Sick

By: PhoenixJustice

Disclaimer: The wrestlers own themselves; WWE owns the gimmicks and storylines.

Warning: Rated M for graphic sexual content, language, slash, hate!sex, etc.

Pairing: Dean Ambrose/AJ Styles.

Setting: Post 11/1/2016 Smackdown, sequel to What You Want.

Summary: Styles stares him down with wild, fiery, eyes. And Dean? Dean laughs.

Part Two of Your Star.

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The first thing Dean does when Styles grabs him by his wife beater, pushing him against a wall, is to laugh. It only seems to set Styles off further and he presses Dean harder against the cold stone.

"You think it's real funny, dont'cha?" Styles hisses. "Had to get your fucking little buddy to help you, because you know you can't beat me on your own."

Styles stares him down with wild, fiery, eyes. And Dean?

Dean laughs.

"Oh come on, man," He manages to get out, inbetween laughs, which only seem to further piss off the other man. "You don't really believe that load of shit, do you? I told him to leave. Because I knew-as you fucking know-that I don't need anyone to do my dirty work for me."

"And," He adds, in a lower tone, voice like gravel as he leans forward, licking his lips. "you really know how well I can beat something, don't you, Styles?"

Styles' eyes widen and he flushes. He loosens his gloved hands from Dean's shirt and pushes off of him. Dean grins.

"Aww what's the matter, Styles? Mad because I'm telling the truth?" He drawls. "Or are you mad that you liked it?"

He cups his crotch and sees Styles give a disgusted face. "Of course not, you-"

He waits but Styles doesn't say anything further, instead trying to look away.

His grin widens and he starts to undo his belt-thankfully not a heavy one, this time around-and undoes it enough so he can get to his zip. Styles turns back to him at the sound, as if unable to stop himself, his eyes widening.

"What the-what the fuck do you think you're doing?" Styles demands. He looks back and forth wildly down the arena, but no one appeared to be in sight.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" He asks, easily. He didn't care if someone came by. Styles did, obviously, but that just made what he was doing all the better, in his eyes. He lived to keep Styles off of his toes. He doesn't quite have his dick out yet, but the temptation is there. But, as he looks at Styles, anger and other emotions in his eyes, he realizes it's not all he wants.

He pushes off of the wall and stands in front of Styles. The champ looks instantly wary and-dare he say it?-needy. It's the combination of the anger and unwanted desire in Styles' eyes that gets to him. Goes straight to his dick, making it hard, pressing it up against his jeans, held only faintly there.

He reaches for Styles and gets a hard slap to his arm in return. He hisses and tries again, only for the same thing to happen. He manages to catch him on the third time and Styles' eyes blaze at him.

"Ooh, Styles." He purrs. "Do it again. Feels good."

"You're-sick fuck, fuck you." Styles yells, struggling to get out of Dean's grip. He whirls Styles around before the man can react, mouth close to his ear. He licks it, barely, but even that is enough to make the other man let out a hissed, bitten on, moan.

"And how many times do I gotta tell you before you get it?" He croons to him, one of his hands making its way down the man's front and the other to finish unzipping himself, getting his dick out of his jeans. "Fuck you."

Styles groans as his hand dips into his pants, hand over his cock. But then he seems to realize what he is doing-what he is doing with Dean-and he tries to fight out of his grip, but Dean's grip is stronger, but they get pushed back and he lets out an oomph as he's flattened by Styles against the wall, the man's back to his front. He lets out a gritty groan as Styles' squirming has the man rubbing his-admittedly very nice-ass against Dean's dick, causing a delicious friction.

"Ambrose," Styles grits out. "Stop."

And he does. Stops himself from moving against Styles, stops his slow, gliding hand over Styles' dick (just as hard as his.) And he waits.

The man's dick continues to throb in his hand and the urge to rut himself against the champion is a hard one-pun intended?-to keep himself from doing. But he wants it. He wants Styles to admit, no matter how small, that he wants this. To have this over his enemy-

So instead he removes his hand from his pants, ignoring the man's shivers as his mouth almost touches his ear.

"You know, I think they said it's supposed to be getting into the 50s later," He says quietly, against Styles' ear. And from the man's reaction, you'd think Dean was talking about all the dirty ways he could fuck him instead of the weather. "A bit cold, but luckily you have those gloves-" He moves both his hands to the front, grabbing one of Styles' gloves and starts to take it off. "Do you they help, hmm? Do they help give a bit more-ah-friction, when you need something more to get off?"

"Shut-" Styles breathes. "Shut up."

"Make me." He purrs. He gets the left glove off with a soft exclamation and immediately brings the man's hand to his mouth, licking up a path up his palm. Styles jerks.

Interesting.

He takes one of the man's fingers in his mouth, sucking on it and it's nearly startled out of his mouth as Styles groans audibly. He swirls his tongue around it, eyes drooping in pleasure at the taste of sweat and triumph. He starts to move his groin over Styles' body again, taking another digit into his mouth.

"Fuck." Styles chants under his breath. "Fuck. Goddamnit-"

"And it feels good, doesn't it?" He rocks harder against him, knows he won't last long-it's all too much, Styles is too much-and that's fine; the thought that he was about to spill all over the both of them is hotter than he can fucking bear.

"Feels so good," He rasps, letting go of the man's hand, whirling him around to face him before he can react to it or try to move away. He wraps an around the man's back, pushing his groin against Styles' clothed one, looking at him trying not to look at Dean, seeing how all of it was affecting him.

"Knowing that anybody could come by and what would they see, Styles? They'd see you getting off, because of me."

Him and no one else. Look at what he could do to his hated enemy. Look what he could reduce him to. He doesn't, however, look at how Styles makes him react.

The look on his face has him leaning forward without thinking, kissing him.

Styles' eyes widen and he jerks, once, twice, and groans against his mouth and he's as startled as Styles is that Styles is coming. The thought sets a blaze in his mind and it only takes another couple of rubs against him to have him coming, hands digging into Styles as he groans out his own pleasure, his spunk hitting between their bodies to cover both of them.

Immediately Styles pushes off of him (what was that look on his face?) and is out of there before Dean can even react, leaving his glove behind. Dean leans against the wall for a moment, letting the aftershocks of pleasure die down before tucking himself back into his jeans, kneeling down to pick up the forgotten glove.

He looks at it in his hand a moment, before biting softly on it, closing his eyes in pleasure as he remembers Styles' sound as he licks his hand, takes his fingers in his mouth. His eyes open and he pockets the glove.

Let's see what kinda prize I'll get from you next time, Styles.

He walks off, whistling.

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I hope you enjoyed this!

Let me know what you thought!

-PhoenixJustice