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Dean Ambrose is going to kill himself. That much he's fully certain of as he nurses a beer at the bar of an obnoxious gay night club with strobe lights and thumping electronic music. He looks out of place in his old crinkly leather jacket and jeans with a stain from spilled motor oil amongst all those wearing skintight latex, vibrant fishnet, and what the fuck else ever painted on their perfect, delicious bodies.
Figured he might as well cross this off his bucket list before he offed himself. As much as he denied it his entire life, mocked the fags in high school and into adulthood, tried his best to be overly macho and denied himself anything besides bedding a woman, he just couldn't on his last day on earth put up the front up anymore. If what his mother beat into him was right, he'd be heading to hell anyways for killing himself. Might as well be around a bit of sin, first. Although sitting at the bar and sipping at overpriced beer that cost the rest of the money he had to his name isn't exactly indulging in the sin.
Whatever. Doesn't matter anyways, at least the beer is pretty good.
He has a glock in his piece of shit truck with a couple bullets in it that will come in handy. He lost his job at the auto shop because his co-workers kept bitching about the tips he made, snitched on him as a fag to his boss. Which is kinda fucking ironic, considering they actually had no reason suspect. Maybe they smelled it on him. That's what one of his mother's boyfriends said before he hit Dean with a baseball bat. That they could smell queer. Since he was working under the table, priors from having robbed a store at 18 to try and help pay for his niece's asthma meds making it difficult to have an honest job, he has no protection. No unemployment. Nothing. On top of being evicted last month. Living out of one's truck ain't fun, but he made due with it, figured he could skimp out on buying shaving cream or razors and avoid motels, catch a couple meals at the soup kitchen, and just shower in the shower in the back of the auto shop, and in 6 months or so he'd have enough to buy a trailer to hitch to his truck. He can't get another apartment like the last, the landlord having taken pity on him and charging so low. That ain't gonna happen again.
So he sips away at his beer, checking his cheap watch ever so often, since it's all he can afford. Or could. He's decided he's going to bite a bullet at his job's parking lot at 12:30. It's currently 9:30PM, so he's got a little bit of time to decide if he's going to keep the suicide note on his person that's resting in the pocket of his jacket or to tear it up. He etched it earlier in his crude, rushed handwriting after he had checked that his glock still had bullets. It's kinda melodramatic, 'prissy, sissy bullshit', his mother would probably tell him right now. All the hatred at the world and at the people around him scribbled into an old napkin. How fitting that it isn't written on actual notebook paper.
He downs the last of his beer, deciding that he can probably decide on the ride over to the parking lot if he'll keep the note or not. The particular music playing as an insanely rhythmic and sexual vibe to it as he gathers himself up, beginning to zip up his leather jacket despite the warm summer weather outside. Just as he is about to stand up from the bar, there's a hand gently placed on his shoulder and a deep, rich timbre of a voice shouting above the obnoxious thumping on the erotic beat.
"Please don't tell me you're leavin' before I can even introduce myself, babe." Dean turns around quickly and is greeted with a man around his height, perhaps an inch or so shorter but with a broader and wider body. He has silver eyes that may or may not be contacts, long and wild black hair that flows effortlessly down his shoulders with some ends sticking to his forehead, coppery skin with a sheen of sweat probably from dancing, and a tribal tattoo down one of his arms. Dean can see through the fishnet shirt he's wearing that the tattoo travels to his chest, too. Oh, and he's pretty sure he can make out the shape of this dude's dick if those skintight, latex pants are anything to go by. He's fucking handsome as all hell, that chiseled bod with a sculpted jawline and well maintained goatee topping off his pristine look.
"What'd'ya want?" Dean shoots him a cocky, douchebag kinda grin. Same kind of toothy, dishonest grin he used to have on his face when he beat up that Rollins kid in high school. No dimples, all repressed rage and lies. "I ain't no fairy. Don't want no fag puttin' his hands on me." He hears a small scuff from the bartender who stomps off to serve another customer.
He expects a punch in the face, especially from a guy who could clearly take his ass easily if Dean's being totally honest. Or maybe for the guy to cry, a reminder of the bully Dean has always been. What he gets is a laugh. "Well, sweetheart, you must've taken a wrong turn somewhere. You're, uh, kinda surrounded by fairies." The handsome stranger doesn't miss a beat. He slides his finger through a loop on Dean's jeans, the material soft, threadbare, and worn at the apex of the mechanic's thick thighs. "Pretty thing, aren't you? And lookin' so sad…saying such hateful things." He effortlessly slides between Dean's thighs where they're spread on the bar stool. "Looks like you need some cheerin' up, huh?"
