Explaining What Words Cannot Describe
John only ran after them because he was pretty sure they were going to break their necks.
And he wasn't about to let them die in an accidental way when all he wanted to do was break their necks for them. Sons of bitches are so high up on the dominance ladder that just being near them when they're in rut is a recipe for disaster, and it took seconds really for John's body to respond and hit that dreaded patch of rut as well. He's been careful to manage his since he started climbing that ladder himself, not wanting to trigger anyone accidentally and cause an awkward situation. But chasing Hunter and Randy down was all about knocking them on their asses for messing up his carefully laid plans and leaving him sweating, needing, and unwilling to do what it would take to fix the craving. He's not found his mate yet and is not willing to settle for some ring rats to entertain himself him in the meantime. He wants to wait.
And in the meantime, he wants to bust the only two guys higher on the ladder than him.
The entire hallway is permeated with scents he doesn't want to chase down, and somehow, he doesn't pick up on the one that damns him until it's far too late to stop. Until he trips and lands.
Trips over Bray Wyatt, that is. Who's sitting against the wall and smelling fucking amazing.
It's not even fair how John didn't figure it out before he trips over Bray's foot and hits the floor.
He's pushing himself up, mumbling out an apology because he knows he's tripped over someone and he doesn't want to cause more trouble—and he's left staring at Bray. Bray, who's flushed and sweaty and smells far better than he ever has before. He's always smelled good, contrary to that bullshit JBL spouts during his "commentary," but John is bowled over within seconds.
"Where the fuck have you been all my life?" John demands, his voice coming out harsh.
Wide blue eyes settle on him and Bray looks genuinely startled and at a loss for those oh-so-pretty words he fires off into the microphone every night. "What did you just say?"
"You smell so good. Oh my God." John drags himself into Bray's personal space. "So good."
In retrospect, he didn't even think to look for the rest of the Wyatt Family but the fact none of them grab him and haul him away tells him neither of them are here. Good. And bad. He'll rip them both new ones for not watching over Bray and instead leaving him vulnerable. Bastards.
"John..." Bray tries to back up but there's nowhere to go, and John leans back, studying him carefully, trying to pick up on if he's really against this or not. "You don't want to do this."
"Yes, I do. I think you do, too." But he still waits for the exhalation and tentative nod.
The storage closet is right there and not the optimum place for anything resembling sex, but John is low on patience and high on need, and he doesn't want anyone to see this but him anyway. So he yanks Bray to his feet and rips the door open, pretty sure he almost tears it off its hinges in the process. Bray goes in without a fight and John steps in, pulling the door shut and making sure it latches before crashing his lips against Bray's. Fuck, yes. This is what he needs, right here, and he's got it. He's waited and he's found it. Impossible but true. He hooks a hand around the back of Bray's neck to keep him still and tears at the eyesore of an over shirt, the room so dark he doesn't have to see the pattern of this one. It comes apart in ribbons and he counts that as a small victory before going for the shirt underneath that, the one that's always sleeveless and black. Warm bare skin, yes, that's what he wants and he doesn't hesitate to touch because it's his.
Bray's his and he's going to make that very, very clear in the next few minutes.
"John." Fuck, that's new. He's never heard Bray so breathless and eager before. It's amazing.
And he's not fucking sharing with anyone; he'll kill the first person who even thinks it.
"'m right here." He kisses Bray again, savoring the taste of the other man's lips and pushing him back up and against the wall. Thank fucking God there's only a two inch difference in height.
Not that he's not above pushing Bray down onto the floor because the closet is at least big enough for that, but he's not there yet and it's nice to have control while on his feet, too.
Bray grabs at him and John stops, biting his tongue. Please don't wanna stop. "Are you sure?"
What a sad and stupid question all at once. John answers without words because he doesn't need them and he isn't good with them anyway. Instead, he just fumbles in the darkness until he gets his hand curving to fit against Bray's jaw, holding him still and branding his lips with a kiss.
Still, he should probably say something, shouldn't he? "I'm sure. I'm fucking sure."
Not at all pretty or elegant but it gets the rough job done as far as he's concerned.
"Please." Oh, now there's a pretty word he can get used to hearing. All the time. Every night.
And Bray's asked so nicely, how can he really say no? It'd be criminal. What kind of dominant would he be at all to say no? Plus, he's not about to leave Bray here so open and vulnerable.
He never even knew Bray Wyatt could be open and vulnerable but now that he knows, he's hoarding this information and never sharing it with the rest of the world. They can fuck off.
"Mine," he grinds out, fingers curling in the waistband of Bray's pants and yanking at them.
"Yours," Bray whispers back and John almost catches on fire at the single word before kneeling.
He can't see but he sort of can up close—enough to get the pants unfastened and shoved down.
Then he bounces back up to his feet and kisses Bray again, unable to stay away from the addictive taste of the other man's mouth and knowing just how damned he is.
But that's just fine with him because he's found Bray. That's all he's ever wanted.
He's done this out of rut enough times to know what to do, hooking one of Bray's legs over his forearm to keep it lifted and spread him wide. It's a miracle the guy is as flexible as he is because the move would hurt someone less so and John likes having him off-balance and open at the same time. If he had a bed, he wouldn't resort to doing it up against a wall, not the first time, but desperate times, desperate measures. At least he can make it feel amazing like this.
"Mine," he whispers again, just for emphasis because he's crystal clear right now.
Bray's already so fucking slick that he gets two fingers in without a problem and that kind of knocks him loose again, his breath coming harder and faster while he works hot, wet skin. Oh God, he's going to die. This is going to kill him and what a way to go out.
"Fuck, John." Bray's voice, low and husky in his ear. Yeah, he's dying right now. "More."
