Work Text:
February 8, 2016
Post Raw
–
Dean was proud of himself. He'd even say he was possibly prouder than he'd been when he finally had gotten his hands on his weaselly little brother Seth after the man had escaped him time and time again after betraying and turning his back on the Shield. Tonight he'd done something that not many men had ever done, he had taken the Beast, Brock Lesnar off his feet. The way that he'd went about doing it could have been questionable – having hit the man with a low blow when Roman distracted him, but it still counted to him. It was an achievement that he would allow himself.
Because Dean had no doubt in his mind that he would end up paying for the cheap shot many times over come the Fastlane pay-per-view. Brock would almost surely – understandably – be pissed to hell and back about that cheap shot and being bested in front of the crowd the way he had and if Dean knew one thing, it was that Lesnar wasn't the type of man that just let things go without extracting revenge. It didn't help that Brock had Heyman constantly whispering in his ear, reminding him of the things that had been done to him and keeping those memories fresh. That's one of the reasons why Dean had bolted just as soon as he could after Daniel Bryan's retirement speech. He didn't want to run the risk of sticking around and having Lesnar hunt him down again.
The memory from last weeks Raw was still fresh in his mind even though he hadn't wanted it to be, had tried to push it back and forget about it. He had gotten himself calmed down and back under control by the time Roman had returned but it stayed in his mind, the feel of Lesnar's hand on him. How easily the man had made him come undone.
Dean had just arrived back at his hotel for the night, thankfully just a twenty minute walk from the arena, and had just made it up to his room. He had just slipped his card key from his pocket and had swiped it through the card reader on the door. The little green light on the door had just turned green to signal that the door was now unlocked and Dean's hand was twisting the door handle and had the door opening when something large and solid slammed into him from behind. The force sent him tumbling into the room, landing flat on his face. His Intercontinental Title fell from where it had been perched on his shoulder and skidded across the carpet. His midsection landed on half the duffel bag that had been hanging from his other shoulder.
A groan slips from his lips as Dean pushed himself up, letting the strap of his duffel slip off his shoulder and onto the floor. Anger shot through him. Whoever the fuck just did that was going to fucking regret it. He growls and scrambles to his feet, whirling around to face the asshole. His breath catches in his throat and the roaring anger that was smoldering up was extinguished and replaced by a sense of unease.
Standing in the doorway to his hotel room, all two hundred and ninety five pounds, was Brock fucking Lesnar. And standing behind Brock, looking over the man's shoulder with a very concerned look on his face was Brock's so called advocate, Paul Heyman.
Brock had a smirk on his face, one that promised that a whole heap of destruction was about to take place. “Hello Ambrose.”
“Greetings giant ape,” Dean smirked defiantly in response, ignoring the increasing feeling of unease and dread that was settling in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't about to be intimidated by this mountain of a man. He probably should be at least a little bit concerned, considering that Brock actually showed up at his hotel room but he didn't think to be.
Brock huffs out a quiet laugh, taking a few steps into the room.
“Brock I don't think that-” Paul starts to warn as he moves to follow but is stopped when Brock turns to him and puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Paul.” At Brock's tone Paul closes his mouth immediately, whatever he was about to say silenced and raises his hands and nods.
Dean watches with narrowed eyes as Brock reaches into the pocket of his blue jeans that he's wearing in place of his usual sweat pants and pulls out a couple crisp hundred dollars bills. 'Rich bastard.” The thought goes through Dean's head as Brock places the money in one of Paul's upheld hands.
“Take this. Go downstairs to the bar they have here, it's a nice little place. Get yourself a couple of drinks on me and relax.” He instructs his advocate, pushing the bills firmer into Paul's hand when the man doesn't immediately take them, “Go on. I have some things that I need to discuss with Ambrose here. I'll be down when I'm finished.”
For a split second Paul looks like he's going to protest and try to attempt to talk Brock down from doing whatever the hell it is that he had planned. A sharp look from Brock though has him nodding and backing back out of the room. Paul gives Dean one last look and murmurs a quick “Very well. I'll be waiting” at Brock before he's walking back down the hall toward the elevators.
