FIC: Something Borrowed, Something Blue (hard R, one-shot)
Disclaimer: If I owned John Cena and Randy Orton, I'd be Vince McMahon....I'm obviously not.
Title: Something Borrowed, Something Blue
Pairing: Centon
Rating: hard R
Summary: John hasn't been the same since the injury....
Warnings: Other than your usual slash smut from me, I'm not telling, just go ahead and look.
Dedication: raaraabear, because I owe Centon smut anyway, and as payment for the layout over at lady_tavington.
X-posted to: marcianafics, lady_tavington, cenaortonmylove, rko_jfac and violentpretties
================================================
Something Borrowed, Something Blue
a Cena/Orton fic
rated R
by MARCIANA (lady_tavington)
John hasn't been the same since the injury.
Something has died behind his eyes, to be replaced by something else. Something darker, something cruel. Something borrowed, something blue.
My eyes. Those are my eyes I look into when I look into his.
He scares me. He scares me more now than he ever has before.
He says that I've ruined him. He says that I've changed him. He says it's my fault he feels so different, as if he's wearing someone else's skin, or living someone else's soul.
He says I'm going to pay. He says he'll make me. He says I'm going to rue the day I decided to fuck him up.
I look behind me, over my shoulder at him now, and the darkness in his eyes tells me today may be that day.
He's talked me into a dress, and not just any kind of dress. I'm standing now in front of a mirror, showing myself in, of all things, a French maid outfit. How this has happened to me, I couldn't tell you, even if I wanted to tell you. Let's just say it's got to do with secrets, how many of mine John actually knows, and the words, "Be a good boy and put this on."
He tells me to turn to face him, and I do. As he stands from where he's been sitting against the wall, he gives me a tiny, self-satisfied smirk.
"Suits you," he says gruffly, a hand stroking himself through his boxers.
"You're sick," I hiss at him as he steps closer.
"And you owe me," he replies, "You owe me big time. Funny how it all works out, doesn't it?"
Without warning, he clamps his lips onto mine, and my first instinct is to push him away. He just laughs.
"Bitch," he says, and then his open palm connects hard with my face. "I dare you to try that again. Go ahead."
I don't. It won't get me anywhere nearer getting out of this. I'm not that stupid, Cena.
He kisses me again, harsh still, and I know if I don't respond, I'll just get into more trouble. I return his kiss, and I can feel him smile against my mouth. He presses his hard-on hard into my thigh, and I back myself up into the mirror. The dress is starting to itch slightly.
"Good," John says when he pulls away after what feels like an eternity, "You learn quick. Now, down on your knees, and I don't need to tell you what you have to do."
I smirk sardonically at him. "Not on your life," I reply.
He slaps me again, and this time he draws blood, from my lower lip. "You're either hard-headed," he says, "Or addicted to pain. Or are stupid. I'm not gonna tell you again."
Sucking at the cut on my lip, I get down on my knees. He puts a hand through my hair and presses himself to my face, practically caressing me with his cloth-covered erection. The whole situation is eating away at me. It's driving me crazy, and I'm not sure why I do what I do, but I do it anyway. I remove his boxers, and there's his cock, large and rigid in my face. I test the slit on the head with my tongue, and I hear him sigh softly. Holding him at the base, I take him into my mouth, and I come to a decision. He wants ruthless? He wants aggressive? I'll show him aggressive.
I suck on him hard, working him relentlessly with mouth, teeth and tongue. He grunts and hisses above me, his fingers tight in my hair, as he thinks he's guiding me. I play with the pulsing vein on the underside of his cock, and he moans just a little. Now the costume is getting really abrasive, and too fucking hot. The cut on my lip is staring to hurt something fierce.
I move lower, and use my mouth on his balls. He cries out a bit, his hand fisting almost painfully in my hair. I hear him say my name, and it's then that I realize what exactly is wrong with my outfit, in that there's nothing wrong with it. It's me. I'm actually turned on by all this, blood rushing down to my groin and giving me an erection as well. Perfect. Fucking perfect.