More. He can do more. Tangles his lips with Bray's again and works him open with three fingers because wet or not, he's tight and John doesn't want to hurt him. Pain is not on the itinerary.
It's a slow dance but John has the time to spare and the little sighs and gasps he gets in return are so perfect that it's worth it. If he can make it half as good the second time around, and the third, and the fourth, then they're going to have a great sex life. But it's not just about the sex. This isn't about the sex. This is about marking the person who belongs to him and with him for all of eternity so that anyone who so much as gets close realizes they are far too close.
Bray Wyatt belongs to him now and the first person to contest it is the first one to die.
Slowly, painfully, thoroughly. John is not going to let a single person step between them now.
He's sure he's done what he can and braces his hand against the wall to keep Bray still, yanking at his own shorts until they slide down and he kicks them away. Achingly hard, so fucking ready to be buried deep inside of Bray and listening to the younger man's breath tripping and stumbling even as he reaches out blindly and manages to find John's shoulders.
"You ready?" John asks, determined to wait until Bray gives him the signal. He will wait.
More unsteady breathing before, low and soft and almost inaudible, "Yes."
John sucks in a breath because he doesn't have to wait anymore. Instead, he shifts forward, slotting his hips between Bray's legs and this is where he belongs. He can feel it deep in his veins, damn near singing with how right this is, and then he doesn't give pushing in a thought.
He's pretty sure he dies and resurrects somewhere in the process because it's just that perfect.
His own idiocy of not realizing he's been working in the ring with the man meant to be his clubs him over the head and he swears to make it up to Bray with everything he has in him. He's going to make up for every lost minute they should have been together. Make up for it tenfold.
It takes him a minute to legitimately catch his breath because he's so blown by this entire experience but Bray says nothing, just drops his head onto John's shoulder and shudders. Does he feel the rightness of this? He has to. John twists his head around, seeking out Bray's lips with his as he pulls back just to slam forward again, burying himself to the hilt. Bray moans into his mouth and John swallows the sound, savoring the sweet taste of it on his tongue.
He keeps one arm firmly under Bray's knee, keeping him open, but wraps the other around him and holds him close without pulling him entirely off of the wall. Just because he can.
It doesn't take long for him to find the rhythm he wants, rocking deeper with every thrust.
And he's rewarded with the low moans and whimpers in his ear, against his mouth. It's perfect.
But he doesn't really like standing up for long and finds himself pulling out, manhandling Bray down to the floor onto his back because hands-and-knees is just fucking barbaric. And John can't rightly kiss him in that position. He spreads Bray wide, fills him again, revels in the tight heat.
"Oh, God, John," Bray rasps, and John just grunts softly in acknowledgement.
He doesn't really have the concentration or the ability to form coherent words any longer.
Instead, he's entirely focused on the movements of his body, finding Bray's wrists in the darkness and pinning them to the concrete, blanketing Bray's body with his own, kissing him...
He's so sweet, so fucking open and John is dying all over again as he buries himself deeper.
Something in the darkness around them falls over and he doesn't even care what it was.
He can't even see and yet his focus is narrowed down to the panting, writhing mess beneath him.
And it's going to stay there if he has absolutely anything to say about it.
The he leans down, bracing his weight back on his knees instead of his hands because he doesn't want to crush Bray's wrists, fusing their mouths together once again to taste those sounds.
He particularly loves the flavor of his name as he licks it out of Bray's mouth.
Everything narrows down to just this—the slap of bare skin against bare skin, Bray's desperate sounds and his own low grunts and growls, the overwhelming scent of a bitch lost in heat and John loses himself. He just gives into the animal deep inside and stakes his claim as he plants another bruising kiss on Bray's lips, wrapping a hand around his throbbing cock.
He's hot and hard and John is going to tie him down and make sure to get a good taste of him when they have time. But right now, he just wants to wring his name from Bray's lips one more time before he loses control and this magical moment comes to a close.
Because he's enjoying himself but it hasn't come to fruition yet. The one moment when it will truly be perfect is when Bray falls apart beneath him and around him for the first time.
He wishes he could see it but hearing it and feeling it are just as good right now.
His hips are moving of their own accord, rapid and sharp snaps that drive him ever deeper and rip moans and soft cries from Bray's lips. Not that he would slow down even if he had control. Hearing Bray enjoying this so much is adamant proof he's doing something right and when he angles his hips, dragging over his spot on the way in and the way out, Bray screams for him.
The sound rockets straight to his core and one more thrust undoes both of them.
John snarls and throws his head back, the pleasure washing over him in a hot wave as his hips buck forward over and over, working Bray through his orgasm until neither of them can move. Then he slowly pulls out, all too aware of how sore he's going to be come morning, and flops down on the small bit of floor space they have. He swears this room was bigger five minutes ago, damn it, but then he stops complaining when he realizes he can cuddle Bray closer this way.
"You okay?" he asks because not asking would be wrong and he wants to make sure Bray is okay. If he's managed to hurt him, he's going to punch himself in the face. Somehow.
Bray makes a soft content noise and nuzzles into the side of his neck. "'m okay, John."
"Good." He lets Bray tuck his head under his chin, carding his fingers through all that long hair and winding it around his fingers. "Just... Let's rest and then we can go back to the hotel."
And once they're back at the hotel, he can make good on his vow to make up for that lost time.
A/N: If you just don't love John/Bray, I don't know why not. And for the reviewer who thinks I write John as a bottom and Bray as the top... This is proof that I do not write it that way. I would also like to take the chance to say that all of the follows, favorites, and reviews I have received on all of my WWE stories have made my day and given me more confidence than I've had in a long time. You are all phenomenal and I love you all. Also! Check out my profile when you get a chance for news about in-progress and upcoming stories, some of which will include NXT wrestlers (because we all secretly love Adrian Neville and want to get in the pants of at least one member of the Ascension)!