Letting Loose With The Wrong Crowd

The music pulsed through the floor like a second heartbeat, the bassline sinking into Dean's bones as he moved through the dense heat of the underground club. Sweat clung to his skin, soaked into the collar of his shirt, but he didn’t care. The night had already bled into something feral and reckless, the kind of evening that started with innocent drinks and ended with lips smeared in someone else’s lipstick or the bruising grip of a stranger’s hand on his hips. Dean wasn’t here for tenderness. Not tonight. He was here because he had nothing left to prove, or maybe because he had everything still to prove and no one left to show it to.

He spotted them near the back wall, clustered in a haze of smoke and swagger, the so-called wrong crowd his friends warned him about. Tight shirts, rough edges, tattoos that disappeared beneath waistbands and into places you had to earn the right to see. One of them looked up, smirking as if he had already decided what Dean would taste like. His name might have been Leo. Or Nate. Or something that would mean little in the morning but everything in the heat of the moment. He flicked his cigarette onto the floor, crushed it under his boot, and pushed off the wall with a slow, deliberate roll of his shoulders.

Dean didn’t look away. That was all the invitation Leo, let's call him that, needed. The man crossed the distance between them with the ease of a predator closing in, eyes never leaving Dean’s. He smelled like sweat and cologne, that potent mix of desire and danger, and when he leaned in to speak, his breath tickled Dean’s ear. “You don’t look like you belong here,” Leo said, voice dark with promise. Dean tilted his chin up and smiled with the kind of defiance that asked for trouble. “Then maybe you should show me where I belong.”

Leo did not smile. Not exactly. But something shifted in his expression, the sharpness behind his eyes softening just enough to let heat slip through. His hand brushed against Dean’s hip, casual but claiming, and he leaned in again, lips brushing Dean’s ear with a whisper that sent a pulse straight through him.

“Follow me.”

Dean did not hesitate. He let Leo lead him off the floor, weaving through the press of dancers and shadows, past couples locked at the mouth or grinding against concrete pillars. The music throbbed on behind them, but the hallway they stepped into was quieter, lit by a flickering red bulb that made everything feel illicit and half-imagined.

Leo opened a door near the end and gestured Dean inside. It was a room made for secrets, with a low couch, stained walls, and a single mirror nailed crookedly above a cracked sink. The air was thick with sweat and smoke, but it did not matter. Dean stepped inside and the door shut behind them with a soft click.

They stood there a moment, the tension between them drawn tight as wire. Leo let his gaze drag slowly over Dean’s body, lingering on the sweat-darkened fabric clinging to his chest, the flush on his neck, the defiant glint still in his eyes. He stepped forward, close enough for Dean to feel the heat coming off him, and rested one hand on the wall beside Dean’s head.

“I don’t usually fuck pretty boys like you,” Leo said, voice low and close.

Dean met his stare, breath catching. “Then I guess tonight’s your lucky day.”

That was enough to urge Leo on. Leo kissed him hard and Dean immediately melted into it, groaning as Leo’s hands grabbed his hips, tugging him close, their bodies colliding in a rush of friction. His back hit the wall, but he did not care. He welcomed it, pushed into it, into Leo, opening his mouth to the slick slide of Leo’s tongue.

Their hands moved in a frenzy, hungry and unrelenting. Dean’s fingers fumbled at the hem of Leo’s shirt, bunching the fabric as he dragged it upward, eager to touch the heat of his firm, tattooed skin. Leo broke their kiss with a wet gasp, only to trail his mouth along the line of Dean’s throat, teeth catching just enough to draw a hiss and leave the promise of a bruise. Dean’s breath hitched. He gripped Leo’s belt with both hands, tugging hard, his pulse pounding like a war drum against his ribs.

Leo growled softly. “Slow down.”

Dean froze. “Why?”

Leo pressed his body flush against Dean’s, hips grinding slow and deliberate. “Because you’ll want to remember this.”

That should not have hit as hard as it did. Dean sucked in a breath and gave a single nod. Just like that, Leo took control. He peeled Dean’s shirt off in one smooth motion and let it fall to the floor, his mouth already following the trail of bare skin revealed beneath. He kissed along Dean’s collarbones, slow and thorough, before circling one nipple with his tongue, teasing until Dean shivered. His hands slid over Dean’s thighs, firm and possessive, holding him in place. Dean let his head fall back against the wall, a low moan escaping him, helpless and raw. Leo moved lower, fingers working open the button of Dean’s jeans. He dragged them down just far enough to reach the sensitive skin just above the waistband, pressing warm, deliberate kisses there. His fingers stroked along Dean’s hips, slow and knowing, drawing out every squirm, every sharp breath, with an unbearable kind of patience.

“Lay down,” Leo said, nodding toward the couch. “On your back.”