He pushes me away, and he looks slightly amused, and slightly angry. "Not bad," he groans, "Not bad at all, Randy. Now, let's see if you're any good at taking it. Get up."
I stand myself up with some difficulty, and without his help. He kisses me again, his tongue invading my mouth, picking at mine. His hand searches underneath the skirt and ruffles and finds my cock. He gives me a not-so-gentle squeeze, and I gasp into his mouth. He gives me a few hard, firm strokes, and I feel my knees buckle a bit. Fuck, he's good at that.
"Turn," he says simply when he lets my mouth go. I do as I'm told, half-dizzy with lust and heat. Without waiting to be told, I prop my hands on either side of the consul table and bend forward for him towards the mirror. I'm afraid to look into it. I'm not sure what I'll see first, myself in the French maid uniform, or myself in his eyes.
"Now you're learning," I hear John say. And then his hand, both warm and cold, coated in lube, runs over my cock again, stroking me quickly. I gasp and moan, not really involuntarily, I have to admit. As he reaches the head, he twists his hand and tightens his grip, loosening a bit as he goes back down. The sensation is maddening.
"I wish you could see yourself the way I'm seeing you now," John says, and I imagine he's touching himself as well, "All bent over and dressed like the idiot you can be sometimes. Heady tonic, that."
"Bastard," I say through gritted teeth and eyes squinched close.
"You know, Randy," he answers, "It's an ugly business, doing one's duty. But just occasionally, it's a real pleasure."
Then without warning, he enters me hard, jerking me forward and making me cry out. He stills for only a while, and then he pulls out completely, only to thrust right back in. I gasp out again, and my voice sounds rather undignfied now. He does it again, and this time there's no denying the effect it has on me.
"Good boy," John says, and then he lets his hips begin to move. His movements are harsh, and with every thrust, the table and the mirror shake against the wall. I dare a tiny glimpse into the mirror, despite myself, and find John looking intently at it, at me reflected there, teeth grit, brows furrowed. Sweat has begun to form on both of us. I begin to turn away.
"No, you don't," John grunts, yanking me by the hair, "I want you to see. I want you to watch me, and I want you to see you, I want you to see what I'm doing to you. I want you to remember."
With one of his hands in my hair, I'm stuck looking into the mirror, but I'm too dizzy to see or think too straight. John fucks me mercilessly, as fast and as hard as he can go, all the while his other hand working on my erection.
Only John is relatively quiet. I find myself an almost willing victim to his ministrations, moaning and groaning and moving for him, against him and into him. I find I can't even begin to wonder if he's done this before.
Too soon, he makes me come, white hot heat spilling onto my legs and into his hand. John gives a throaty laugh at that. "Knew you'd warm up to me eventually," he says. He works faster then, until his movements become erratic and his breath becomes ragged. Suddenly, he pulls out, forces me to turn, and comes right onto me, on my stomach and on my sated cock. He looks right into my eyes as he finishes, and I see me. All I see is me.
"I hope you cross me again pretty soon, Randy," he breathes harshly, "You're an awfully good fuck. Not too big on the backtalk though."
He smirks at me, and then picks my clothes up off the floor and throws them at me. "You can go as soon as you've cleaned up and changed," he tells me," I don't think you'll want the boys seeing you dressed like a hussy and covered in God-only-knows-what. Shower's right upstairs, end of the corridor, door to the right."
Stunned silent, I try to gather my bearings and start heading up the stairs, but he stops me with a few more words.
"Oh, and Randy?" he says, "Don't forget. Don't you fucking forget."
~ END. ~
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Author's Notes: WHEW, that was tough to get through! I'm sorry, it's the first time I've written cross-dress!smut, so I kind of couldn't get pictures into my head, but I hope this will suffice as payment for the first layout, raaraabear? The second smut fic will follow ASAP, I promise. To everybody else, if you like what you read, please don't forget to add marcianafics to your FList, as I'll be posting all my fic here from now on. Ta-ta, y'all.