Oddly enough, he's frozen. He's never been in a situation like this with a man, thick and powerful thighs between his own, stubble just mere centimeters away and a rich, deep, caramel smooth voice that he could fall asleep to. It's almost intoxicating. Almost. "I don't need nothin' from you…"
"This half-chub from you says otherwise, baby." There's a hand on Dean's jaw, gently tilting his own red-stubbled face. He is half hard. When did that happen? "I know you don't like fairies touchin' you, but I'd like you to make an exception tonight."
He glances down at his watch, the time around 9:55. He can make it back to his job in 45 minutes if he speeds. Maybe he doesn't have to cut this conversation as quickly short as he initially thought. "And why should I? Huh? I'm waitin', sissy."
The man simply snorts at the insult, because they both know its bullshit. Not a damn 'sissy' thing about this guy in front of him, all man. A muscular, oily, fucking beautiful man. Dean is damn near drooling despite the venom he was spitting mere seconds ago. "Cause I've seen people like you, man. The type that pretend to be somethin' they're not. For years, decades, man. Denying themselves, y'know? It's a damn shame, too. Don't know why y'all do it, either. Maybe it's a religion thing, maybe it's 'cause you're afraid it makes you less of a man, maybe someone beat that shit into you." The last one hits close too fuckin' home, Dean swallowing as the fingers of the stranger stretch across the side of his face, almost caressing and it's like everything else falls silent at the words that follow. "But I can see it your eyes, baby, can see there's fire and passion beneath all that anger…that fear and sadness…been watchin' you all night thinking about what I could do to you to bring that passion out. And I think I figured it out."
It's like Dean's mouth is filled with cotton, having to swallow multiple times just to force one sentence out of his chapped lips. "Yeah, whatcha figure out?" He doesn't even have the brain function to utter a slur.
"Fuck you silly, sweetheart."
Dean sucks in a deep breath, baby blue eyes casting downwards as he stares down at the man's combat boots. "Do it." The words slip out, almost a plea or a whine and Dean's own eyes widen in surprise before he slides off the stool quickly, practically no space between him and the other man.
"Really?" The man backs up slowly, observing Dean in a way that makes the auburn haired male nervous. He…is he appealing to other men? Maybe the stranger hadn't gotten a good look at him and now that he did, he didn't want him. Dean doesn't consider himself especially handsome, his waist far too small for any man, his eyes wild and crazy, his hair just as crazy, forehead too big, and wrinkles already starting to set. "Fuck, baby, you sure? Cause if you mean it…I'll take you home with me right now."
"If…if I can get back here by 11:45. 's fine." He scuffs, pretty sure he's just lost all control of his mouth.
The god in front of him smirks, licking the bottom of his thick lip before leering a little in a manner that makes Dean huddle closer into his leather jacket. "Already keepin' me on a tight schedule? Fine by me…so long as I get at least some time with you. Roman, by the way, beautiful."
"'m Dean." He manages to choke out as Roman places a hand on his lower back, guiding him out into the warm, summer air, away from the deafening beat of the music.
Roman's car screams expensive and sex. A slick sports kinda deal that Dean can't imagine ever owning. Not that he will have much use for a car come midnight tonight. "So, where you from, Deano?"
"That ain't my name and it ain't none of your business, queer." His voice is shaky, only managing to utter that because he's staring out the window. Ignoring the fact this car is fucking gorgeous and something he would have wanted. That the music Roman has playing at just the right volume is some of Dean's favorites.
"Again with the slurs, baby?" He simply chuckles, Dean can almost imagine him shaking his head in a playful manner, but Dean doesn't dare fucking look. "Well, I'm from Florida, Dean. And I'm the director of finances at Empire Arts."
"….from Ohio. Used to be a mechanic." He mutters out like a petulant child. Why did he agree to this again?
They pull into the parking lot of an expensive apartment complex, Roman not even giving Dean an option as he grabs his hand and leads him up to a penthouse-sque apartment. Extravagant and fantastic, beautiful with everything fucking clean and sparkling.
He shouldn't be here, he doesn't deserve to be here, and he should be in the parking lot of his old job watching the last minutes of his life click away on his watch. Dean almost bolts for the apartment door, but as soon as his hand reaches the knob, its snatch away and he's forced to turn around, pinned against the entrance of the apartment.
