Dean Ambrose limped offstage, the cheers of the crowd fading as he made his way into the locker room. Clutching his lower back with one hand, and the Intercontinental Championship belt in the other, he could barely see straight. Sweat and rage clouded his vision, and he felt nothing but pain from the beating he took. Yea, he won the match and retained his precious title, but it barely felt like a victory.
He slumped down onto a bench, reaching to untie his boots. The normally bustling locker room was empty, which was bliss for a loner like Ambrose. He needed some time to collect himself and process what had just happened. He had been fighting for months to prove himself, and although he kept coming out on top, he felt like he was just eeking by. He wasn't small, but every time he went up against a bear like Owens, every match felt like a battle. And despite the belt beside him, he wasn't sure if he could win the war.
He exhaled, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing. When he opened them, he knew he wasn't alone. "Who's there?" Ambrose called out, scanning the locker room. He didn't want anyone to see him this weak, and quickly stood, trying to mask his injuries. In the far corner with his arms crossed stood Owens, practically burning a hole in Ambrose with his gaze.
"What the fuck do you want?" Ambrose tried to hide the slight falter in his voice. "You know what I want, Dean." Owens strided over to where Dean was standing, taking his time. "Yea, well, you're not gonna get it. If you can't wait to settle this in the ring next week, that's your problem. Now get the fuck away from me."
"What I want can't be settled in the ring." Owens was a few feet away from him, but his presence made Ambrose feel claustrophobic, he eyes the door, planning an escape. "You gonna make a run for it? I figured you'd wimp out," Owens smirked. How could he not be in crippling pain after the match they just had? He flew across a table and into Michael Cole, for fucks sake. Ambrose didn't get it, he worked so hard and won what was rightfully his, and yet Owens looked like he just came back from a leisurely stroll. His eyes blazed with rage, it wasn't fair. None of this was fucking fair.
"Get out of here. Now." Dean clenched his fists, barely holding on to his anger. "Or what, Dean? What are you going to do? Look at you. Yea, you may have won but you're barely upright." Dean barely blinked and Owens was now a mere two six inches from his face, staring him down. He smelled like musk and sweat, but also sweet, not like a man who had just spent the past half hour pummeling another human with whatever he could get his hands on. Yea, this definitely wasn't fucking fair.
Dean exhaled. "You need to leave, Owens. I'm not doing this now. If you know what's good for you, go." Owens stood firm. He wasn't going anywhere. "I'm not going to let anyone else tell me what's good for me. I want what's mine."
Dean could feel every ounce of restraint he had been holding on to dissipate. His face became red, his eyes wild. He held up the IC belt in front of Owens' face and screamed. "THIS is MINE, and I have spent years trying to claw my way up the roster. With Rollins injured and Reigns struggling for the spotlight, this is the perfect time for me to get to the top. Did you hear that crowd? They fucking love me, and as much indie cred as you might think you have, we come from the same place, Owens, and they chose me, me. I have every right to this title, you were counted out, and that entire arena had my back. So don't think you can come in here and intimidate me into —"
Dean's eyes went wide and his mouth fell open. Owens was cupping his now half-erect penis, stroking it through his briefs. "I want what's mine, Dean." He pushed Dean up against a locker, holding him in place with his giant frame. "And you're going to give it to me, aren't you?" "You have no idea what you're talking about," Dean sputtered. He was frozen in place, and barely had the strength to fight back. "Come on, Owens, don't you want to fight me in the right like a real man?" "I am a real man, Dean. In fact I think I'm going to show you how much of a man I really am."
Dean's knees buckled, the sweat on his face dripped down onto his chest. It was so quiet he could almost hear each droplet fall. Owens' face was a mere inch from his, his breath hot. He reached his arm out to push Owens away, but the bear caught it and pinned it against the locker. "You're not going to do anything stupid Dean, we both know it. You can't fucking stand me, but I know why you're really angry. I know what men like you need." He gripped Dean's cock tighter, pumping twice. He made a move to pull Dean's briefs down. "Wh-what are you doing, man. What if someone comes in. You'll be out of here quicker than — "
"The door is locked, and you know these animals don't shower anyway. There are bathrooms at the other end of the hall, and really, Dean, you think they'd get rid of me? My merch sales are through the roof, I've got like a dozen shirts, people want the underdog. You might think it's you, but it's not. I'm the one these people identify with, I'm the regular guy with a family who worked his way up in the indies and doesn't look like some roided out monster."
"Are you really talking about merch with my dick in your hand?" Dean chuckled, unable to resist the jab. He knew it was better to keep his mouth shut, but since when did he do anything that made sense?
Owens tightened his grip. "You really wanna make jokes right now, tough guy? You just can't shut your fucking mouth. Maybe I can help you out with that." Owens grabbed Dean's shoulders and pushed him down, Dean collapsing to his knees under Owens' massive force. He hung his head, knowing where this was headed. He was exhausted, not just from the match, but from everything. He welcomed any excuse not to think.
Owens pulled down his shorts, freeing his cock. Dean had never considered what another man's cock might look like based on the rest of his body, but Owens' was fitting: average length and girthier than anything Dean had ever seen in the locker room. Dean paused, waiting for guidance. Owens let out a low growl. "What, do you need an instruction manual or something?"
Dean obeyed, greedily taking Owens into his mouth. A million things should have been running through his mind, but he couldn't think about anything other than the task at hand. Owens grunted, grabbing Dean's mop of hair and shoving himself down Dean's throat. "I knew your mouth would make the perfect cum dumpster the moment I saw you." Dean spluttered and gagged in response.
Owens gripped the sides of Dean's head, steadying him as he thrusted faster, so close to the edge. Dean opened his throat, letting Owens use him. It felt good to be needed, even if only for a few brief moments. "You fucking pig," Owens grunted, spilling himself into Dean. Dean swallowed, almost reflexively.
Owens grabbed Dean's towel and wiped himself off, tucked himself back into his shorts and left the locker room without a word.
Dean slumped back against the lockers, head in hands. He realized he had done something he hadn't done in years. He let go.