A/N part deux: Find the quote from the movie "The Patriot," and tell me who said it in the movie, if you know it!
Title: Something Borrowed, Something Blue
Pairing: Centon
Rating: hard R
Summary: John hasn't been the same since the injury....
Warnings: Other than your usual slash smut from me, I'm not telling, just go ahead and look.
Dedication: raaraabear, because I owe Centon smut anyway, and as payment for the layout over at lady_tavington.
X-posted to: marcianafics, lady_tavington, cenaortonmylove, rko_jfac and violentpretties
================================================
Something Borrowed, Something Blue
a Cena/Orton fic
rated R
by MARCIANA (lady_tavington)
John hasn't been the same since the injury.
Something has died behind his eyes, to be replaced by something else. Something darker, something cruel. Something borrowed, something blue.
My eyes. Those are my eyes I look into when I look into his.
He scares me. He scares me more now than he ever has before.
He says that I've ruined him. He says that I've changed him. He says it's my fault he feels so different, as if he's wearing someone else's skin, or living someone else's soul.
He says I'm going to pay. He says he'll make me. He says I'm going to rue the day I decided to fuck him up.
I look behind me, over my shoulder at him now, and the darkness in his eyes tells me today may be that day.
He's talked me into a dress, and not just any kind of dress. I'm standing now in front of a mirror, showing myself in, of all things, a French maid outfit. How this has happened to me, I couldn't tell you, even if I wanted to tell you. Let's just say it's got to do with secrets, how many of mine John actually knows, and the words, "Be a good boy and put this on."
He tells me to turn to face him, and I do. As he stands from where he's been sitting against the wall, he gives me a tiny, self-satisfied smirk.
"Suits you," he says gruffly, a hand stroking himself through his boxers.
"You're sick," I hiss at him as he steps closer.
"And you owe me," he replies, "You owe me big time. Funny how it all works out, doesn't it?"
Without warning, he clamps his lips onto mine, and my first instinct is to push him away. He just laughs.
"Bitch," he says, and then his open palm connects hard with my face. "I dare you to try that again. Go ahead."
I don't. It won't get me anywhere nearer getting out of this. I'm not that stupid, Cena.
He kisses me again, harsh still, and I know if I don't respond, I'll just get into more trouble. I return his kiss, and I can feel him smile against my mouth. He presses his hard-on hard into my thigh, and I back myself up into the mirror. The dress is starting to itch slightly.
"Good," John says when he pulls away after what feels like an eternity, "You learn quick. Now, down on your knees, and I don't need to tell you what you have to do."
I smirk sardonically at him. "Not on your life," I reply.
He slaps me again, and this time he draws blood, from my lower lip. "You're either hard-headed," he says, "Or addicted to pain. Or are stupid. I'm not gonna tell you again."
Sucking at the cut on my lip, I get down on my knees. He puts a hand through my hair and presses himself to my face, practically caressing me with his cloth-covered erection. The whole situation is eating away at me. It's driving me crazy, and I'm not sure why I do what I do, but I do it anyway. I remove his boxers, and there's his cock, large and rigid in my face. I test the slit on the head with my tongue, and I hear him sigh softly. Holding him at the base, I take him into my mouth, and I come to a decision. He wants ruthless? He wants aggressive? I'll show him aggressive.
I suck on him hard, working him relentlessly with mouth, teeth and tongue. He grunts and hisses above me, his fingers tight in my hair, as he thinks he's guiding me. I play with the pulsing vein on the underside of his cock, and he moans just a little. Now the costume is getting really abrasive, and too fucking hot. The cut on my lip is staring to hurt something fierce.
I move lower, and use my mouth on his balls. He cries out a bit, his hand fisting almost painfully in my hair. I hear him say my name, and it's then that I realize what exactly is wrong with my outfit, in that there's nothing wrong with it. It's me. I'm actually turned on by all this, blood rushing down to my groin and giving me an erection as well. Perfect. Fucking perfect.
