Gift fic for the bestie to cheer up after that horrible AO3 comment hours ago.
Hope you like it love. @rozettaswritingblog <3
John attempts to leave the arena after a segment, The Nexus surrounds him bribing him to join their stable by force, in which gets denied. A total backstage ambush occurs leaving The Cenation Leader seriously injured and Sheamus takes care of him while looking for revenge against the culprits who laid their hands on his man.
Tags: The Nexus, mother hen Sheamus, backstage ambush, Sheamus is a lucky dude, gift fic, taking care of Cena, get your mitts off of John, established relationship, AU: No GFs/Wives, WWE Raw 2010 au, post wwe hiac 2010, serious injuries, broken arm, Cena wears an arm cast, engagement, marriage proposal, John becomes soon-to-be Mrs O'Shaunessy
Disclaimer: This is only a work of fiction.
John Cena wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist as he stepped through the heavy black curtain into the backstage corridor. The roar of the arena still pulsed behind him, a fading wave of cheers from the live crowd after his fiery promo.
His blue jeans and purple Never Give Up T-shirt clung to him, the air cool against his skin after the heat of the lights. He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder and started down the concrete hallway toward the exit, already thinking about the long drive home and a quiet night.
He never made it past the loading bay doors.
The lights overhead flickered once. Then the Nexus stepped out from the shadows: David Otunga, Michael McGillicutty, Skip Sheffield, Heath Slater, and Justin Gabriel, blocking every path. No Wade Barrett among them. Just the pack.
Otunga’s voice cut through the quiet first, smooth and cold. “Leaving so soon, Cena? That’s rude.”
John stopped, eyes narrowing. He set his bag down slowly. “You boys lost? Or just looking for another ass-kicking?”
McGillicutty smirked. “We’re here to deliver a message. From Wade.”
Slater stepped forward, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You lost to him fair and square. That means you’re Nexus now. No choice. You join, or we decide for you.”
Cena’s expression didn’t change. He stared at each of them in turn, voice flat and ice-cold. “No.”
Gabriel tilted his head. “Didn’t sound like a request.”
“I don’t care what it sounded like,” he said. “I don’t have time for this joke of a stable. You want to play dress-up and follow Barrett around like lost puppies, be my guest. I’m not joining. Not today. Not ever.”
Skip Sheffield cracked his knuckles. “Wrong answer.”
The first punch caught Cena in the ribs before he could fully raise his guard. Otunga drove a shoulder into his midsection, slamming him back into a stack of equipment cases. McGillicutty followed with a stiff forearm across the jaw.
The former WWE Champion swung back hard, catching Slater flush and sending him stumbling, but numbers won. Sheffield’s bulk crashed into him, driving him to the concrete. Boots and fists rained down.
Cena covered up, absorbing what he could, but the assault was relentless: payback for every time he’d buried them, every time he’d stood over them in the middle of the ring while the crowd chanted his name.
“This is for every loss!” Otunga snarled, driving a knee into Cena’s side.
Gabriel flipped over a case and dropped an elbow. Slater and McGillicutty dragged John upright just long enough for Sheffield to plant a big boot in his chest.
Then Justin Gabriel and Heath Slater locked in. They hoisted him between them, Cena’s body limp but still fighting, and charged full speed toward a large black production box stacked against the wall.
Wood and metal splintered. The box collapsed inward under the force. John's body crashed through the side panel, landing hard amid shattered equipment and tangled cables. He didn’t get up. His left arm hung at an ugly angle, and a low, pained sound escaped him before everything went quiet.
The Nexus stood over the wreckage for a moment, breathing hard.
Otunga adjusted his jacket. “Message delivered. Tell Wade we handled it.”
They melted back into the corridor without another word, leaving The Cenation Leader broken among the debris.
Sheamus rounded the corner less than a minute later, still in his ring gear from earlier, towel around his neck. He’d heard the crash. What he saw stopped him cold.
He dropped to his knees beside the shattered box, carefully brushing debris away. His boyfriend's eyes were half-open, pain clouding them. Blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow.
“Jesus Christ,” Sheamus muttered, voice tight. He looked around sharply, teeth clenched so hard the muscle in his jaw jumped. The corridor was empty. Nexus was already gone. “Cowards. Absolute cowards.”
He slid one arm under his man's shoulders and the other carefully beneath his knees, mindful of the injured arm. Cena groaned as he was lifted.
“I’ve got you,” The Celtic Warrior said, already moving toward the exit with long, purposeful strides. “I’ve got you. Hospital. Now. Don’t you dare pass out on me.”
Cena’s head rested against his lover's shoulder. “They… jumped me…”
“I know. I know. Just stay with me.”
The emergency room was a blur of fluorescent lights, questions, and X-rays. Sheamus never left his side. He answered what he could, glared at anyone who tried to usher him out, and sat in the hard plastic chair once they finally got Cena into a private bay.
The doctors confirmed what the Irishman already feared: fractured forearm, deep bruising, possible concussion. They set the arm in a cast and gave Cena something for the pain.
Hours later, John dozed under the thin hospital blanket. Sheamus sat forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the wreckage, the empty hallway, the way the smaller man had looked when he found him. His hands flexed. The next time Nexus crossed his path, there would be no running.