"C'mon, baby…at least give me a chance." Dean's absolutely jello at the man's words, knees knocking together as he presses himself tighter against the door.
He wants. He wants. He wants so fucking bad and how the hell has he let himself get into this situation? The defenses he's held up his entire life slowly crumbling away. "I dunno…I-I jus'…'m…" Dean Ambrose is never tongue-tied, never, but this man leaves him breathless, heart hammering as he swoops in closer and steals a small kiss.
And those defenses completely shatter, Dean grabbing at his arms and kissing back mercilessly, practically sobbing into his lips. It takes no time for Roman to take the lead, the strange sensation of beard against beard sparkling something hot and slick inside Dean's core as their tongues tangle and rub against one another. "That's it, baby boy…"
"Please…p-please…" Is all he can manage, tears beginning to fall from his wet, droopy eyes that Roman brushes aside. "I-I've never…have, I…please, please…"
"Shh, I got you, sweetheart, don't worry…" That timbre falls even more soothing, lacing his fingers with Dean's as he leads him towards the exquisite apartment, through an open doorway to a gorgeous bedroom that is almost half the size of Dean's old apartment. The bed is raised slightly, satin, dark sheets and a pretty cherry oak bed stand with a slick, dim lamp casting a sultry glow. "…gonna take good care of you. Just like you needed for a long time, right, baby?"
"Yeah…p-please…" Dean is shivering in his hold, Roman gently beginning to nudge the leather jacket off of his pale shoulders and kissing the exposed flesh of one. "…I-I love your lips…" He says impulsively before looking rather shy and shocked, almost shameful.
"…yours ain't bad, either, love." Roman can sense the hesitance, the way this beautiful man is tense as if tiptoeing around broken glass. Perhaps he is in some type of manner. "You never done anything, right, baby? Nothing with another man?"
"N-No…" He swallows and it's the truth. The closest he came to anything sexual with another male was shamefully tugging at his dick when he was in high school to a gay porn mag he stole from a porn shop he snuck into. His mother whipped him so hard when she found the magazine stuffed under his bed, he still has a couple scars from the buckle of a belt. "…never done nothin' with a man. B-But I can eat pussy like a champ." He adds weakly, not sure why he says it.
"I'm sure you can and I'm honored to be the first to touch you…." Roman says so smoothly, sliding Dean's dark, kinda funky-smelling tank top off to reveal the prettiest damn body he's ever seen. There's some soft, faded scars here and there, too much for your average person he muses, a sinfully thin waist, and pretty pink nipples with wide, fat pecks that just scream to be sucked on. So he does, effortlessly slipping one between his lips.
He isn't a bitch, ain't a woman, but he has to bite into his knuckles when this fucking handsome bastard suckles on his nipples like he is one. "Fuck, Jesus, fuckin'…!" His knees falter, Roman pulling off to flick at the freshly explored body part, pushing him back against the bed as he tugs off his club gear.
God, he's only in black briefs now, revealing even more of that sexy, caramel skin and beautiful tattoo that Dean kind of wants to trace with his own tongue. His dick is nice and fat, the outline fucking tantalizing as hell. "Got some pretty tits on you, don't you."
"I-I ain't no bitch." Dean manages to pant out, splaying his own hand against his chest. How the hell did he never discover this about himself? That he's so sensitive there…
"No one said you were, baby…" Smooth as honey, beginning to crawl onto the bed were Dean has already slide up a few feet. "…c'mon, show me some more of that beautiful body. Making me feel overdressed."
He looks down shyly, his jeans already beginning to slide off of his hips as he shakenly pulls them the rest of the way off. Thank god he had the forethought to wear boxers, not quite ready to reveal himself to another man. He isn't sure he'd ever be ready for that. Blue doesn't dare meet silver as Roman hums appreciatively.
"Look at those thick thighs of yours, damn…" He doesn't even hesitate, sliding his hand up one goose fleshed leg, stopping to rub at the wide muscle of Dean's thighs. "…damn shame you cover these up with jeans…" He leans forward, kissing a few marks as Dean's breath hitches.
