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He won't bother you. That's what they'd said. He won't stop you from cashing in, he'll be out of the picture.
Of course Seth has no idea what they mean, really - hell, he'd "taken Dean Ambrose out of the picture" once before, practically driven a hole through his skull and dropped a eulogy on top regardless, and yet. Tonight... happened. Whether he remains in the building is a mystery, but he'd gotten in and he (with his newly symmetrical neck) had been as rancorous as ever.
True to Stephanie's word, though, (deadly, with a motherly pat to Seth's shoulder) Dean doesn't burst into the ring to stop Seth from going for the title. He's genuinely shocked, spends almost a full minute staring at the backstage entrance before he does anything, but no assault comes.
Bless that woman, he thinks, and smashes John Cena's head straight through with his already dented briefcase.
Naturally, because he's Seth and the stars never seem to align for the wicked (especially when all the wicked wants to do is get rid of its fucking briefcase for god's sake), Cena destroys him in the face out of fucking nowhere and technicalities are called conveniently after he's already sealed his own doom with a stomp to Brock Lesnar's throat.
He is tired. He is pissed. He's on two more hit lists than he was on this morning and one of them belongs to a goddamn golem with a taste for little blonde boy blood. The case, its paint peeling, remains faithful like a bad habit.
Seth is maybe not doing his best, least biased thinking.
He stands in front of his dressing room and turns the key in the handle and he swears he can feel fire in his gut, rage twisting its way up his spine against the calm drip of sweat down his back.
You're a strong, capable young man, Stephanie says in his mind. We aren't going to spoon-feed it to you.
"Oh my god," Seth breathes, once he gets through the door. He's tempted to duck back out, check if this is actually his dressing room, like knowing that much would help somehow.
But rest assured, the one person you won't have to worry about fucking you over tonight is Dean Ambrose.
Truer words were never spoken, apparently.
Dean is sitting, hunched over, in the little straightback chair usually in front of the card table in Seth's dressing room. (It's been moved to the empty space between the couch and the monitor now, facing the door.) He's actually hunched so severely that Seth can't see his face - just his hands where they're still ziptied behind his back. He briefly wonders why Dean hadn't just burst back out and kicked him to death, but his eyes get drawn to Dean's ankles - the jeans wrinkled and stuck tight to his shins, each leg crudely duct taped to a chair leg. One of his booted toes is jiggling still, against the pull of the tape.
And Seth knows he should get the fuck out of there. He does. He's in a dangerous mood and there have been few things so consistent in his life as the rush he gets from hating Dean Ambrose. The combination stews into a kind of nasty power trip of a headspace that will make him not want to look his dogs in the eyes when he sees them next.
He shakes his head. Breathe.
He wants to laugh, but can't. He can't look up from the floor, either. "Talk about bad timing," he says softly. He is going to turn around and march back out the door and make a clever remark to the next Authority member he sees about taking the trash out from his room.
Dean looks up at him, the roll of his eyes slow from under his hair. There's spit dripping down his chin, his jaw working, some guttural throaty noise just barely making its way past his lips.
Seth's tie - the one he'd been planning to wear out of the area, in fact - is stuffed in his mouth, tied messily around the back of his head.
Seth reaches behind him and closes the door.
He shudders in a breath, doesn't think, and clicks the lock. Dean watches him like a hawk, sees him do it, so Seth looks him deliberately in the eyes as he sets his briefcase down next to him.
"That's my tie," he says at last, when he stands back up, because it is and because he has no fucking idea what else to say.
Dean pulls at his binds and the chair scrapes the ground with a muted bump. He looks up at Seth and Seth can actually see the fabric of his tie move, part of it pulled into a corner of Dean's mouth as he fights against it.
"Right," he continues, his voice feeling a little harder in his throat. He stands a little straighter. "I guess this is gonna be a pretty one-sided conversation."
Dean's jaw goes rigid and he turns his head, his eyes sharp. Seth imagines he'd be hocking something into the carpet if his mouth wasn't otherwise occupied.
