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For some people, the gym was like a home away from home, a lifestyle in and of itself. For Dean Ambrose, the gym was a place rather like the grocery store or the dentist. It was something you did, and afterwards you felt better for having gone, and it was better if you find the right one to suit your needs, but it wasn’t anything to get excited about. He was also faintly suspicious of people who enjoyed it too much, like they were letting the team down.
As a result, he tried his very best to tune out other people, especially other people with that look about them that seemed to say “ask me about my body fat percentage”. Oh, they were probably by and large decent people, and if he’d run into them anywhere else he’d be more than happy to make conversation. The gym was not the place for that. Dean intrinsically felt that one’s workout should be a personal thing.
This was a viewpoint that he doubled down on ever since he started sharing the gym with… him.
Apparently their schedules had started to align, because Roman Reigns had been ruining his perfectly adequate gym sessions for weeks, and it was really starting to weigh on him. Roman was a difficult man to ignore even for someone who liked to keep their head on their own business. He knew it, too. Roman was conspicuously good-looking and seemed to spend altogether too much time standing next to a bar looking intense rather than getting on with the actual workout.
More than that, he was a talker. Dean was pretty against talking, but even then, there was acceptable conversation. “Excuse me, you’re in my way.” “Sorry, I am in your way.” Maybe a polite, “Don’t curve your spine” or some other form-correcting contribution.
Roman wasn’t like that. Maybe, Dean considered in a moment of charity, he thought he was being helpful. But then, the more time they spent working out together, the less he was inclined to believe that. It’s plausible that “you can do more weight than that, can’t you?” was meant to be an innocent question, however unkindly phrased, trying to assess if Dean was pushing himself or just warming up, but the third or fourth time Roman casually draw attention to the fact that Dean’s bar was not particularly heavily loaded, Dean was committing murder behind his eyes.
He bit back all the explanations of his workout routine, that he wasn’t trying to break records for weightlifting, that he was more interested in other forms of exercise. Fuck it. A guy who’d make “jokes” about how much weight was on your bar didn’t deserve a proper answer.
Dean grunted as he locked in his weights, chancing another glance over at Roman, just to make sure Roman wasn’t looking too much at him, of course. His hair was out, which seemed utterly impractical if the point of being here was to work up a sweat and not to look casually gorgeous. Dean could see the way his muscles shifted as he finished his set, because of course he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
Roman looked up and met Dean’s eye. Dean looked hastily back down at his bar. Great. Now he was the asshole. Probably about the only thing as bad as making comments about someone else’s weight was being the weird guy checking out other guys.
He breathed deeply, shifting his feet into the correct position. Just as his hands wrapped around the bar, Dean felt the air shift beside him. He didn’t have to look up to know what was happening. “Hello, Roman,” he said, as emotionlessly as he could. He was tempted to ask, ‘what can I help you with?’, but didn’t think it wise to say anything that could be interpreted as a desire to keep the conversation going any longer than strictly necessary.
“You know, maybe you should consider coming in more often,” Roman said easily, brushing his sweat-damp hair back from his eyes with one hand. “After all, there’s -”
Dean breathed in deeply, trying to hold back the barrage of retorts that immediately leapt to his lips. He looked up, and scowled slightly. Roman hadn’t even put away his own weights before coming over to hassle Dean. Was there anything redeeming about this guy?
A firm hand landed on his shoulder, and he heard a deep, faintly cruel laugh beside him. “I’m just saying, if you ever decide you want some tips --” He jerked away from the touch like it was burning him. Making conversation was bad, making fun was worse. Fucking touching people was -
“Look, I gotta go,” he muttered, picking up his towel and stomping away towards the locker room. Maybe he needed to find a new gym, this one was only encouraging more bad habits.
Dean dug around inside his gym bag. He was pretty sure they were still in there. He hadn’t actually had a cigarette in almost ten days, but he was fairly certain he hadn’t… oh, yes. His fingers closed around the packet. Well, ten days was a good effort. And just one wouldn’t exactly ruin everything - it was a backslide, not a tumble.