Brock closes the door once Paul is out of sight and turns his attention fully to Dean.
And though there is no possible way for him to be able to, Dean swears he can hear the small automatic lock withing the door click over when the door fully shuts. Effectively locking him in his hotel room with the Beast. Effectively trapping him with the one man that he didn't want to be trapped with.
Several silent minutes pass.
Dean watches Brock, warily. His body tensed and ready to fight.
Brock was smirking again. Not even attempting to hide it when he sweeps his gaze up and down the length of Dean's body and licks his lips.
The unease and dread that had been bubbling in Dean's stomach earlier starts to get replaced by some sort of excited anticipation at Brock's actions. The memory of what happened the last time he and Brock were alone together started replaying itself in Dean's head involuntarily. And suddenly the silence in the room is too much.
“So... uh.... is there any particular reason you're here?” Dean asks, figuring that he might as well feign innocent and see how far that got him.
Brock huffs again, smirk staying firmly in place. He moved on into the room, bringing himself closer to Dean until he's standing chest to chest with the blond. He doesn't answer the question, just continues to smirk and look at Dean, though there is no denying that the look is getting darker, hungrier.
The tension in the room was mounting, just ready to be broken.
If he had any damn sense like a normal human being, he might have thought about attempting to back away, to try and diffuse the situation before it got any further out of hand. Unfortunately, Dean doesn't think things through and that's why he finds himself throwing a punch that catches the unsuspecting Brock Lesnar right on the fucking cheek.
The Beast stumbles back more in surprise than from the actual blow and his eyes widen momentarily in surprise before they're blazing with fury.
The next thing Dean knows is that he's been tackled onto the floor and Brock's weight is crushing him, fists are flying at his face and stomach. He swings back, able to land a few blows of his own but they aren't effective in throwing off Brock or even stopping him. He keeps throwing them though, hoping to hit a sore spot, find a kink in Brock's armor.
He manages to get the upper hand for a fraction of a second when he's able to get a few jabs at Brock's ribs and is able to roll the larger man over. It's gone before Dean can capitalize on it, his back landing back on the carpeted floor with enough force to drive the air from him momentarily. A large hand wraps around his throat immediately after, squeezing. His air circulation is cut off and he gasps, clawing at the hand around his throat, trying to remove it with no success.
The hand keeps it's tight hold for a few seconds, until the fight in Dean grows weak, before it loosens and Dean coughs and sputters as he draws in the oxygen he'd been depraved.
“Mother...fucker,” Dean manages to growl between ragged intakes of air. The fight in him hadn't been snuffed out, not by a long shot. “That all you fucking got?” He sneers, swinging up at Brock's face. He misses as Brock dodges but that doesn't stop him. He digs his nails into the arm of the hand that is still wrapped around his neck, clawing like a caged animal.
Brock pulls back, yanking his arm away from Dean. He stands and starts pacing back and forth, breathing deeply. His eyes stay locked on Dean as the blond sits up and glares defiantly right back at him. He keeps pacing even when Dean climbs back to his feel, his own blue eyes now blazing with anger.
“Well what are you waiting for? A fucking invitation? Fucking bring it on monkey man!” Dean practically yells. He's keyed up. Ready to fucking right now. The anger that's coursing through his vein has him seeing red. It suddenly doesn't matter that the man standing before him is Brock fucking Lesnar. Doesn't fucking matter at all. He wants to fucking fight now. He wants to fight Brock Lesnar now.
“Would you like me to put even more 'stank' on it? That's how you put it earlier,” Brock counters, the sides of his lips quirking up in an almost smile, “How many times to I have to beat you down before you stay down?”