He takes a step closer, feels a wicked smile curl inside his mouth that he succeeds at keeping internal. "To be honest with you, I don't know why they left you in here. It was probably accidental." At least, they've never done anything like this before. His bosses are as eclectic as they are irritating, so he guesses sexual slavery may not be beyond their collective capabilities.
"It's certainly no reward for me." Because I wouldn't want you, not because I've fucked this up for about the thirtieth time. Right. He's got this. He works to sound aloof. "Could be punishment for you."
Dean squirms, his balance on the chair upset for a moment. Seth takes a series of steps toward him, liking the sound his boots make on the floor when the room is so silent. By the time he stops, he's standing tall in front of him, tips of his boots a few little inches from Dean's.
He grips Dean's chin and drool slimes onto his leather gloves. "Either way, I figure I still owe you for your fucking - " His grip tightens and Dean breathes in. Seth doesn't catalogue a breath out. " - stunt with the taxi cab.
"You," he snarls, "were supposed to be in Vegas, dead to the world. And here you are." The heat in his back is ricocheting now, spiraling from his cheeks to his throat and down into his belly and - jesus, he's not evil, he isn't a bad guy, he knows right from wrong but he loves to pretend he doesn't and Dean just lets him.
Something in him niggles at him, this is fake, it's all fake, this is a test. He ignores it. He'll be glad to fail.
Dean growls, more wet gurgling that winds up as spit between Seth's gloved fingers, so he lets go of Dean's chin and backhands him. No ceremony. It happens so fast the drool slides off the leather and onto Dean's cheek.
"I'm gonna assume that was your usual fare," Seth explains, breezy. He bends a little, getting on Dean's eye level and he knows that for all Dean's head is turned he's staring right at him.
He opens his eyes as wide as they'll go, tilts his chin up. "Ugghhh, you're here too," Seth grinds out. He's using his Dean Voice. Something locks up in Dean's jaw. "Pussy," he barks. "Sissy faggot."
That one gets Dean's attention, makes him pull on his binds almost instinctively. Seth throws him a lopsided grin in reply, pinches his red cheek like he's some child. (Who's the daddy's boy now, he thinks, and immediately shoves that one down.)
"Oh come on," he goads. "Like that's news." He shakes Dean by the cheek, imagines the bite of hard leather against stinging flesh and struggles a little to refocus.
"I'm a little surprised you didn't fight your way through this," Seth continues. "Just drag the fucking chair out with you." It thuds against the carpet, accenting his statement, as Dean thrashes. "It's not like everyone doesn't already know about your desperate little obsession with me."
Dean finally frees his cheek from Seth's grip and it's bright red, three marks on his skin from his fingers. Seth leans further down, traces over them gently with his thumb. Dean whimpers against his tie and Seth purses his lips - he could kiss him, if he wanted to, he's so close to him.
"There was a reason I needed an out from the Shield, Dean." And Dean winces, god he's perfect. "And I can tell you right now." More quietly. "It wasn't Roman. Fucking. Reigns." Almost a whisper by the end, and Dean is abnormally still in front of him. Seth knows just how to hurt him - does that make him a psychopath? Is he still a monster if Dean isn't stopping him, if he's spreading his legs to make room for where his cock is filling out his jeans?
(Yeah, part of him says. Yeah. Because you're about to hurt him even more.)
This is so fucked up. He's a little addicted to it.
Seth leans back, affects a quirk to his mouth, wings one eyebrow up. He shrugs, and Dean's eyes follow the movement his breath makes in his chest.
"That poor son of a bitch."
And Seth knows he's done it now, sees something light up in Dean's eyes at the slight on Roman. Because he can trash Dean all he wants and he'll believe it and beg for more, but once he starts in on his family it's no longer a friendly affair.
A clump of Seth's tie rolls its way out of Dean's mouth - his lips are red and raw and he gasps, once, doubled over -
"Roman Reigns has more courage in his little finger than you got in your entire body, you cheap, backstabbing sicko - "
Seth shoves four fingers in Dean's mouth. He's expecting the bite, so he squares his shoulders and rolls his head into a greasy smile when it comes. It's become his calling card, really - that grin that only adversity seems to bring out of him.