Days later, the SmackDown arena pulsed with the usual energy. The crowd was loud, restless, waiting for the next match. No one expected the Celtic Warrior’s music to hit.
The opening notes of “Written in My Face” blasted through the speakers. The live audience erupted. Sheamus strode out in full ring gear, no entrance theatrics, pure purpose in every step. He climbed into the ring and grabbed a microphone from the ring announcer without waiting.
“I’m only gonna say this once,” he growled, voice carrying over the cheers. “Nexus. You put your hands on John Cena. You put him through a production box. You hurt him. So tonight, you’re all getting in this ring with me. Handicap match. Every last one of you. And when I’m finished, you’ll wish you’d stayed buried.”
Wade Barrett’s music hit almost immediately in response. The Nexus poured out: Barrett leading, the rest flanking him. Barrett smirked as he stepped through the ropes.
“You sure about this, Sheamus? One of you. All of us.”
The former three-time champion tossed the mic aside. “I’m sure.”
It was chaos from the start. Otunga and McGillicutty charged first. Sheamus met them with stiff collars and a pair of European uppercuts that snapped their heads back. He dumped Otunga with a shoulder tackle, then turned and caught Slater mid-leap with a boot to the face.
Skip Sheffield tried to use his size, but the Irishman ducked under a clothesline, hooked the big man’s arm, and used the momentum to send him crashing into the corner.
One by one, he wore them down: rolling up McGillicutty for a near-fall, then driving him into the mat with a hard clothesline for the three-count. Slater tried a springboard, only to be caught and dropped with a powerslam.
Gabriel flipped and spun, but Sheamus timed it, snatched him out of the air, and planted him with a Celtic Cross. Sheffield lasted longer, trading heavy blows, until he finally reversed a charge into the ropes and hit a running knee that left the big man flat for the pin.
Only Wade Barrett remained.
The two men circled. Barrett’s eyes were cold. Sheamus’s were colder. They traded punches in the centre of the ring: hard, no-selling, pure intensity. Barrett ducked a right hand and locked in a front face lock, trying to wear Sheamus down.
The pale wrestler powered out, shoved him into the ropes, and met the rebound with a stiff kick to the midsection. Barrett staggered, recovered, and came back with a series of European uppercuts of his own. Sheamus absorbed them, then answered with a headbutt that staggered the Englishman.
Barrett went for the Wasteland. He locked his arms around Sheamus’s waist, lifted...
And botched the lift just enough. His footing slipped for half a second on the mat. Sheamus felt the imbalance instantly. He twisted hard, reversing the momentum, and slammed Barrett down instead. Before Barrett could recover, he stepped back, planted his feet, and unleashed the Brogue Kick.
The impact was clean and brutal. Barrett’s head snapped back. He crumpled.
The bell rang. The crowd exploded. He stood over Barrett’s prone form for a long moment, chest heaving, then turned toward the front row.
John Cena sat there in street clothes, left arm in a cast and sling, watching every second. The moment their eyes met, Sheamus hopped the railing in one smooth motion and closed the distance. He cupped Cena’s face with both hands and kissed him hard, right there in front of the entire arena.
The live crowd’s reaction was a mix of shock, cheers, and pure noise. Cena kissed him back just as fiercely, his good arm coming up to grip the back of Sheamus’s neck.
When they finally broke apart, Sheamus stayed close, forehead against Cena’s. He raised one hand toward the production crew, signalling. His theme music cut off mid-note, leaving the arena in a strange, charged quiet.
Sheamus’s voice was low, rough, meant only for Cena, even though the cameras and microphones still caught every word.
John's eyes were bright. He nodded once, firm.
Sheamus exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for years. He stepped back just enough, then slowly dropped to one knee on the concrete floor of the arena. From a small pocket inside his wrist tape, he produced a simple, solid Celtic band of white gold, the design clean and strong. He held it up between them.
“John Cena… will you be my husband?”
Cena’s face crumpled. Tears spilt over as he laughed through them, nodding hard. “Yes. A million times, yes!”
Sheamus slid the ring onto Cena’s good hand with careful fingers. Then he stood, pulled his man in again, and kissed him while the arena lost its collective mind.
Hours later, the house was quiet. Soft lamps glowed in the living room. Cena sat on the couch, still in the same clothes from the arena, cast arm resting carefully across a pillow.
The Celtic Warrior moved around him like a man handling something precious: bringing water, adjusting the pillow, checking the sling one more time.
“Easy,” Sheamus murmured when Cena shifted. “Don’t put weight on it. The doctor said no sudden movements.”
John gave him a tired half-smile. “You’re hovering.”
“Damn right I am.” Sheamus sat beside him, close but careful not to jostle the injured arm. He reached over and brushed a thumb gently along Cena’s jaw. “I meant what I said in that ring. I’m going to take care of you. Every day. Broken arm or not. Whatever comes next.”
The smaller man leaned into the touch, eyes already heavy. “I know you will.”
A yawn escaped him before he could stop it. Sheamus’s expression softened.
“Go to sleep, Cena,” he said quietly. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”
Cena’s good hand found Sheamus’s and laced their fingers together. He let his eyes close, the tension of the last few days finally starting to drain away.
Sheamus stayed exactly where he was, thumb stroking slow circles over Cena’s knuckles, watching over him as the house settled into silence.
@rozettaswritingblog hope this tag works on you.