He turned to walk out of the locker room and had to stifle a groan of irritation. Roman was standing in the doorway. For one small moment he considered that he might actually just make it out of there without stressing himself out too badly, but then…
That motherfucker. Roman snatched the cigarette packet from his hand in a move so quick Dean was barely aware of it. He knew the guy was a jerk, but surely there was a line!
“I think I found the reason you’re -” Roman began, eyes twinkling.
“Give them back,” Dean snapped, eyes narrowing. He reached up to grab the packet, but Roman pulled it out of his reach. Was this grown-ass man really playing keep-away with his fucking cigarettes? Someone was going to -
“Do you have any idea how bad these are for you?”
Dean’s eyes closed and he tried to breathe through his nose slowly, count to ten. Of course he knew exactly how bad they were. He was an adult, he had learned to read. He wasn’t exactly labouring under some delusion that they were good for him. But he’d be damned if he was going to let some asshole like Roman Reigns give him a fucking lecture about it.
The packet fell to the ground as Dean’s hand connected with Roman’s jaw, and the larger man stumbled backwards. More out of surprise than pain, in all likelihood.
Roman’s fingers raised slowly to the reddened spot on his face, as though he couldn’t believe that it had actually happened. Dean shook his hand out awkwardly. It hadn’t exactly been a good shot, and…
...he suddenly felt hot all over as the realization of what had happened crept up on him. ‘He was being kind of an asshole’ was not a reasonable justification for assaulting someone in a locker room, and he really liked to think that he was better than that, now, had left that behind him. Not to mention, if Roman sought to retaliate, Dean was pretty sure he’d lose that fight.
His heart pounded in his throat. Roman seemed to eventually find his tongue.
“The fuck was that for?”
That was a complicated question. Dean didn’t quite know how to answer it. “Give me back my fucking cigarettes.” That would have to do.
Roman kicked the packet over with a moody sort of scowl. Dean bent down to pick them up in time to hear, muttered low enough that Roman could conceivably pretend it wasn’t meant for his ears, “...lunatic.”
Dean was barely aware of his movement. Next thing he knew, Roman was pinned against one of the lockers, Dean’s forearm against his throat. “Say it again,” he demanded, his voice practically a growl. “Say it again, right to my face.”
Roman didn’t say anything. Dean pressed a little harder with his forearm and added, a little snidely, “I thought you were a big man, after all, you lift so much more than me, in your words, but you can’t --”
Roman lifted a hand to Dean’s wrist. The touch wasn’t firm enough to cause pain, but it surprised Dean enough to cause him to slacken the weight against Roman’s throat enough for the large man to step forward against Dean’s weight with ease. He was dimly aware that Roman could have broken the hold by force instead if he’d wanted to, but that he hadn’t really tried.
At first Dean assumed it was because he’d taken Roman by surprise, maybe put him on the back foot a little with the aggression. As Roman leaned forward, though, and Dean felt the soft puff of Roman’s breath against his lips, he realized that maybe there’d been another motivation as well.
The first brush of Roman’s lips against his was gentle, soft, almost tentative. That sent another rush of anger through Dean, vibrating from his lips down to the balls of his feet and then back up again. How… how dare he?
If he was going to corner Dean and kiss him in a public fucking locker room, he should at least have the decency to do it right.
Dean flung his arms around Roman’s shoulders, digging his fingertips into the bare, sweaty flesh of the man’s back, as he bit sharply on the man’s lower lip. He could feel Roman respond to his touch, the hands landing firmly on the small of his back, the hips pressing forward against his, the ragged breath that crept out against his mouth.
He vaguely wondered what would happen if someone walked in, at that moment, and saw the two of them locked in that embrace.
But then there was no time for imagining any more, because Roman was moving, turning them, pinning Dean against the locker now. The metal dug into his back as those large hands circled his waist, dropped to his hips. God - kissing Roman felt like it would never get old. It was like every hair on his body was standing on end, lost in the sensation. His hips pressed forward wantonly, grinding against any part of Roman he could reach.