He doesn't respond right away, though, thinks about Dean's words. There'd been real anger there, certainly, but:
Cheap, backstabbing sicko.
Not Stop. Not You're hurting me. Not Get out of here. Not Let me go.
Their fight earlier had been pretty short, honestly, and that's what convinces Seth to push forward, because maybe. Maybe they both need this.
(And maybe not, he thinks. Maybe you really are just sick. But Dean's teeth are working his fingers around the leather of his gloves and that shouldn't send licks of flame through his veins the way it does, and he doesn't drop his persona for a second.)
Seth coos, turns his hand to curl his fingers in Dean's mouth - he strokes his gloved pointer over the roof of Dean's mouth and sees the shiver down his spine - and. Something tips over in his brain, then, and somehow I Am Not Going To Bang Dean becomes I Am Definitely Going To Bang Dean.
He grips Dean's top teeth, soaked thumb tight on his barely-there upper lip, forces him to sit up, and slides into his lap.
Seth is taller like this, kneeling over Dean's lap while he's sitting, so he looks down and uses his free hand to pull his long hair over the back of his neck, brushing it to one side of his throat. It's damp with sweat and it tickles his collarbone. He tightens his awkward grip on Dean's mouth, fingers turning to wrench his teeth apart with his knuckles, and a moan slips out of Dean's mouth unobstructed. His cheeks are pink, his eyes droopy.
"Yeah, basically." Seth isn't sure if he's responding late to Dean's accusations or if he's starting a new train of thought.
He adjusts his thighs some and rolls his hips down against Dean's, back arching into it. He bites his bottom lip when Dean arches up to meet him because god damnit it's just this side of not being enough, just a blunt pressure through compression shorts and leather ring gear - his dick's not going anywhere, his costumer made sure of that much at least, so it's really not doing anything but stirring up an ache against the side of his cock that happens to be facing front.
Dean chokes against his fingers, saliva sliding out the side of his mouth and something under Seth's tongue goes wet and kinda funny when he catches sight of it. He runs through desperate ideas so fast his head practically hurts - Dean, make Dean do it, get him to - but his hands - I could - but need a knife to - but - and the kneepads - and he can't help it, he actually whines aloud when he realizes there's no way he'll be getting off without standing back up.
Dean latches onto the whine exactly the way Seth had hoped he wouldn't. He even manages an unhinged smile around Seth's knuckles.
"Shut up," Seth commands, to Dean's facial expression he guesses, since he hasn't said a word. He yanks his hand out of Dean's mouth and plucks up the swinging tie in his wet fist.
Dean grins at him, lecherous with his wrecked mouth and loose tongue and something in Seth's brain fires that he's never wanted something on his cock so much. Fuck. Thinking about it makes his hips jerk forward and Dean bucks up under him, more more blunt pressure, between his trapped balls and the very beginning of his asscrack this time, Seth is going to bite through his fucking lip and a nasally moan still winds up ripped right out his nose.
"You're a little fucked up over this for a straight boy," is what Dean says, and his voice is really just a low, dry rumble out of his throat.
Seth pauses, ready to shove the tie back in his mouth. "What's your point," he asks flatly. He doesn't know why, and he's especially not expecting Dean's answer:
He only shrugs. "Don't got one. Just an observation." He wriggles his hips and Seth takes in a sharp breath. "That all you got?"
Seth isn't sure if he's referring to the tie or not, but suddenly the weight of it in his hand feels too easy. Feels the way someone else stepping into his matches feels, and apparently that's something he's still thinking about but here it is and Dean is giving him the chance to break that particular streak.
"Fuck no," he hisses. He drops the tie, goes so far as to reach behind Dean's head (he bows it serenely forward, like a Catholic schoolboy getting blessed, and wow has a metaphor ever been more off the mark than that one) and shove it roughly down until it's hanging in a messy knot around his neck, one parody after another after another. Dean lifts his head back up and smiles.
