Cops & Robbers.
Jimmy’s confidence is getting way too out of hand here — in Dean’s opinion. Dean’s also the only other soul here, so it’s kind of the only one that matters. His other opinion notes that it’s kind of attractive. Twists his stomach into fun little knots and has the tips of his fingers tingling, itching to knock that look off Jimmy’s face and push him backwards onto the bed, and see how confident he looks then when he’s straddling the man’s lap with nowhere to go.
Dean looks at him. Drinks Jimmy in with his altogether undivided attention. His broad shoulders. Line of his throat, and the slip of his collar, accentuated by a wrinkled dress shirt, and slim hips donned in dark slacks and the shiny gleam of a belt buckle right at eye level with his face. His eyes roam up, then down, and then up again when the soft, expected touch of Jimmy’s fingers tugs his head back, throat long and arched — exposed and pulsing — and yes, the sensation is sharp but not entirely painful, and when he swallows he knows Jimmy’s tracking the movement.
And it’s the Jimmy thing to do: a touch of hidden strength masked by a facade of gentle admonishment. All it succeeds in doing is taunting Dean to do more and sending a rush of heat between the valley of his legs. He resists — exhales warm air against Jimmy’s naked skin that results in a less than innocuous grunt.
”It’s not a threat, officer.” Dean tracks the appearance of that sliver of pink — watches at it moves across Jimmy’s mischievous pair of lips — and his smile is subtle, but growing. He’s not in any position to make threats and he knows that, but it won’t stop him from doing whatever he wants until he’s shown otherwise. With the rising — and aid of spreading his legs for leverage — he gets up carefully; spine straightening between what little space that divides his body from Jimmy’s, but it’s enough. “It’s a promise.”
Enough that they don’t touch, at all. Feet inches apart. Jimmy’s hands at his side, while his aren’t. Can’t be. It’s unfair and unjust and a pure not-chance of arousal that it is — that this is the way that things are — and if his future is in Jimmy’s hands, he can only hope it’s favorable for the both of them.
“So what’s the proper procedure for that, sir?”
Dean’s taller than him but, with the distance between them, it hardly seems so. Nonetheless, Jimmy tips his chin upwards, a display of dominance and a subtle daring of Dean to act out his delinquent behavior.
“Well,” he starts, cocking his head to the side and situating his hands on hips. His eyes flicker down, faux thought being placed into his words before he lifts them to maintain eye contact with Dean, bright blue striking onto green. “I can’t just accept how you’re behaving. You’re going to need to be punished.”
The honorific sings throughout ever cell of his frame, jostling heat across his skin that only increases as he approaches Dean again. This time, however, he doesn’t push the hunter back to sit on the bed or to lie down. Jimmy walks so he’s beside him, eyes still locked and he grabs the collar of Dean’s shirt. A small shift of his wrist settles the fabric into a neater place before he grabs the edge of the collar and tugs. He twists and takes a seat atop the motel’s springy mattress, taking Dean down with him, hopefully, with enough weight behind it to get Dean spread out on his lap.
Jimmy has no doubts that the only reason he’s got Dean bending to his will is because of his bound wrists. Were Dean perfectly able, Jimmy would’ve been facing a struggle. And while he wouldn’t mind a little fight for dominance between them, he also isn’t complaining to Dean following directions, even if he has to be forced into position; forced in the sense that they both actually crave this. If Jimmy was ever under the impression otherwise, he would immediately pull back. But, with the way Dean is trying to play him like a fiddle, Jimmy’s pretty certain he’s not the only one getting a little bit excited with their role playing.
He’s clutching both his wrists, and that’s how he remains as — kept, being one way of saying it; behaving being another — as he is, though Jimmy might think differently of Dean. Call him unnecessarily defiant and a disruptive delinquent. Terms you’d use on someone whose favorite game was pushing buttons and smile, gleefully, on the inside when someone cracks; unfurls like a robbed Christmas present.
Someone who hasn’t stopped being that very boy since he was well, old enough to count, and talk back, but never to his Father, because he was a good son; least he tried his very best to be. Old enough that if he were ever caught, the “crimes” he’s committed could land him in a much worse place than what the protective cement boxes Juvie halls are made of could for barely legal teenage boys. He’s been like this since forever — since he learned why he liked it, and what it did to good, safe people with dirty minds.
But Jimmy doesn’t crack under his guises and facades and pretty words. He gets close — sees a peak behind the reserve of his exterior — and then it’s gone again, and Jimmy’s good. He’s very good. He’s challenging and coursing with hidden — strength, dominance, fight — and Dean knows he’s not unaffected. Jimmy’s only a man, after all, but beyond that, he knows he is attractive to Jimmy. He has tells in his eyes. Swirling with heat. The way he swallows when Dean so much as draws bits of attention to his succulent mouth.
And then he’s grabbed, pulled. He goes, backwards at first, with his knees bent and his knuckles clutched white, together, because instinct tells him to use his hands, and he can’t. He has to trust Jimmy this one time — this one second — that where he lands isn’t going to be the floor, but the man’s lap, and the realization dawns on him what that entails.
The only thing it could entail. Oh, his arms tense — just wants to give Jimmy hell for the hell of it, because it’s not in his nature to be easy and docile, but once again, he can’t. His arms are useless. All he has is his mouth and his words, strewn across Jimmy’s legs with his shirt riding up the length of his stomach, while he shifts, toes and feet keeping him half-propped without being drooped like a rag doll. It makes it very hard for him to lift his head and look back at Jimmy, voice gruff and dripping with potent suggestion. “I’m not a boy — a kid,” He says, as if this isn’t what he thinks it is; face pinking for a different set of reasons. Sits very still only because if he shifts, it’s — no, he just won’t shift at all. It’s for the best. “I don’t need t’be —— spanked, officer. Don’t you think it’s a little out-dated?”