TITLE: Better Be Forgotten
AUTHOR: JackValentine
BETA: residentreject619
PAIRING: Brock Lesnar/John Cena
RATING: NC-17
GENRE: Angst
SIZE: Mini
WARNINGS: NON-CON! Which means rape! I warned you.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: After Extreme Rules match I couldn't hold myself back from writing it!
DISCLAIMER: Do not own the guys (I wish I did ^^)
- Hey, Cena!
The voice in the silence of the concrete backstage corridor seemed to sound even louder.
John sighed and turned around. He was exhausted and the only thing he wanted was to finally go back to the hotel and fall into the bed's soft embrace. Cena definitely wasn't in a mood to talk, but didn't dare to ignore the dominant Brock Lesnar.
Lesnar came closer. He didn't look like he was going to start a peaceful talk. John took a look around. No one was there.
- Maybe the bookers decided that super-Cena must win, - Brock kept approaching the other man while speaking, so by the time he took a pause they were already face-to face, - but I'm totally not done with you.
John didn't even have time to think of something to answer. After Brock finished the sentence, Cena immediately felt the accurate hit of an iron fist of Lesnar right into his abdominals. He bent and opened his mouth gasping for air. The next strike nearly shattered Cena's jaw. One more hit on the side of his head.
Everything darkened in John's eyes. He could barely breathe and see. Cena felt the warm blood flowing on his face. For the second time this evening. But this blood was different. It wasn't spilled for entertaining. It was spilled for bringing pain. For punishing.
The lack of air had its influence. John felt dizzy; everything was spinning in circles in his still fogged sight. His legs crooked and he fell down. Prostrate.
But it wasn't enough for Lesnar. He dragged Cena into some poky storeroom and closed the door. The sound seemed extremely loud to John and when the thin path of light was becoming narrower and narrower and then finally disappeared it felt like being cut off from the rest of the world. Cena didn't notice any cables on the floor next to him or some other equipment. He barely even noticed Lesnar now. It felt like he was face-to-face with his pain.
A couple hits more scorched Cena's ribs. Lesnar wanted to make sure that the other man won't be able to get up.
Suddenly Brock unfastened John's belt and pulled his shorts down. Cena tried to break away, but one more heavy strike got him almost knocked out, still conscious, but unable to defend himself. Leaving him the helpless spectator of his own fall.
Lesnar spread Cena's thighs wide, shoving his fingers into the other man's hole, stretching it, not paying attention to the red drops of blood flowing down his thumb. When Brock entered John, the only thing Cena felt was pain. Burning and aching, increasing with every furious and steady thrust. Lesnar felt nothing. He was automatically working on John's virgin hole, with every push, with every drop of blood, with every weak moan of the other man humiliating him, putting him down, destroying him, mentally and physically.
As soon as Lesnar was done, he sneaked out of the room and closed the door.
Now Cena was just lying there, half-naked, beaten up and totally broken. Unable to move a muscle. Every single tiniest move resulted with the dull burning pain in his butt spreading down his spine. Brock's cum escaping his outraged hole, mixing with blood and sweat. The only thing he felt was pain. The only thing he tasted was blood.
Some faraway thoughts were going through John's mind. Now he has to go to the medics. But how would he explain everything? To them. To his friends. To his wife… How would he explain where it all came from? The bruises. The contusions. The… The…
He let out a sigh which was more of a moan and felt warm teardrops flowing down his face and mixing with blood. John suddenly felt like he can't get up. He can't keep on living.
And he can't forget.
Can't get over it.
And he never will.