Seth doesn't hesitate to grab at the knot at Dean's throat (it's awful, a meatheaded double-overhand knot in the black silk of his tie) and pull. The knot gets stuck so Seth twists the wet fabric in his fist until his curled fingers close in on Dean's adam's apple, figuring he'll probably be less likely to choke Dean out if he's in control of it anyway.
Dean licks his lips, looks overly satisfied about having his air supply slowly taken from him, so Seth reaches down between them with his free hand and grabs a handful of Dean's cock through his jeans, curls his fingers up mercilessly against the seam.
"P - prissy bitch," Dean stutters, and his dick twitches in Seth's hand. Seth's shoulders feel tight but not nearly as tight as his goddamn fucking compression shorts, fuck it all.
He squeezes Dean's dick again just because he's pissed and it's there - it makes Dean gasp, but the tie wound around his throat makes his inhale short and shallow and his exhale too slow.
"You're not in control of me," Seth grinds out. He squeezes his one fist tighter, needs to get his fucking glove off so he can get a more precise grip on Dean's dick - he might have decided to fuck him, but he doesn't want to destroy Dean any less.
Seth doesn't get much more than a glance at the sideways look on Dean's face before it's thrust into his neck, and Dean's tongue and teeth are everywhere, fuck, he's dragging his bottom row of teeth up and up and up to Seth's ear and he can hear him breathing, the heat of his breath pushing into him so unexpectedly that he shivers -
"Maybe not." And his voice is beaten so deep it's smooth, and - how could Seth have forgotten that he had a sex voice, where's the fucking tie - "Bet Daddy's gonna be real mad at you after this."
"Oh," Seth whimpers, and it's supposed to sound annoyed, it's supposed to sound as a hundred fucking percent done with the Daddy jokes as Seth legitimately, genuinely is, but - but it doesn't, because. Because it's Dean, and because -
"He gonna punish you? Is he gonna bend you over his desk and smack the hell out of you?"
"Oh my god."
Dean tongues his ear and Seth feels his thighs squeeze around Dean's when it's already too late to stop them, god, he thinks there might be pre-come in his underwear and he's not even trying, Dean's not even fucking moving. Dean is sitting there, fully clothed, literally strapped to a fucking chair and somehow Seth still can't keep him under control.
He jerks his hips forward, hits the back of his own stalled out hand and realizes it's still there, still flush up against Dean's dick and does his best to make use of it - he gets Dean to shudder, ruts them both a little closer to the edge, but it's ultimately a shitty move so he pulls his hand up and just slots his hips on top of Dean's, angles them slightly down and moves -
"Fuuuuuck - " and that is right in Seth's fucking ear, goodbye, something sinks in his gut so hard he swears it rumbles, guttural, through his goddamn ass, his skin feels too tight on him everywhere -
Dean's mouth has lolled down, away from his ear, to drool all over his neck and collarbone and Seth thinks small mercies until he sinks his teeth into him, pulls like he's trying to break skin, and when did his free arm get around Dean's neck, he pulls on - whatever he has, which winds up being his fucking tie of all things but that just spurs Dean on further like a goddamn horse and he scrapes his teeth along Seth's burning skin -
Everything is moving too fucking fast, he has to quit clinging to Dean, has to establish himself in a position of power again but it's - too good, Dean is too fucking good -
"I'd tell you to apologize to Daddy for me," and that shouldn't make his back bow the way it does, shouldn't make him run his tongue over his teeth, god, "but it's not my fault you're so fucking easy, is it."
"Ahh - nnnngh - " he tightens his grip on the tie at Dean's throat, grabs at his shoulder with his other hand, then sits up with a hard sway. Seth shoves his hand up against his own mouth, the leather at his wrist tough and smooth against his teeth, and he works to get the glove off, eyes squeezed shut.
"Probably no point in denying it," Dean rasps and god Seth hates him hates him hates him. "You get like this when you fuck girls?"
