feels the pain ripple along his scalp.
Fyodor hums softly, catching the tip of a gloved fingertip in their teeth. “As you have before, darling.”
“As I will again.”
Fyodor’s cheeks colour softly, and for a moment their control on the situation slips: it is clear even in the dim lighting that their eyes have gone vacant with reverie and memory, and Shibusawa’s lips quirk upward in an amused smirk. Too often are their positions reversed: his body spread full across Fyodor’s slight frame, the Russian’s pale wrists bound tight enough that it is a good thing they wear gloves – else there would be questions regarding the purple rings that complimented their eyes and circled them like promises – his teeth sinking into the junction of their neck and shoulder to muffle his groans as he rolled his hips deeper against their body as Fyodor sang like the angels they spoke of—
Shibusawa rolls his hips upwards, reminding Fyodor of why they are there as he grinds his still-clothed erection against the warmth between their legs where they straddle him. “Are you going to sit there all evening? Or make something of this?”
Lips angle downward and catch his own, and Shibusawa sighs softly into the kiss as he closes his eyes, feeling Fyodor’s hands caress down his bare chest. They had removed all but their undergarments for this, and divested him of his shirt under the coercive guise of a massage. He should have known better than to trust them, come to reflect on it. But Fyodor is naught but convincing when they wrap their arms around his neck and whisper so invitingly into his ear, brushing their lips across the shell and nipping…
But rats are rats, and demons are demons, and neither are to be trusted.
He groans as they break the kiss to slide down his body, their breasts caressing against his torso as they do. Fyodor pauses to take a moment and press feather-light kisses and nips in haphazard spots along the way – little gestures with the intent to make him squirm, all so Shibusawa will jerk. He snarls by the third time, his scalp stinging from the way the little jerking causes him to pull at his own hair.
“If this causes any of my hair to fall out—”
“Oh, you vain thing,” Fyodor laughs as their fingers deftly unbutton his trousers and curl in the waistband of his undergarments. “You pull my hair all the time. Mine isn’t falling out.”
“The shower wall begs to differ.”
He supposes that he earned the sharp nip he receives that makes him yank his wrists again, causing a shooting pain to race through his scalp.
He can hear the soft, pleased sigh as his cock springs free from its confines, but Shibusawa can’t tilt his head down that far to see what Fyodor is doing. The hair bondage prevents his head from inclining downward too much, and he grunts in frustration at only being able to feel as Fyodor reaches out to wrap a hand around him, caressing the weeping cock from tip to base. He can hear the slick sounds of them spreading his precum along his length, and he shudders at the sensation and grits his teeth, eyes fluttering as hips threaten to arch towards the feeling.
“Have I ever told you how much I love your cock?” Fyodor breathes, lips hovering against the underside; their tongue darts out, caressing it up to the tip, and Shibusawa lets out a wavering moan. “You’re inhumanly big. You stretch me so full every time you go inside…I feel like I’m going to break, but I never do. I always take it.”
“Y—Yes, you do.” Shibusawa pants out, hands fisted as he swallows, feeling Fyodor’s lips press another kiss against the head of his cock. “You’re so good for me, Fedya. Come… Be good again.”
It was funny, Shibusawa considered. Fyodor was in the position of power here, and yet it wasn’t until Shibusawa encouraged them, until he took control, that Fyodor finally yielded. Shibusawa filed that away in his mental notes about his lover as he heard the click of the lubricant bottle and felt the slippery coolness of it spread across his erection. Even though Fyodor would be plenty wet – they always were, without fail – with his size they needed more. It was for both of their safety and comfort: and it almost held a Pavlovian effect by this point, as his cock practically started weeping in excitement the moment it heard the sound of the lubricant bottle.
Shibusawa can feel the warmth of Fyodor’s slit pressing against his cockhead as they straddle him again and he holds his breath before they slowly sink down on him.
His groan mixes with their absolute mewl of bliss.
Inch by inch, Fyodor begins to sink down onto his cock, until they are fully seated on him again. Shibusawa is able to open his eyes and see his lover again, and what a vision it is for him: Fyodor, spread open and trembling on his cock, their stomach bulging ever-so-slightly from the size of him, their eyebrows knitted in concentration and eyes glassy from bliss. Their face is flushed and their lips are parted as they pant softly. One strap of their lacy black bra has slid off their pale shoulder.
They never bothered to remove their undergarments: Fyodor simply shoved the matching lace aside. Shibusawa throbs inside of them at this sight.
“M…Move when…you’re ready…but just know…you look really delicious.”
And they do.
Fyodor plants their hands on his knees and slowly rises and falls, soft whines and whimpers coming from their lips as they do so. Shibusawa watches as the bulge in their stomach grows and shrinks and he bites his lip and resists the urge to roll his hips up into them because they haven’t asked. He watches their hips move instead, rocking and writhing on him as Fyodor lets themselves feel good and uses him, their mewls becoming cries becoming shouts as violet eyes close and their head tosses back, their back arching, one hand moving forward and down between their legs to slide two – or possibly three – fingers along their clit.
Shibusawa has seen all the art in the world: art, jewels, crystals, statues, wonders – everything man calls “beautiful.”
Not a bit of it compares to watching Fyodor.
He lets Fyodor use him until he hears soft, little whines: Coming, Coming, I’m coming, Tatsuhiko, I’m coming—! And watches their body arch at an angle that looks almost painful. Fyodor shudders through their orgasm, the hand that hand been stimulating themselves falling flat against his chest to support themself. He chuckles softly at the sight, a fond feeling racing through him as he looks at their flushed and panting face. He still can’t touch them, but…
“Is it my turn now, rat?”
“Wh…what do…do you…mean?”
“I mean,” Shibusawa rolls his hips up, earning a little whine from his lover. “May I?”
What Fyodor doesn’t anticipate – and he can tell by the way their eyes widen and the cry that escapes their throat – is the way he rolls them even without the use of his hands when Fyodor nods in ascent. It takes more core muscles than he is used to using, but Shibusawa rolls Fyodor to be pinned to the bed, his hands still bound with his own hair behind his back, and is able to roll his hips down into his lover. The screech of bliss that tears from Fyodor as the Russian’s arms circle around him makes the move – and the aching muscles he will have later – all worth it.
He laughs softly as he chases his own orgasm, fucking hard and fast, feeling how tight and hot they are around him. Fyodor doesn’t even try to stifle themself as he rocks into their body, their fluids dripping down onto the bedsheet beneath them in their pleasure. Shibusawa feels their nails dig into his back and he hisses in bliss at the warm bite of pain that sends him over the edge, spilling his seed into their body with a soft whisper of their name tumbling from his lips to their own with a kiss.
Shibusawa counts every broken hair when Fyodor releases him later and keeps a note of them: Fyodor is blissfully unaware that the count is how many times Shibusawa will edge them.
Fyodor learns later.