When Roman pulled back, Dean made a soft noise of discontent that turned into an animalistic growl when he saw his face. Smug fuck. Probably thinking about how much Dean must have been longing for it this whole time. And sure, he hadn’t exactly been against the idea, but…
“I fucking hate you,” he murmured, biting at Roman’s earlobe to punctuate the point.
He felt one of Roman’s hands slide down and, oh fuck, palm him through his gym shorts. He tried to will himself not to move against the touch, but that was made all the more difficult as he felt the brush of lips against his ear, heard the deep gravelly voice whisper back, “Doesn’t seem like you do.”
Dean bit Roman again, this time on the throat, then ran his long tongue over the same spot. “I do,” he grunted. He ran one hand up and tangled it in the mess of dark hair. “I hate this. Who has hair this long and doesn’t… ah, fuck…”
His train of thought was derailed by the gentle squeeze of Roman’s hand over his groin. Fuck. He glanced over the man’s shoulder at the locker room door. If someone walked in and saw them kissing it might be awkward, but kissing wasn’t exactly what he had in mind…
A brief thought occurred to him, but one more glance up at Roman’s smug fucking grin put that idea to rest. About the last thing he wanted to do was give the man the satisfaction of suggesting they go home together.
He pressed upwards in an effort to kiss that smug expression off his stupid, beautiful face. There was nothing gentle about it. Dean felt their teeth clash together on the first contact and when Roman shifted his hand against his straining erection again, he couldn’t help himself but bite down again. He was pretty sure he could taste Roman’s blood.
Good.
“Bathroom,” Dean said softly, as their lips separated for just a moment. There was a touch of blood-stained saliva hanging from Roman’s lip. That made Dean feel faintly better about the whole thing, like he’d contributed something.
He wasn’t entirely sure that he could make it as far as a stall before changing his mind, slapping Roman, or just jumping him wherever they happened to be standing, but it seemed like a better plan than where anyone could walk in and get an eyeful.
Somehow they made it, though as Dean clicked the lock shut behind him, he felt his pulse start to race. He was very certain that he knew exactly what he wanted, but had Roman followed expecting the same thing?
Dean slowly turned from the door and pressed his face and body into the wall, guiding Roman’s hand by the wrist to his hip. Given that his body felt from hairline to toes like he was on fire, the tiled wall was pleasantly cold against his cheek, chest, arms. He felt Roman slide into position behind him, chest against his back, and… god. The hardness he could feel against his ass was delicious.
“There we go,” he murmured, pressing back with his hips against Roman. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Um. You better have a -”
He felt the reassuring pat on his arm before he could even finish asking, and scowled at the door. Alright, but it was a real concern. Was it possible for Roman to do anything without being obnoxious about it?
Soft kisses pressed against the back of his neck and his shoulder as he felt the strong hands slide up over his hips, hooking on his waistband, and sliding his shorts down a little, only just far enough for what Roman wanted to do. When Dean felt Roman hesitate a moment, he reached down with one hand for one of Roman’s wrists, bringing two of the other man’s fingers to his mouth and pulling them into his mouth slowly, spreading saliva over them with his tongue. They tasted faintly salty and sweaty, with a faint tangy taste that he couldn’t quite place. For some reason, that also irritated him, so he bit down before letting them go.
Dean jumped slightly at the first press of a spit-slicked finger against his hole, but scowled at the slightly apologetic press of lips to his shoulder. “Don’t - see, this is…” It was difficult to keep track of what he was trying to say, fingers scrabbling against the wall frantically as he felt Roman pushing into him, stretching him, preparing him with a care he hadn’t entirely expected. A particular crook of Roman’s finger drew a ragged, anxious breath from Dean, and he pushed his hips backwards into the other man a little frantically.