Finally the glove comes off, after working each fingertip with his mouth until it pops off with the pinky between his teeth. Seth spits it on the floor, doesn't reply otherwise.
"Not really a fair question I guess," Dean muses, then coughs. You think? "An honest one though - " Seth pulls more of the tie into his fist and Dean tilts back. "Some other time," he seethes, clearly struggling.
"Get bent, Ambrose." It's the most malicious Seth has felt all night. He's not pissed enough to leave, though, which probably says something about him. Whatever. Fuck it.
He reaches down with his bare hand, skimming it over Dean's tee shirt and down to the waist of his pants, lifting his hips just enough that he can get at the zipper and shove it down. He stuffs his hand down into Dean's underwear (it's bright red, for some godforsaken reason, his cock is warm and sticky and feels disgustingly heavy in his fingers) and tightens his grip on the head of his dick at the same moment he lets go of the tie altogether.
Dean's stuttering, desperate heave is worth it. He practically collapses, the chair protesting his sudden movement.
"Talk to me," bursts its way out of his choked out throat, and Seth shakes his head, his hips bucking against nothing as he starts jerking Dean off for real. "I said talk to me, tell me - " - a gasp and a quick swallow - " - if my hands were free. Tell me. Tell me what you want."
Seth licks his lips, then does it again. Something in his thigh twinges and he is determined to win this because this is a contest and he is better. His free hand slip-scratches nervously over Dean's shoulder until it settles, for some reason, over his earring, rubbing his thumb over the metal and tugging it experimentally - it strings a little vocal noise into Dean's next gasp and Seth has no idea what to do with that information, wants to put his mouth down there but it's too late, it's too - he's so -
Something hot slams its way from his lower back up and out his mouth, makes no pass at his brain:
"I'd want your nails on my back," no no no no, "I want you to - I want. Marks. Want you to scratch - uh, ah -- um, Dean - "
Seth pulls his hand up one more time, squeezes, digs his thumb into the ridge under the head of Dean's cock and doesn't even really register that there's noise being made, just that oh god his hand is wet, everything is wet, Dean's biceps are straining so hard that the ziptie has gotta be in pretty bad shape, Dean just came all over his hand, Seth is still in his lap, holy shit. Holy shit.
"Holy shit," Seth breathes, and Dean lifts one shaking thigh up at the knee, it's barely there but it's enough to nudge right between Seth's legs and oh no, he is so sweaty down there he doesn't want to think about it, wants the whole ordeal to just be over and he flings his arms over Dean's shoulders, smears the come on his fingers somewhere on the back of his nice black shirt, oh fucking well, but Dean's not finished yet of course, because he's the worst fucking person -
"I'd do it," his voice sounds lopsided, sounds the way it sounds when he's making a threat, "I'll leave marks on you so deep they bleed," he grits out - how is he even still conscious, how is he thinking or speaking or - but then that's always been Dean, hanging on when he shouldn't -
"They'll scar - all down your back, you'll have to explain what happened to your goddamn - " Seth blocks out sugar daddy, he can't take it.
He's trembling so hard he wouldn't be surprised if his teeth started to chatter, but. He isn't. He's not -
He's hanging on. He entertains the fantasy of walking out the fucking door and having beaten Dean Ambrose, then Dean bends over and attaches his mouth to one of Seth's nipples and Seth's hips jerk so hard his back cracks and he is coming in his fucking ring gear, he is so fucked, he is so fucked -
"I'm so fucked," he whines. It's almost a cry. He's got one hand wrapped up so tight in Dean's hair he's amazed he isn't pulling it out of his head.
"Yeah you wish," Dean whispers, searing breath against the spit-slick skin of his nipple, like it's fucking instinct for him to know exactly what buttons to push and Seth - fuck him, really, he's done trying to not enjoy himself, he shudders a second time and yanks Dean's hair and it's possible he's never understood the idea of an aftershock until exactly this moment.
Not fucked over by Dean Ambrose tonight, indeed.
