✮ Teasing Dean at a party = getting pounded in a bathroom !
you’ve been at this alllllllll night.
touching him, leaning too close for no reason, mouthing off just for the hell off. dean, rich fuck boy and now the most frustrated man at this party because of you.
dean’s jaw stayed tight. his eyes tracked you across the room like a predator sizing up prey – except you kept turning the tables, slipping out of reach, leaving him standing there with his drink going warm and his knuckles white around the plastic.
the fourth time you passed him, you let your hand brush his belt buckle, just barely. and you looked up, all innocence, and said:
“oops." followed with that innocent grin of yours.
something snapped in him.
he grabbed your wrist, not hard but firm, and pulled you into the narrow hallway leading to the bathrooms. the party thumped on behind you, but the corner was dimmer, the air thicker. he crowded you against the wall, one palm flat beside your head, the other still holding your wrist like he was keeping you from floating away.
“you think you’re real funny, don’t you?” his voice had dropped, roughened. the accent bled through stronger when he was pissed—or turned on. hard to tell which.
you licked your lips. “i think i’m hilarious.”
his laugh was short, breathless. “yeah? you think you can keep running that mouth all night?”
“i can keep running it wherever you want, di laurentis.”
that did it for his poor, half-dead patience.
he didn’t waste words. just hauled you into the bathroom, kicked the door shut, and locked it. the party noise went muffled, replaced by your heartbeat and the hum of the extractor fan. the tile was cold through your top as he pushed you back against the sink counter. his hands found your hips, gripped hard, and he pulled you against him so you could feel exactly what your teasing had done.
“see what you did?” he ground his hips forward. his cock pressed thick and hard through his jeans.
you rolled your hips back, meeting him with a cheeky grin. “make me pay for it, then.”
he didn’t need a second invitation.
clothes flew off, fast. jeans chucked down, panties shoved aside, his cock springing free, the tip already slick. he didn’t bother building you up with fingers or tongue.
he just bent you over the sink, yanked your hips back, and pushed in without a warning.
you gasped, voice hitting a pitch that shocked you. he was big. stretching you wide, sinking deep in one smooth, merciless thrust.
that bold, teasing front you’d worn all night?
instantly. your mouth fell open, your hands scrambling to hold onto the sink for support
he pulled out halfway and drove back in, the slap of skin obscenely loud in the small room that it forced a flush on your cheeks.
“what was that?” he hadn’t even broken a sweat while his rhythm was already punishing. fast. deep. each impact punching a helpless noise out of you.
“you had so much shit to say out there. go on. mouth off.”
your thoughts had scattered like startled birds. all that remained was the stretch, the burn, the fullness of him splitting you open. your voice came out in fragments, broken off on every inhale.
“please what?” he drove deeper, hitting a spot that made your knees buckle. “use your words, princess. you were so good at them before.” he taunted, hands gripping your hips tighter.
you tried. and failed. all you had were moans—pitched and climbing higher with every stroke.
his breath was hot against your ear as he leaned over your back. “that’s it. that’s what i wanted to hear. you all broken on my cock.”
you moaned, frantic, babbling something that might have been yes and more and please all tangled together into one syllable. your walls were clenching around him, desperate and greedy. you were so wet you could hear it, the slick sounds mixing with his grunts and your wrecked breathing.
he pulled out again, this time all the way, and you whined – a desperate, embarrassing sound. you needed him back inside. needed him to finish what he started.
“shh.” dean turned you around, lifted you onto the counter, spread your legs wide. his cock was glistening with you, angry red, veins straining. he lined himself up, pressed just inside the entrance, and held there. “you want it?”
he pushed in again, and your head fell back against the mirror with a thud. the angle was deeper like this, hitting places that made your vision go white at the edges. your mouth stayed open, sounds spilling out unbidden, a litany of his name and swear words and half-formed pleas.
he watched you come apart with dark satisfaction. his thumb traced your lower lip, catching the whimper as it escaped.
“you talk too much,” he murmured. and then he shoved two fingers into your mouth.
not gentle. not teasing. a command.
your eyes went wide, but your jaw went slack, letting him in. your tongue curled around his knuckles, tasting salt and skin and the faint beer from his hands grabbing his beer bottle so tight it squeaked. he fucked your mouth with his fingers in time with his hips.
you couldn’t speak. only moan around him, wet and muffled, drool starting to slip down your chin.
“thaaat’s better.” he groaned, watching his fingers sink in and out of your lips.
“look at you. so pretty with something in your mouth. and your little cunt’s so tight, clamping down like it’s tryna milk me dry.”
you wanted to say something clever. but all that came was a desperate sound, your thighs trembling, your eyes watering.
he kept his fingers lodged deep, pressing down on your tongue, while he hammered into you from below. the pleasure built to an unbearable peak, coiling low in your belly, ready to snap. you tried to warn him, tried to say you were close, but with his fingers in your mouth it came out as garbled sounds.
a smirk crawled onto his face, blonde hair falling over his eyes.
“yeah, you gonna come? do it. come on my dick. make a mess.”
you came before he even finished the sentence.
your whole body clenched, your cunt squeezing him in rhythmic pulses, your back arching off the mirror. the scream came out as a gurgled cry around his fingers, tears spilling down your cheeks.
dean swore, low and guttural, and kept thrusting, chasing his own finish through the aftershocks of yours. he pulled his fingers out of your mouth just in time to let you gasp, and then he was coming, buried deep, hot pulses filling you, his forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged.
for a long moment, neither of you moved.
then he pulled back, just enough to look at you – ruined, drool-smeared, teary, cock-drunk and glossy-eyed.
“still think you’re funny?”
you tried to speak. all that came out was a hoarse whisper, throat sore from the shape of his fingers.
he laughed, low and warm, and kissed your forehead.
“let’s get you cleaned up.”
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