“I'll never stay down,” Dean snarls, flexing his hands in and out of fists. He starts to twitch, starts to get animated, “You will never break me. You can't put me down. I refuse to be put down. And hate to break it to you Brocky but if the, what's it? F-5 and flinging me around the ring is all you got in the move pool then we're going to be in for a long ass match. Hardly even feel your F-5s. Thought they were supposed to hurt?”
Dean expected Lesnar to lunge for him again. Expected the other man to completely pummel him and leave him laid out in the floor. He was ready to take a piece of the man with him too because he’d be damned if he was going to go gracefully. He’d get a piece of the fucker as he went. Instead though, he is met with a laugh.
Brock shakes his head. Dean Ambrose was something else. Out of everyone that he’d faced in his long career. Out of everyone that he’d conquered. Dean had proved to be the most resilient. Possibly even more resilient than the Undertaker. And that was something, to be compared to the Deadman.
It hadn't mattered how many times that he had hit Dean with an F-5 or threw him around, the man always seemed to keep coming back. It was an admirable trait. Brock appreciated nothing more than a good fight and Dean would more than most likely give one their upcoming match. But that was then and tonight Brock had more ulterior motives.
What had happened between the two of them the past Raw had stayed in Brock’s mind. It kept replaying over and over. That fire that had burned in Dean’s eyes, the way that he had stood his ground, refused to back down is what initially caused Brock to plant that kiss on him. He’d wanted to see how much Dean would actually fight him. Didn’t exactly work out like he had planned since he never took the time to pay attention to the fact, thought it didn’t really surprise him all that much, that Dean liked things a bit on the rough side. And Brock had let instinct take over, pushing the man against the wall and jerking him until he came. And came beautifully he di-
“Hey knucklehead!” Dean’s voice cuts through Brock’s train of thought. He’d risen to back to his feet, though he was hunched slightly with one arm wrapped around his midsection, and he was looking at him with narrowed eyes. When Brock’s attention focused back on him, the man repeats himself, “Asked you if you were just gonna stand there all day or kick my ass or what?”
Dean watches impatiently as Brock looked thoughtful. He’s just starting to think ‘Great the man can’t make his own decisions,’ and was about to suggest the man get the hell out of his room, when Brock seems to come to one. He crossed the room and before Dean could even react, has smashed their lips together.
The kiss was not gentle, it was demanding and rough. It was a fight in and of itself. Brock pushed and Dean pushed right back. A fight for dominance.
A fight that Dean found himself on the losing end of after a hard bite to his bottom lip. He moaned, tasting his own blood as Lesnar's tongue ran across his bottom lip before pushing into his mouth. Heat flooded his body and before he could stop himself, he was arching into Lesnar's body.
Lesnar felt it when Dean arched up against him and couldn't help but chuckle though it sounded more like a growl in his throat. He reached down, circled one of his arms around Dean's waist and pulled the man even closer to him until their clothed chests were pressed against one another and Lesnar could feel how into this Dean was when the man bucked his hips forward. His free hand reached up, tangling in the dirty blond curls. He broke the kiss, pulling Dean's head back to expose his throat. He licked his lips before sinking his teeth into the exposed skin.
A loud hiss that turns into a moan halfway through is torn from Dean's mouth when he feels Lesnar's teeth on his skin. Pain sparks through him when the skin is broken and Lesnar drags his tongue over the wound. Dean rolls his hips against the other man's crotch, feels the hardness that's in Lesnar's jeans.
Brock reaches up behind Ambrose, gripping the collar in his hands and pulls, ripping the material in half all the way down. Screw having to wait for it to be removed. Dean's growl of protest is ignored as Brock pulls back enough to grip the front of the shirt at the collar and do the exact same thing that he did to the back. The shirt easily slid off Dean's shoulders and landed in two piles on the carpet. Brock took time to run his eyes over the newly exposed flesh. Dean was a lot more muscular that what he normally was used to but that was just fine. He didn't object when Dean reached up and took hold of the collar of his shirt.