"Jesus," Seth manages. He can't lift his arms from over Dean's shoulders. He can't even close his eyes, they're stuck wide-open and staring at fucking nothing. He feels like he's shoved five orgasms into one, which feels a little like getting run over by a truck.
He sits in Dean's lap and stares and tries very hard to not think about the state of his underwear. (He fails.)
"You gonna untie me there, babe?" Dean asks, and god damnit the Daddy thing will never - he is so -
"Fuck off," he says. He manages to blink, once. "You're still an asshole."
"And you're still a bratty, cheating, lying closet case with daddy issues and a mean superiority complex."
"Fucking - "
"Relax," Dean interrupts. Now that Seth is beginning to regain his senses, he pieces together that Dean barely looks fazed, that he's just sitting pretty as casually as ever. He's tied down still and his soft dick is out but honestly the only thing Seth notices being off is the rumpled mess of his hair. "Just playin'."
Seth pulls up his top lip at him, baring his teeth. He wants to snarl, but doesn't manage the malice.
Truth be told, he always kind of feels this way after he bangs Dean - satisfied and disgusted and entirely like a dickprince - and he wishes it wasn't something he was starting to get used to.
He wobbles his way onto his feet despite his protesting knees, wanting suddenly to be as far away from Dean and his casually spread knees and the peek of his bare waist and his trembling biceps as he can possibly get.
"Are you seriously gonna just leave me here?" Dean asks, and he cranes his neck to where Seth is stretching as subtly as he can, fighting soreness in his hips.
Seth adjusts his hair - it's fluffed out on the bottom and he combs his bare fingers through it angrily. "I think it's what you deserve."
Dean shifts. He's got an insufferable grin on his face, teeth peeking out, and Seth wishes he'd committed to memory the faces he'd been making earlier, the sound he'd made when he'd come, because he seems - he's so -
Unashamed. Like he doesn't even give a shit. Like Vince McMahon himself could waltz into this dressing room and see him tied to a chair with his dick hanging out and he wouldn't be bothered in the slightest.
It pisses Seth off. He fights to clump together strings of his anger, maybe build up an actual hatred for Dean, but his orgasm is making that frankly impossible, teasing his actual feelings away from in favor of emotional exhaustion (and a modicum of affection that he works to ignore).
He's just too goddamn tired.
He moves to his bag, grabs a tee shirt out of it but doesn't change out of his pants (because that will be an entire escapade and he'd rather do that in the fucking hotel), and shoulders it, giving the room a final once-over.
His briefcase is still right by the door, like it didn't just witness what feels to Seth like the second-wildest of betrayals. He moves toward it and hears Dean thrash behind him.
"You're serious," he accuses. His words are loaded.
"Yup." Seth reaches down, grabs the case. Belatedly, he realizes his glove is still sitting next to Dean's chair, but makes a rash decision that it can fucking stay there. He goes for the door - and he almost fucking makes it out.
"Careful you don't run into Daddy out there," Dean singsongs. God, it sounds so sleazy when Seth isn't twenty kinds of turned on, and he knows he's fucked for life. "Might not be too happy about all those fuckin' hickeys."
That, at least, cuts through Seth's post-orgasmic haze. Shitting hell. He'd forgotten about them and now they're throbbing at his throat. He swallows and it makes the back of his neck hot.
"Cocksucker," he spits, then he's out the door and he slams it on whatever Dean was going to say (only if you ask real nice pops into his head, in Dean's fucking voice and Seth fleetingly considers homicide). He feels a brief flash of adrenaline draining into his system, but it fizzles out when he sees that the halls backstage are deserted.
Seth runs a hand through his hair, sighs. His eyes catch on the DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging next to his dressing room door - he considers hanging it off the knob, letting Dean rot back there, but knows it'd never work. He starts down the hallway. Dean will find his way out of there or he won't, but it won't matter. He'd gotten his neck broken and returned two weeks later with a bruise and a bad attitude, he can most certainly do it twice.
"What are you fucking doing," Seth asks the empty hallway at large. He bites his lip and doesn't wait for the answer.