"S-Stop sayin' shit like that…"
"Shit like what, huh? Like you're fucking gorgeous?" Roman shoots him the biggest shiteating grin Dean's ever seen on another person. "Cuz I don't like making it my business to lie. So I'm gonna tell you the truth about yourself, because, damn, baby…so goddamn beautiful. And honest…you can't hide anything from me…"
Dean feels his cheeks turning redder at the moment, managing to tear his eyes away to stare at the ceiling fan, his heart thumping harder and nearly jumping out of his chest when Roman's fingertips graze the bottom legs of his dingy boxers. "…d-don't!" Dean says quickly, sliding further up the massive bed and beginning to fold in on himself. "I ain't beautiful. 'M not…'m not 'm jus' a stupid an' ugly an' worthless…jus' a fucking waste, a fuckin' sin!"
He sobs and Roman is on him quickly, but this time it isn't lustful or sexual, instead a gentle hand between his shoulders, an arm loosely wraps around him and it's almost…protective, reassuring. The touch, it demands Dean to look him in the eye. "We can stop right now, I…I can take you back to the club and you can forget this ever happened. But don't you ever, ever think that you're wrong for wanting, wrong for fucking living because you're not. You're not wrong for existing, okay? You just…shit, baby, whoever hurt you, whoever made you think that this is…wrong or it's dirty, they're the evil ones. They're the sin. You ain't harming anyone just by being."
It's true, though. Dean didn't ask to be fucking born, but he ain't hurt anybody mindlessly. He didn't hurt his mother or her bastard boyfriends, he didn't hurt his shitty, two-faced landlord, and he didn't do anything to his goddamn boss or his co-workers. He just wanted to fucking live, just wanted to exist but up until this point, he realizes he hasn't truly been existing. Just letting people push their thoughts and feelings onto him, relenting easily despite his though exterior because he believes he was inanely wrong just for being. "God, god ya…you're right…" He hiccups out, tears stumbling with ease, wet and copious as this man holds him close, more intimate and loving then anything he's felt before.
"There, there, sweetheart…it's alright…listen, we can stop this and-"
"I want you, god, please, I want…" Dean breathes heavily, well aware of how goddamn good those large hands feel on his, how fucking right the brush of facial hair against his bare flesh feels. "…ne'er wanted somethin' so badly…"
Roman stares in wonderment before giving him a soft smile, kissing at his neck slowly, before effortlessly sucking a mark there that leaves Dean grasping at his broad shoulders. "…what do you want, baby, hmm? Just tell me, just ask for it and I'll give it to you…"
"I-Inside…" He manages to choke, mind reeling as he thinks back to that dirty porn mag, seeing men balls deep in one another. Fuck. "…w-want you inside me…please, God…"
He can do that. Roman can certainly fucking do that, now that Dean is mindlessly gyrating against his thigh. "I can do that, baby, but we're gonna have to take it slow, don't wanna hurt you."
"Okay, okay…please, just…"
"I got you, don't worry." Roman slides off his own underwear first, revealing the fat length of his dick that makes Dean's pupils dilate even further before he grabs at Roman's shoulders and initiates a wet, sloppy kiss.
"I-I wanna like your tat, can I? A-And then I wanna touch your dick, please? I-I…" He's shivering all over, skin pink and flushed in places he didn't previously realize were possible.
"Yeah…" Roman rasps, his own eyes darkening with lust as Dean follows his lead, revealing the prettiest uncut cock he's ever had the pleasure of witnessing. "…Christ, you don't even have to ask." Roman can vaguely remembers what this is like, exploring another's body for the first time, hesitant and excited with the edge of fear.
Dean's tongue is even longer then he thought, curving along the delicate lines of his ink as a shaky hand ever so slightly touches the tip of his dick. It's not nearly enough to get him off, but that's not even the point right now.
Minutes pass as Dean explores more and more of Roman's body, from his cock to grabbing at his ass and touching his thighs, and even kissing his feet. God, Dean might actually like feet. Roman never pushes, just groans and hums and moans here and there, letting Dean get a handful as three decades worth of suppression stumble down. But soon the arousal just keeps building up to an unbearable level, the desire to feel what those men must have felt in that magazine becoming too great. "I-I want…inside?"
"Yeah?" Roman smirks, almost smug as he lays a warm hand on Dean's hip and the back of his neck, gently laying him back against the pillows, using one to prop up his lower back. "Let me know if you need me to stop, okay?"
"Alright…" A soft, uncharacteristically gentle tone of that smoke-ridden, raspy voice as his hands shake where they have decided to lay over his chest.