He felt a hot breath on the sweat on the back of his neck, and Roman’s other hand settled on his, trying to lace their fingers together. Dean pulled away from the contact with a low sound from his throat. He reached behind him, instead, to pull at Roman’s workout gear, tugging at his shorts. “That’s enough,” he managed to gasp out. “Don’t -- I don’t need you to --”
The rejected hand settled on his waist instead, fingers wrapping around him and digging in gently to his flesh there. A second finger pushed into him from behind, and as Dean’s hips bucked back impatiently, he felt the hand on his waist tighten a little, like a warning. “Don’t try to show off,” Roman warned him softly. “I know you --”
“Fuck off,” Dean spat back, as much venom in his tone as he could muster. Almost immediately, he regretted it. Roman pulled back, leaving Dean’s body feeling empty and cold. He squirmed a little against the wall. Would it be entirely too sad to say he didn’t really mean it, to beg forgiveness…?
He could sense the smirk behind him. “Calm down, idiot.”
An elbow brushed against his back, and he heard a soft rustling sound behind him. Dean sighed heavily and shook his head against the wall. “Hurry up, then,” he grumbled, trying to make it sound instead like he was just impatient.
Dean would have wanted to say something more, but the breath was taken from his lungs by the pressing sensation of Roman’s large cock entering him. He bit down on his lip to stop himself making any sound Roman might take as evidence that he really should have taken longer about preparation. The soft chuckle he could hear behind him told him that Roman figured that out anyway.
It felt like a lifetime before he felt comfortable with the length in him, and he pushed his hips back to indicate he was ready for more. Both of Roman’s hands settled on his waist, hiking up his sweat-soaked singlet, practically all the way around him. Roman tried to thrust forward gently, but Dean set the pace faster, one hand still scrabbling at the wall in front of him, while the other reached behind him to grab at Roman’s hair. It was easy to grab a handful when there was way too fucking much of it.
“Cocky,” Dean grunted, only just barely managing to form words between frantic breaths and deep, hard thrusts. “Arrogant. Show-off.” He had to stop for a moment, his brain swimming, lost in the sensation, before he was able to figure out any other words to throw at the man. “Fucking - gorgeous - big dick - motherfucker…”
He felt Roman tense up slightly behind him, and he tugged again on the handful of hair. “Harder, asshole.”
For a moment, Dean wasn't sure if his words had even been audible, but when the fingertips dug still harder into his waist and he felt Roman thrust into him so hard he smacked breathlessly and a little painfully into the wall, he chuckled deep in his throat.
Judging from the sloppy way Roman alternated between kissing at Dean’s neck and just leaning into him, he must have been close. “Come in me,” he murmured. He intended it to be a command, but was unable to keep the desperation, the need out of his voice.
As Roman thrust into him faster, Dean seemed to lose all concept of anything except sensation. The tiles against his cheek and fingertips. The breath against his neck. The hands around his waist. As Roman angled his hips a little differently for a few more ragged thrusts, even that vanished. It was just him, and Roman, and pleasure, and need, and…
The hand tangled in Roman’s hair slid down to Dean’s own cock, and he jerked himself frantically. Roman came, biting down on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean’s own orgasm followed shortly afterwards.
He looked down at the streaky mess down the wall. It probably should have occurred to him to clean it up.
Roman didn't say anything for a long moment, and Dean bit his tongue, adamant that he wasn't going to be the first to speak. They separated in silence, fixed their clothing, grabbed a handful of toilet paper to clean up any fluids that happened to be on them. Dean heard the plop of what he assumed was the used condom being thrown carelessly into the toilet. Apparently that was bad for the plumbing. Dean figured that Roman probably knew that, though.
Just as his fingertips touched the lock, Dean heard Roman clear his throat softly behind him. He hesitated there for a moment, waiting to see if Roman had anything to say. When nothing was forthcoming, he finally spoke up.
“I don't like people talking to me while I'm working out. I don't want to be lectured about smoking. And you're not as hot shit as you think you are.”
Dean had fully intended to leave those as his parting words as he strode away dramatically, but he couldn't help but wait for a beat, trying to sense Roman’s reaction from behind him. Just as he got sick of the waiting and turned the lock to leave, he heard the quiet scoff of laughter and Roman’s soft words. Dean smiled slightly to himself; at least he'd made the man hesitate.
“Sure, whatever, man.”
The lock clicked. Dean stepped through the door. He didn't look back
There was no way he could continue working out after that, but he considered it a small victory that he didn't end up having the cigarette after all.