The sound of ripping clothing was music to Dean's ears as his eyes followed the splitting fabric as he pulled it to expose Lesnar's sculpted chest. He fully expected to rip Lesnar's shirt off as Lesnar had done his but once he'd successfully ripped the front half, Lesnar shrugged off the ruined garment, letting it drop on the floor to join his. His eyes fell to the muscles ripping with the action. There was no doubt about how ripped Lesnar was. And that tattoo on his chest, Dean would never admit it, not even under extreme torture, but he had a thing for tattoos and the sword inked onto Lesnar's chest was very fascinating.
Brock closed the small distance between them again while Dean was admiring his tat. It was about time to get this really started, he decided. He didn't have all night, not with Paul waiting downstairs. Thinking back he should have just told his advocate to return to their hotel room so he could have spent the whole night with Ambrose here, fucking him against every inch of available space within the room. But he hadn't and he didn't want to keep Paul waiting for too long. Perhaps after their match at Fastlane, after he won the spot to face Triple H at Wrestlemania, he would seek Dean out again. But that was then and this was now and it was time to get down to why he was really here.
Dean lets out a startled yelp when Lesnar is suddenly throwing him up and over a broad shoulder. “The fucking hell are you doing- oof!” He starts to curse before he's dumped, unceremoniously, onto the large king sized bed. He grits his teeth, glaring at Lesnar, who shoots him a smug smirk before starting to work on getting his belt undone. Now they were getting down to business.
The belt went flying across the room when Brock finally got it off and pulled free of the belt loops. Dean did the liberty of kicking out of his shoes and toeing off his socks. The jeans that Dean were wearing went after, being unbuttoned, unzipped, and nearly ripped from his body when Dean didn't immediately move to help them be removed – a show of Brock's impatience. That left Dean is only his underwear. His dick was straining again the fabric.
“Someone's eager to get fucked,” Brock comments with a smirk when he straightens to his full height and looks down at Dean stretched out on the bed.
“Oh this?” Dean points to his underwear, before flashing a grin, “This is from some chick I was thinking about from the other night. Pretty thing. But that's why you're here? Make time in your schedule for me because you thought you'd get some? Or did no one wanna meet with you now after they saw that you couldn't get the job done?” Dean follows Lesnar's hands as they go to his down pants and starts unbuttoning them.
“I think I can find a better use for that mouth of yours Ambrose because if you keep talking the shit you're talking, the only thing you'll be getting his your ass kicked,” Brock kicked out of his shoes and pulled his socks off before he pushed his jeans down his legs and stepped out of them. He reached forward, grabbing the dirty blond man by his hair and pulled him up to his knees.
“Ow fucker!” Dean protested, clawing at the hand that was in his hair. He nearly snarled when his face was brought level with Lesnar's still covered crotch. “What makes you think I'm going to suck your fucking nasty ass dick?”
Brock didn't grace the man with an answer. Instead he pulled the front of his boxers down enough to free his hard dick. He watched Ambrose's attention shift downward, eyes flashing with lust, pink tongue licking his lips as he wrapped his hand around himself, giving a slow stroke. He releases his grip on Dean's hair to grab his chin instead and tilt his head up. He gives a smile once those blue eyes snapped up to meet his, “I think you're going to suck my dick because it's blatantly obvious that you want to right now.”
Dean scowled at those words. It wasn't that Lesnar was wrong, he was painfully right. Dean wanted to suck his dick. He was keyed up, fucking aching to be touched and possibly fucked roughly into the mattress under him. And who gave a shit if it was Lesnar the one doing it? Obviously not him.
So he doesn't think twice about it as he licks his lips and leans forward to swipe his tongue over the thick head of Lesnar's dick, before taking it in his mouth. His eyes stayed focused on Lesnar's face as he started to bob his head, sucking down as much of the thickness that he could before pulling up to circle his tongue around the head and then doing it again, taking in slightly more each time. He hears a low moan from above him and feels the fingers thread through his hair again, holding him steady as Lesnar starts to thrust into his mouth. He digs one hand into the sheet while the other reaches up to grab at Lesnar's hip, nails digging into the flesh hard enough to leave marks. He feels the sharp tug of his hair in response and moans.
