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When they meet, there is a pattern, predictable even if not quite safe, that Jiro finds himself adhering to time after time. It starts slow, the young man pinned to the door of Jiro's private room, head falling to the side as the Wolfen man mouths and bites at the bared expanse of his neck. His body is caged in on all sides, pressed tight between the door and the hard planes of the other's front, and he doesn't resist- even the first time, he did little more than clutch at Jiro's shoulders, panting soft, hot breaths against his ear. Slowly, slowly Jiro inches his knee between his thighs, coaxing instead of forcing, fingers sliding under his loose shirt with a decidedly learned delicacy.
The way his thighs loosen and allow Jiro's leg to press flush against him before clamping tight again is his reward for that hard-won patience.
He could finish there, both of them fully clothed, hard bodies grinding into each other, but he never does. Instead he presses his thigh forward and up, the weight of the young man's erection hot and heavy through their pants, and slides his hands fully under his shirt. Each tiny nudge of his leg sets the other to inhaling in sharp, short bursts, and each sweep of strong hands down the broad, smooth planes of his back causes him to exhale, the barest hint of his voice audible in the rush of air. At this point, the trembling hands slide over his shoulders, relinquishing their tenuous grasp there in favor of fisting into his shirt, crumpling the satin between fingers stronger than appearances let on.
The first moan comes when Jiro slides his hand down between their bodies and curls his fingers around the whole package, squeezing gently like a reminder of what he could do (but won't). It sounds like a victory to the Wolfen man, and he brings his other hand down as well to unfasten the other's pants, pushing them down as much as their entangled position will allow. His fingers grasp bare flesh this time, and there is no protest voiced to the dry slide of callouses on sensitive skin, only a small, muffled sound from where he has turned his head to press his mouth against his own bicep.
Jiro grins, then, harsh and hungry and pleased, and leans in to brush his lips over the shell of his partner's ear before nipping at it. "Wa-ta-ru," he murmurs, letting desire thicken his voice, and the stifled moans increase.
It doesn't take more than a few strokes for the overwrought young man to shudder his way into his first orgasm, his cry of completion as soft as everything else about him. The tension leaking out of his body leaves him limp and pliable against the older man, and Jiro doesn't hesitate to take advantage of that, scooping him up and carrying him over to the bed. He lays him out on his stomach not with care but with the ease familiarity brings, turning his chin so that the blankets don't stifle his breathing. He doesn't have to, of course, he could leave him to take care of that himself, but his promise to Otoya rings in his ears at the thought. He's just watching over him, like he said he would.
(There's an obnoxious, nasal laugh sounding in his memory, at that. 'Isn't fucking someone mutually exclusive to watching over them?' it seems to ask, but he waves that away. Otoya knew who- and what- he was. He couldn't have imagined it wouldn't come to this, eventually.)
He makes quick work of the boy's pants and opens his own enough to free his increasingly insistent problem. The oversized shirt is not removed, but rather pushed up enough Jiro to see the barest hint of protruding shoulderblades. He's not one for overly long foreplay, but he doesn't deny himself the pleasure of spreading his fingers out across the broad back in front of him and digging his nails in, lightly scoring down the unmarked flesh. Wataru, still lax from his orgasm, simply shifts under him, arching into the stinging wounds with a soft sigh. It's enough of a temptation that Jiro does it again, and this time he remains still, the sigh replaced by a soft, pained sound that just makes Jiro that much harder.
He removes his hands from Wataru's skin and retrieves a small bottle lubrication from the bedside table, pouring just enough over his fingers to slick them up before tossing the bottle to the side again. The strain of acting so uncharacteristically slowly is starting to show in the way he presses bared teeth against the young man's welt-marked back, but his fingers are still patient, preparing Wataru at what feels like the pace of a crawl to the Wolfen man. To compensate, he nips at the flesh beneath his mouth, leaving small, bright marks scattered around and over the faint welts. Wataru's breath hitches again and again, though whether it's a reaction to the biting or to the fingers slowly spreading him open from the inside out is impossible to tell.
When he's satisfied with the ease that his fingers slide into Wataru with, he pulls them out and wipes his fingers off on his own ignored erection, watching with approval as the young man slides his knees up beneath him. He's not eager so much as obedient, but nor is he entirely unaffected, and Jiro reaches forward between his spread thighs to trace a finger up the length of his half-hard member in appreciation. "Good boy," he praises, and Wataru shudders, pulling his scarf up from around his neck to bury his face in it. Jiro laughs, but doesn't push the teasing, instead scooting forward and pulling his hips to a better angle, knee nudging his legs to spread just a bit more.
One hand on Wataru's hip and the other pressing his erection into place, Jiro savors the moment, rubbing the tip up against him until he begins to squirm, trying to push himself back despite the Wolfen man's firm grip. Only then does he proceed, pushing forward and sinking, achingly slow, into the immeasurable heat of Wataru's body. His own moan drowns out the other's, and his nails dig into Wataru's hips as he fights his own nature to keep the motion smooth and controlled. It's easier, once the initial slide is done and their hips are flush against each other. Jiro withdraws, then pushes forward again, utterly focused until he feels Wataru's hands on his own, fingers squeezing his own down until his nails bite into flesh once more.
That's more than enough permission for Jiro, and he lets go of Wataru's hips to grab his hands instead, twisting them up behind his back and admiring the way the motion causes the muscles around his shoulder blades to bunch and contract. He holds them both in place with one hand- an illusion of power only, as Wataru is more than capable of breaking such a sloppy grip if he has any desire to- and bears down, shoving the young man's upper body into the bed. The resulting gasp is mingled with a moan, and Wataru doesn't move except to twist his head to the side and free his mouth from where it has been buried in his scarf.
This position is better, feels more natural, and Jiro puts his weight on the other's body as he pulls out again, then thrusts harshly back in, only his added weight keeping Wataru from skidding across the covers with the force of the motion. Every thrust is met with a soft breathy gasps and aborted moans, Jiro's own quiet growls a minor addition to the sounds Wataru produces. As his excitement grows and his control slips, the long deep strokes are traded for quick hard motions, and Wataru's voice takes on an edge of desperation, louder and louder now with every cry.
Jiro leans forward as he feels his hips begin to jerk out of his control, the friction and Wataru's clenching finally bringing him to completion, and sinks his teeth into the boy's shoulder, an impulse unrelated to what he is that he never denies himself. Whether Wataru enjoys pain or not- He's so quiet about everything that it's hard to tell, and Jiro doesn't care enough to ask- either the shock or the stimulation is enough to push him over the edge, and his cry is loud enough to echo down the empty halls. Jiro's own shout is muffled by his mouthful of skin. He keeps on for a few seconds longer, enjoying the way Wataru jerks and cries with every extra thrust, but eventually he softens and slips out, and for a while they just lay there, Jiro draped heavy over Wataru's back.
Finally, he moves, sliding to the side and falling to the bed with a heavy thud. Wataru presses against his side, and Jiro allows it, fingers sliding once more under his shirt to stroke idly along his back. It won't be long before Wataru slips out of consciousness, and Castle Doran works its magic, materializing him back into his own bed and leaving Jiro to another stretch of time with only Ramon's snide wit and Riki's slow simmering discontent for company.
Jirou doesn't hold him, or stroke his hair- there is no warmth or affection between them, at least not to the Wolfen man's knowledge. Just desire, and a pattern neither of them are willing to break.