thenovakmartyr | jimmy can’t keep his hands to himself aka jimmy’s a snoop.
The hunter hums a breathy laugh at the force — the passion — Jimmy lavishes against his mouth; perfect hands holding his hips to the dull edge of the counter. His ass is gonna bruise, and he can’t move (not that he’d want to) and he sure as hell won’t argue. Dean shows him just how much he appreciates — loves — this approach of action by sliding his hand up the back of Jimmy’s neck, running his fingers through his soft, dark hair, and grinning against the man’s ushering lips.
”You gotta, uh — kiss like that more often,” He mumbles, followed by a throaty curse under his breath when his jaw, and then the thrumming pulse of his neck is attacked. Suckled. Bitten. Marked. He keens immediately, and his hips jar forward, seeking friction, touch — anything to quell the kindling fire in his belly.
His neck’s gonna bruise like the finger shaped imprints against his hips and he entertains — licks his lips in a silent thought — at how that makes his blood spike. Sam would see if he didn’t hide it well enough. Would he ask? Guess? Or would he already know?
Anyone would see. What they wouldn’t see, couldn’t ever imagine, is how Jimmy kissed him. Like Dean had somehow released the top of his filter and it all came coming out; pouring into Dean all the things he couldn’t possibly tell him, and for good reason.
He goes about his life pretending he’s not afraid of anything, but he is. He’s frightened by it all — that he wants so much, that he loses so much — and he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he expresses it in the only way he knows how; with the only thing of worth he has: his body.
He wets those pretty chapped lips with the dampness of his mouth, the sliver of his silver tongue asking for permission to venture inside, to claim, to make his as much as he’s allowed too, because if Jimmy wanted to have him, he can have him, all of him, as long as Jimmy doesn’t mind the mess that he is, the mistakes he’s ashamed of.
Dean shuts his eyes and loses himself in Jimmy. Jimmy’s hands, his mouth - god, his mouth - and his body, everything. Cranes his neck for the sharp nip of almost pain when white teeth pinch sunny skin, welcomes it, and bucks his hips against imprisoned palms; lace stretching over his cock and making him moan, half in delight (feels too good - so soft and teasing) and half needy frustration, but he won’t admit it. “Sure you don’t wanna take ‘em off for me, Jimmy?” The hunter asks, hand still in Jimmy’s hair — the other holding onto the man’s hip and belt. There’s nothing better, in this entire world, than how Jimmy lost it and kissed him, went for him. “Not the panties s’course. Thought you’d like to keep me in ‘em a —- while.”
I will, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t reveal what made this kiss any different than the others, doesn’t differentiate how the others were just as passionate and lustful, but this was the only one that held his desperate plea for the Winchester to understand his affections. He wonders, if he ever idly mentioned how he never just slept with anyone and always did it with purpose of emotion, if, perhaps, Dean would understand his hidden words.
I love you. Silent. Still unspoken.
Jimmy’s hips move away when they feel Dean canting his own forward and he shoves his hands against them, forcing them back, denying the hunter friction for the time being. Jimmy knows when he wants to touch that red laced skin, but the instant isn’t then.
He doesn’t stop his suckling until he knows Dean’s flesh is a striking dark red, throbbing with the pulse of blood beneath, trying to mend splintered blood vessels beneath sun-tanned freckled skin.
Pulling his head back, he hums in response to Dean’s question, wondering why he would ever think Jimmy would want the stark contrast of red lace off of him. Jimmy plans to keep those on for as long as he can, simply pushing them aside while he fucks into him. Crude as Jimmy doesn’t believe he is, he does want to get inside of Dean while he’s still wearing them. He wants to see his skin flushed until they’re almost a near match, arousal purple and pulsing between his legs.
“Oh.” Then Jimmy realizes he means the jeans. They’re still in the way. Dilated eyes flicker to land on Dean’s and Jimmy gives a small grin, mischief hinted in his eyes as he presses his lips once to Dean’s and replies a low, “Of course.”
He’s slow in his decent, smooths palms and long fingers down and up the hunter’s thighs, squeezing muscle before he takes the already slipping fabric and pulls them down, taking care to help the hunter out of them one foot at a time. But before he stands once again, he pauses and huffs a warm breath against Dean’s straining erection. The flat of his tongue drags against the thick outline, but that’s all he gives. He’s quicker now, standing and providing Dean with nothing more but a hand through his hair.
Licking his lips, Jimmy tilts his head and leans forward, brushing the side of his jaw to the hunter’s as he speaks clearly, “Turn around and put your hands flat against the counter. I’ll be right back.”
Jimmy kisses him as if he loves him. He kisses like all the women who have ever claimed to love him; with biting mouths and ardent passions strewn against him, and he can’t possibly believe that with a confident heart and a mind free of doubt — because it’s too good to be true, but if it were, how divine would that be? How lucky.
To be loved. It’s all he’s ever wanted.
So he can’t help it. His hearts too weak, his skin too scarred and fragile. Easily broken and worn down by a lifetimes hardships. He touches Jimmy’s arms — the tight muscle that lays artfully beneath his flesh — and revels in how different it is from his own, but all the same. He doesn’t bear the same weight in his skin. Not yet. But someday, they will know what it’s like. And his hand threads through his hair, and settles on his hips, and Dean throws himself into it; holds nothing back, because when Dean Winchester kisses, it’s to leave an everlasting impression.
Marks fade. Kisses all the same. So if he wants to remain consistent, he has to make the effort often to renew those very passions. Temporary landmarks that say I was here, and I’ve claimed it.
He cants his hips, seeking to brush against the very real evidence of Jimmy’s desire for him, and he does not know why he’d expect anything other than to be pushed back — denied — with a carnal whimper released with half a breath. He’s been denied, is being denied and though he doesn’t quite approve of it, his dick does.
It gives a valiant twitch of approval at it - at Jimmy lowing himself on his knees - but he won’t do it; he won’t give Dean what they both know he would like, because that would be too immediate, too sweet, and Jimmy’s a cruel man in that respect and Dean loves it. The bite mark on his neck throbs. The pulsing of his heart feels like it climbed up his throat and took residence there.
It’s best that he keeps his hands on the counter. Jimmy’s made it very clear he’s going to go at his pace, not Dean’s, but maybe if he follows, he’ll be —— rewarded for his efforts. It also gives him a surface to squeeze when Jimmy blows hot, hot air against red lace and flushed skin and mouths at it, but only barely. Not enough to give him any kind of relief. All it serves to do is rile him up even further, and god damn the man, he thinks he can just come back up, all mischief and flair, and slide his hand through his short hair? Make him want?
“Yes,” The moment skips a beat, but he does as he’s requested. Told. He can’t tell the difference anymore, just that it makes him curious, and that he just wants to be touched. He rests his hands on the cool counter, bent slightly and his feet parted a few harrowing inches. “Sir."
He teases. It’s only fair, after all.