Ryuzaki knows and relishes that oh-so-human tendency to seek out the comfort of a firm grasp, movements older than their earliest ancestors refining themselves from a stutter into a steady rhythm as two new lovers learn each other for the first time. He pushes back, urging patience, restraint, things that he is not known for until he can insist on them from others who find it more difficult than he does to wait.
He has a feeling that he could turn this kid around, push him hard enough against the rock's surface to scrape and bruise, and fuck him until he's crying and coming, and he would be grateful. But he could also be scared, going so quickly into the unknown, and Ryuzaki's not in this solely to get off. He's in it for the devotion of someone young enough to get drunk off of First Love, and that means being slow, being gentle, and being patient. That in itself is a drawn-out reward, made sweeter simply by merit of holding off just a little longer before claiming it.
His fingers work at the closures on Blaise's pants; they are not as deft as they perhaps once were, and that's another reason to hate Lazarus; that story is written in the scars along the undersides of his wrists. He needs both hands, but he's well-enough practiced at this that shucking the pants down around Blaise's thighs and drawing him out of his boxers doesn't take long. He straightens as he does so, aligning his lips with Blaise's in a long, lingering kiss as he continues to knead and stroke his hardening length.
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He has a feeling that he could turn this kid around, push him hard enough against the rock's surface to scrape and bruise, and fuck him until he's crying and coming, and he would be grateful. But he could also be scared, going so quickly into the unknown, and Ryuzaki's not in this solely to get off. He's in it for the devotion of someone young enough to get drunk off of First Love, and that means being slow, being gentle, and being patient. That in itself is a drawn-out reward, made sweeter simply by merit of holding off just a little longer before claiming it.
His fingers work at the closures on Blaise's pants; they are not as deft as they perhaps once were, and that's another reason to hate Lazarus; that story is written in the scars along the undersides of his wrists. He needs both hands, but he's well-enough practiced at this that shucking the pants down around Blaise's thighs and drawing him out of his boxers doesn't take long. He straightens as he does so, aligning his lips with Blaise's in a long, lingering kiss as he continues to knead and stroke his hardening length.