Brock growls at the vibrations that travel up his dick and thrusts forward, accidentally gagging Ambrose. He feels the man swallow around him, fighting his gag reflex. He feels the pinch of those nails as they dug deeper into his hip. He ignored it. That warm, wet, trash talking mouth felt to good. It sucked him down damn near perfectly. He could feel his stomach starting to tighten and only allowed the blow job to go on for a few more precious seconds before he pulled Dean's head back, pulling free from those lips with a pop.
Dean's face was flushed, he could feel the heat radiating from it. He was sure that he probably looked as wrecked as he felt. More than ready for it. So when Lesnar tapped two fingers against his lips, he took them in immediately, getting them as wet as possible before Lesnar pulled back and started issuing orders.
“Alright Ambrose, underwear off. Crawl up and turn around on all fours.”
“Why don't you fucking make me your ass-Holiness?” Just because Dean wanted it, didn't mean that he was going to just play along nicely. He lived to be a difficult man when it suited him.
Having his underwear damn nearly ripped off his ass before being roughly flipped around and pressed into the mattress definitely suited him. Feeling a spit slicked finger circle his hole before pushing it also definitely suited him too.
The one finger soon became two as he was hastily and quickly stretched. Brock seemed to have an agenda to keep.
“Seem to be in an awful hurry there,” Dean comments, fighting hard to keep his hips from moving back against the intruding fingers. He didn't want to seem too eager though his erect dick was evidence enough that he was. Still wanted to keep the charade up. “Don't tell me that you've got something you got scheduled for tomorrow morning again.”
Brock rolled his eyes, though Ambrose didn't see him. The man just had to keep digging himself into a hole. Brock was almost convinced that he couldn't help running his mouth. He twisted his fingers, searching for the bundle of nerves that would hopefully serve to shut the smaller man up. He found it and Dean cried out but silence didn't follow, instead a growled out, “Oh fuck!” tumbled from those parted lips. He leaned down over Dean's body, making sure his mouth was right by the others ear before he growled, “On don't you worry Ambrose, I made room in my schedule just for you. You should feel thankful really because I don't do that often. But I can't jerk around up here with you all night, not with Paul waiting for me so we can begin discussing how I'll be beating you and your, what's he called, Samoan bad ass, asses Sunday.”
“Keep dreaming,” Dean shoots back, jerking his head to the side away from Lesnar, “Me or Roman are gonna be the ones to talk out of there a winner. Not – fuck! Not you.”
“We'll see about that.” Brock wraps a hand around Dean's leaking dick, giving the harden flesh a few strokes, enjoying the way Dean tried to control his moans, trying to keep up with the charade of his. He continued his duel ministrations for a new more seconds before pulling back all together. He smirks at the growl of protest that comes from Dean as the dirty blond glares over his shoulder. Those blue eyes were nearly black with lust. He ignored the look though, in favor of sliding off the bed and reaching for his pants. He retrieved the two packets of lube and a condom from one of the pockets before dropping the article of clothing back on the floor and crawling back on the bed to position himself back behind Dean.
Dean tried to relax when he heard the foil tearing as Brock opened the condom and rolled it on himself. It was followed by the sound of the packets of lube being opened. Seconds later Brock was positioning over him, the head of his dick rubbing against is entrance. He groaned as the man slowly pushed into him, inch by thick inch until he was filled completely.
“Tell me something Ambrose,” Brock pauses, giving himself time to adjust to the tight heat that was clutching him so nicely. He remembered what Dean had said earlier that night and decided he wanted to antagonize the man a bit so he bites on his ear before asking, “does it feel like I've gone soft to you?”
“Dunno,” Dean grits out, curling his hands in the sheets, he sounds almost breathless, “why don't you put it in and I'll tell you.” He looks over his shoulder, feigning surprise “Oh I'm sorry did you already? I couldn't feel a thing.” That retort got him a sharp slap on the ass that tears something between a laugh and a moan from his throat.