Dean obeyed, sinking into the worn cushions with his legs parted and his breath coming fast and shallow. His chest rose and fell as he looked up at Leo, heart pounding in his throat. Leo knelt between his thighs, easing the jeans the rest of the way down, stripping him bare. The look he gave Dean in that moment was devastating, hungry and focused, reverent and filthy all at once. Heat curled low in Dean’s gut, sharp and unrelenting.

Leo leaned in and pressed a kiss to the inside of Dean’s thigh, warm and lingering. Then another, closer to where Dean ached for him most. Dean’s breath hitched, his fingers curling against the cushions. He was panting before Leo even reached him. But Leo took his time, tasting him with slow, deliberate licks, each touch more unbearable than the last. By the time his mouth finally closed around him, Dean’s hands were in his hair, gripping tight, desperate to anchor himself.

The orgasm hit hard. Dean came with a gasp, his spine arching, toes curling, Leo’s name spilling from his lips in a breathless rush. Still, Leo did not stop. He licked him clean, unhurried and thorough, his mouth tender now, every movement a quiet praise. Only when Dean was trembling beneath him did Leo rise again, crawling over him, his lips wet and his eyes dark with need.

Dean reached for him, fingers tugging at his waistband, frantic now with want. Leo stood and let the last of his clothes fall away, and Dean’s breath caught. He was already hard, thick and flushed, every inch of him aching with tension. Dean could not take his eyes off him. He did not want to.

"You still want this?" Leo asked, voice rough as he tore open the condom.

Dean nodded, breathless. "Fuck yes."

Leo slicked up with practiced ease, his hands sure and steady as he guided Dean’s legs wider. He lined himself up and began to press in, slow and careful, inch by inch. His eyes stayed locked on Dean’s face, watching every shift, every gasp. Dean moaned, nails digging into Leo’s shoulders as the stretch took him. It was a sharp burn at first, but beneath it, a heat that made his head spin.

When Leo was fully seated, he paused, breathing hard, chest heaving. His voice was low and reverent. "You feel fucking perfect."

Dean’s hips rolled upward, the need already clawing at him. His voice came out strained. "Fuck me already."

Leo obeyed. He pulled back and thrust in again, long and deep, each movement measured and precise. His rhythm found its pace quickly, steady and relentless. He leaned in to kiss Dean, mouths meeting in a messy, open-mouthed tangle of heat and sound. Their moans spilled into each other, breath mixing, bodies slick with sweat and friction. Dean’s legs curled tighter around his waist, pulling him in, urging him deeper. Leo grunted and drove in harder, his pace shifting, more urgent now, more demanding.

The pleasure was overwhelming. Dean felt it build again, fast and fierce, his cock already hard between them, pressed between sweat-slick skin and Leo’s stomach. Leo reached down, fingers wrapping around him, stroking in rhythm with every thrust. The sensation tipped him over the edge. Dean cried out, his body shuddering as he came again, the release sharp and intense, spilling hot between them.

Leo followed soon after with a groan that rumbled deep in his chest. His hips stuttered, movements losing their rhythm as the orgasm overtook him. He buried his face against Dean’s shoulder, breath ragged as he emptied into him, every muscle taut before finally going slack.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The room buzzed with the aftermath, bodies slick and spent, air thick with sex and smoke and the distant pulse of music still thudding through the walls. Leo finally pushed himself up with a grunt, muscles tense as he withdrew, moving with care but without softness. He tied off the condom, tossed it in the trash, then grabbed a crumpled rag from the sink to wipe himself down. When he was done, he tossed it toward Dean without a word.

Dean caught it and sat up slowly, dragging it across his chest and thighs, wiping away the mess and sweat. The cool air stung against his flushed skin, and he felt the ache settling in, pleasant and earned. He did not say thank you. This was not that kind of night.

Leo pulled his pants back on, not bothering with underwear, and lit a cigarette from the crumpled pack by the sink. He did not look at Dean as he exhaled a plume of smoke toward the cracked ceiling.

Dean dressed in silence, not rushed but not lingering either. His shirt clung damply to his back, and he did not bother tucking it in. He caught sight of himself in the crooked mirror, hair a mess, lips swollen, the shadow of a bruise blooming just under his jaw. He looked exactly how he felt, wrecked but not broken.

“Take care, pretty boy,” Leo said, flicking ash into the sink.

Dean nodded, pulling his jeans up the last inch. “You too.”

He stepped past Leo, their shoulders brushing. There was no kiss, no parting glance, no exchange of names or numbers. Just the soft creak of the door opening, the dull thud of bass spilling in to meet him, and the beat that had never really stopped.

Dean walked back into the haze of the club, the lights too bright now, the crowd too loud. But he liked it that way. He did not need quiet. He did not need meaning. Not tonight.

Just the heat, the pulse, and the memory of hands that would already start to fade before morning. And that was enough.

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