He pushes me away, and he looks slightly amused, and slightly angry. "Not bad," he groans, "Not bad at all, Randy. Now, let's see if you're any good at taking it. Get up."
I stand myself up with some difficulty, and without his help. He kisses me again, his tongue invading my mouth, picking at mine. His hand searches underneath the skirt and ruffles and finds my cock. He gives me a not-so-gentle squeeze, and I gasp into his mouth. He gives me a few hard, firm strokes, and I feel my knees buckle a bit. Fuck, he's good at that.
"Turn," he says simply when he lets my mouth go. I do as I'm told, half-dizzy with lust and heat. Without waiting to be told, I prop my hands on either side of the consul table and bend forward for him towards the mirror. I'm afraid to look into it. I'm not sure what I'll see first, myself in the French maid uniform, or myself in his eyes.
"Now you're learning," I hear John say. And then his hand, both warm and cold, coated in lube, runs over my cock again, stroking me quickly. I gasp and moan, not really involuntarily, I have to admit. As he reaches the head, he twists his hand and tightens his grip, loosening a bit as he goes back down. The sensation is maddening.
"I wish you could see yourself the way I'm seeing you now," John says, and I imagine he's touching himself as well, "All bent over and dressed like the idiot you can be sometimes. Heady tonic, that."
"Bastard," I say through gritted teeth and eyes squinched close.
"You know, Randy," he answers, "It's an ugly business, doing one's duty. But just occasionally, it's a real pleasure."
Then without warning, he enters me hard, jerking me forward and making me cry out. He stills for only a while, and then he pulls out completely, only to thrust right back in. I gasp out again, and my voice sounds rather undignfied now. He does it again, and this time there's no denying the effect it has on me.
"Good boy," John says, and then he lets his hips begin to move. His movements are harsh, and with every thrust, the table and the mirror shake against the wall. I dare a tiny glimpse into the mirror, despite myself, and find John looking intently at it, at me reflected there, teeth grit, brows furrowed. Sweat has begun to form on both of us. I begin to turn away.
"No, you don't," John grunts, yanking me by the hair, "I want you to see. I want you to watch me, and I want you to see you, I want you to see what I'm doing to you. I want you to remember."
With one of his hands in my hair, I'm stuck looking into the mirror, but I'm too dizzy to see or think too straight. John fucks me mercilessly, as fast and as hard as he can go, all the while his other hand working on my erection.
Only John is relatively quiet. I find myself an almost willing victim to his ministrations, moaning and groaning and moving for him, against him and into him. I find I can't even begin to wonder if he's done this before.
Too soon, he makes me come, white hot heat spilling onto my legs and into his hand. John gives a throaty laugh at that. "Knew you'd warm up to me eventually," he says. He works faster then, until his movements become erratic and his breath becomes ragged. Suddenly, he pulls out, forces me to turn, and comes right onto me, on my stomach and on my sated cock. He looks right into my eyes as he finishes, and I see me. All I see is me.
"I hope you cross me again pretty soon, Randy," he breathes harshly, "You're an awfully good fuck. Not too big on the backtalk though."
He smirks at me, and then picks my clothes up off the floor and throws them at me. "You can go as soon as you've cleaned up and changed," he tells me," I don't think you'll want the boys seeing you dressed like a hussy and covered in God-only-knows-what. Shower's right upstairs, end of the corridor, door to the right."
Stunned silent, I try to gather my bearings and start heading up the stairs, but he stops me with a few more words.
"Oh, and Randy?" he says, "Don't forget. Don't you fucking forget."
~ END. ~
==========================================================
Author's Notes: WHEW, that was tough to get through! I'm sorry, it's the first time I've written cross-dress!smut, so I kind of couldn't get pictures into my head, but I hope this will suffice as payment for the first layout, raaraabear? The second smut fic will follow ASAP, I promise. To everybody else, if you like what you read, please don't forget to add marcianafics to your FList, as I'll be posting all my fic here from now on. Ta-ta, y'all.
A/N part deux: Find the quote from the movie "The Patriot," and tell me who said it in the movie, if you know it!