“Keep running that mouth of yours,” Brock warns, starting to move, pulling out to the tip before snapping his hips forward sharply, drawing a groan from Dean each time. “See where that's going to get you.” He sets a pace that's sharp, long thrusts. It's hard and rough. Right down Dean's fucking alley.
The comeback that had been on the tip of Dean's tongue was lost. His whole body jousted with each powerful thrust. He tightened his fingers in the sheets, gripping them as if his life depended on it. It was good. So fucking good even if it was Brock that was making him feel that way. He would've been embarrassed if he remembered how to be. His brain wasn't working right at the moment. He did know one things though; that pace just wasn't going to be enough. He needed more.
“That all you fucking got?” He forces out with a growl, pushing himself up to glare over his shoulder, “Because this is pathetic. Come on! You're supposed to be a conqueror! Fucking give it to me!”
Brock grabbed a handful of dirty blond hair and pushed down, shoving Dean's face into the mattress. He leans forward to growl in Dean's ear, “Be careful what you wish for Ambrose.”
He increases his thrusts until he's pounding into Dean's ass. The noises start flowing wantonly from Dean, getting louder and louder with each thrust. Brock had to admit that Dean's ass was one of the better ones that he'd had. The way it felt around him, the right tightness and the right heat.
The body below his started to shake and writhe with pleasure. He planted his hands on either of Dean's sides, changed his angle a bit and smirked when Dean shouted into the covers as his dick struck those bundle of nerves.
“Fuck,” Brock growled through gritted teeth. He could feel the heated coil pooling in his stomach. Could feel his orgasm mounting, higher and higher. And he could tell Dean was right there.
The dirty blond had slipped a hand down, was furiously stroking himself, trying to match his brutal thrusts. His head was turned to the side, exposing his neck and Brock didn't hesitate in leaning in and sinking his teeth into the pale skin, biting until he tasted the coppery taste blood once more.
Dean knew he screamed when he came, the rough way that his prostate was being struck combined with the vicious bite to his neck pushing him over the edge and into the white searing bliss of release. He felt Brock's dick throb in him as the man buried himself as deeply he could and followed over the edge. He heard the muffled groan against his shoulder.
He collapsed on the bed, right on top of his own release when Brock pulled free from him. He just couldn't be bothered to care at the moment. He was completely wrecked.
Faintly, he heard the water turn on in the bathroom signaling that Brock had went to clean himself up and he made the decision to wait until Brock came back out, got dressed and left before he would attempt to move. Dean was thrown off guard when the bed dipped and he felt himself being flipped over to the cleaner side of the bed on his back. A warm rag landed on his cum covered stomach, making his jerk in surprise. He looked down at it in momentary confusion before looking up at Lesnar.
“Clean yourself,” the bigger man instructed before sitting at the foot of the bed and started pulling on his clothes.
Slowly, Dean willed his tired arms to move and he managed to clean a majority of the come off himself. He dropped the rag off the side of the bed and rolled onto his side, away from Brock, groaning softly.
“Looks like I finally found a way to keep you down Ambrose,” Dean turns his head to glare, though it holds no head. Brock is fully dressed, save the shirt which was still lying in a pile on the floor torn in half and he's moved to stand by the side of the bed that Dean was curled up on.
“You wish fucker,” Dean smiled, tiredly. He buries his face into his arms, murmuring, “I'll kick your ass come Sunday. Just you fucking wait.”
“I look forward to you trying Ambrose,” Brock laughs, reaching down to ruffle Dean's already disheveled hair and enticing a weak noise of protest from the man. He bends down, making sure his eyes are locked with Dean before he says, “See you this Sunday Dean. Hope you're ready to take the full tour through Suplex City.”
And just as he had done last Monday Night, Dean's answering response was the middle finger.
Brock left the room, left Dean still curled up naked on the bed. He couldn't help the satisfied smile that was planted on his face as the elevator doors closed behind him.