Roman rummages in the bedstand or a condom and lube, relieved to find both as he pets at those delicious thighs. "We'll take it slow, alright?"
"Okay." A steadying breath and Roman smiles, pouring a tiny amount of lube in his hand and letting it warm before rubbing a little just over that tense, virgin hole. "O-Oh…"
"How's that?" He pauses before moving further, Dean's eyes fluttering shut.
"'s…weird, b-but…keep goin'."
Roman takes his time, toying with Dean's foreskin and licking the crowd of his cock as he slowly works up to one finger, then two, and the auburn haired male is sobbing, pleading and a delirious mess. But he still takes it slow, despite anticipation building deep within because he'll be damned if they've gone through all this just for Dean to be in pain the first time he's with another man. But slowly and surely, Dean relaxes enough for Roman to grow comfortable rolling a condom over his cock, giving Dean's thigh a gentle kiss before slowly sliding in deep.
If there is a higher power, it must fucking love Dean Ambrose, because the pleasurable stretch and burn, the dull ache as a dick slides into him belonging to this gorgeous enigma of a man is something otherworldly. "O-Oh, Roman!" He gasps out, wrapping his legs around him as the larger male begins to slowly slide in out, whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
"God, baby, you fit around me so well. Takin' it good, y'know? Fucking perfect…" Precious praises mixing with the obscenities that start to tumble from Dean's lips as pleasure jolts up his spine, his prostate being hit for the first goddamn time.
"Fuck, oh, shit…so good, so, God!" Dean's eyes are practically rolling back in his head, the pleasure overwhelming and encompassing as he feels himself stretch to accommodate Roman's fat cock. His dick has never been this hard, his body never as pleased as it is now and he fucking comes, spilling over easily and making a complete mess. "'M sorry, oh so good so….!" His vision seems to white out as the pleasure keeps coming, his orgasm and an afterglow giving him more pleasure and sensation as Roman keeps up a nice, pulsing pace to his thrusts.
"Don't be sorry, baby, take the fuckin' pleasure you need, baby…" He groans out, licking at one nipple, impossibly pink and stuff. "…milk this dick for all it's worth."
"O-Oh, fuck…!" The pleasure just keeps rolling, Dean feeling himself perk back up in record time. It's never been this easy with women, never felt as right. "…please, more, I…I-I can take more…c-can take it faster!" So Roman does move faster, fat ass rolling under the feel of Dean's hungrily grasping hands. "D-Daddy, fuck, Daddy!" The smaller male bursts out of nowhere before he recants, actually recoiling for a moment. "I-I'm sorry, I…f-fuck!" There's a sickening dread as Roman slows for a moment, not quite stopping.
Did he really fuck this all up with his big, stupid mouth? His voice is caught in his throat, any further apology being lost as Roman shoots him the most primal, aroused expression, eyebrows drawn down and eyes filled with so much lust Dean thinks he could come against just from staring in them. "Nah, baby boy…don't be sorry. I don't mind you being my baby boy, 'specially with you wrapped tight around me, fittin' me cock in you so nice, so fuckin' sweet…"
So Dean does call him Daddy. Multiple times, switching between that and Roman and 'fuck' and 'oh God yes' over and over as he comes for what has to be a record amount of times.
When they're both sated, Roman having peeled the condom off his cock and tossed it in the trash and Dean laying with his legs sprawled out. It's the only way to be comfortable after such a pleasurable, but foreign experience.
He looks at his watch that had fallen beside earlier in the night. Its 1:32 and Dean isn't dead. Dean didn't blow his brains out in his own job's parking lot.
"I-I can take you back if you want." Roman swallows when he notices Dean looking at his watch. "But…I'd rather you spend the night. Just for the night, if you'd like."
Dean passes out before he can even reply, his body deciding for him swiftly and he doesn't have the heart to protest.
Roman awakes before he does and finds the suicide note in his pocket. Some of it is hard to make out, but he gets the gist of it and finds himself crying in his overpriced remodeled kitchen before settling to make breakfast.
Dean comes in limping well after Roman's managed to control his tears, hair a knotted mess and eyes bewildered.
"I'd like you to stay, here, with me. Please." It's a bold fucking statement to make and Roman knows it, knows based just on last night and the note he found that Dean's fragile and this is a lot to ask for. But he felt something more last night, something beyond physical and a part of him aches at the thought of ever letting the other male leave him.
"O-Okay…" A small, genuine smile with the smallest hint of dimples follows.