Wish
(A Wierd Wrestling Fairytale, or simply WWF)
by
Indigo X
(Hey! Look! Author Notes! ~ Well, here goes. My first actual wrestling chapter story since Gilded Nightmares. Hooray and Yahoo. This puppy's gonna be a bit different than any WWE fic I've ever written, seeing as it's going to be a) mostly on the lighthearted side, and b) a fantasy story. Yep, this is my crack at tying my loves of wrestling and fantasy into one thing, a thing I call a Wierd Wrestling Fairytale, or WWF. (See the acronym? Heehee, I am clever.) If this goes over well, I'll write more.
Anyway... oh, yeah. Because I'm the Goddess-like Author Person, I can and did to the following things- Raven is in this story. He's still in the WWE. But he looks like he did in WCW- y'know, long curly hair, scruff on chin, me-ow. Because I can can can. But in any case, Ravey dearest is property of the bootylucious Scott Levy, and all other WWE guys are property of themselves and the wikkid Vinny Mac. Fatima, well, she's mine. Okay, I'm done. Shutting up. On with the story.)
One:
The Real Folk Blues
(in which we catch up with our nonconformist hero, who finds a thingy)
The mystique of the man walking down the New York street was picked up on my some, who looked on with curiosity. It was looked on with disdain by some of the snooty yuppie types, who eyed him like one eyes a cockroach. But most just simply walked by him without even offering so much as a glance.
Either way, Raven didn't care. He tried to ignore the opinions of other people. Hell, whenever possible, he tried to ignore other people altogether. So even here, walking in the midst of a crowded sidewalk, he was alone. And he was cool with that... well, maybe not as cool as he let on or would like to think, but cool enough.
A person bumped into him and walked on without saying a thing. Raven grimaced and pulled his jacket tighter around himself- except when fighting, he really didn't like to touch or be touched by others. This was as much for the benefit of others as himself. After all, touching in a non-aggressive or even a fond manner, like a handshake or a hug, could lead to a relationship- friendship, romance, something involving trust. That didn't sit well with him, for two reasons...
A. He'd had his trust shattered and his heart broken more times than he'd care to think about.
B. He was dead set on the idea that he was cursed, bound to eventually lead anyone who dared to care about him into some sort of misery.
He cast his dark brown- almost ink black, really- eyes downward, trying to avoid even making eye contact with anyone moving on the sidewalk past him... and then he spied it. A... something. Laying in the raingutter, mostly hidden under a wet New York Times sports page from about a week and a half ago. The Yankees had won the day before, according to the drenched newsprint. But Raven couldn't care less about the Yankees. His eyes were on a sparkle of iridescent deep violet glass underneath.
Furtively glancing back and forth, he stepped over to the gutter, toes of his beat-up black Converse poking over the side of the curb. Nobody else seemed to notice the lovely shimmering color. He wasn't surprised. Subtle beauty... Hell, subtle ANYTHING... was lost on most people these days. Sighing, he knelt down and moved the wet newspaper aside.
There was a bottle underneath, but not a beer or wine bottle, at least from the looks of it. The bottle was, indeed, made mostly of deep violet glass with a light iridescent glaze, blown in an exotic shape- a thin, graceful neck, capped with a lovely tear-shaped stopper, expanding to a round, somewhat onion-shaped body. The body was painted with gold glaze stripes, and appeared to be studded with different colored jewels. Picking it up gently, Raven raised an eyebrow- the thing sure was heavy for something that looked so delicate.
Shrugging, Raven stood up and stowed the bottle inside his jacket. He was guessing it was more likely to be a cheap knockoff than a genuine antique of any kind- why else would it have been laying in a gutter? Oh, well. He'd take it back to the arena, clean the gutter grime off of it, and he'd have himself a pretty little thing to keep- or at the very least, he thought, it'd probably hurt if he clocked somebody with it. Knicknack, weaponry, it's all good.
He overheard some teenagers in preppy clothes snickering to themselves about 'the grunge wierdo digging in gutters.' Turning with a sharp swirl of leather, flannel, and auburn curls, he shot the kids such a glare that they immediately shut up and moved away, their cocky expressions now looking very nervous.
He couldn't help but snicker to himself as he walked away.
(A Wierd Wrestling Fairytale, or simply WWF)
by
Indigo X
(Hey! Look! Author Notes! ~ Well, here goes. My first actual wrestling chapter story since Gilded Nightmares. Hooray and Yahoo. This puppy's gonna be a bit different than any WWE fic I've ever written, seeing as it's going to be a) mostly on the lighthearted side, and b) a fantasy story. Yep, this is my crack at tying my loves of wrestling and fantasy into one thing, a thing I call a Wierd Wrestling Fairytale, or WWF. (See the acronym? Heehee, I am clever.) If this goes over well, I'll write more.
Anyway... oh, yeah. Because I'm the Goddess-like Author Person, I can and did to the following things- Raven is in this story. He's still in the WWE. But he looks like he did in WCW- y'know, long curly hair, scruff on chin, me-ow. Because I can can can. But in any case, Ravey dearest is property of the bootylucious Scott Levy, and all other WWE guys are property of themselves and the wikkid Vinny Mac. Fatima, well, she's mine. Okay, I'm done. Shutting up. On with the story.)
One:
The Real Folk Blues
(in which we catch up with our nonconformist hero, who finds a thingy)
The mystique of the man walking down the New York street was picked up on my some, who looked on with curiosity. It was looked on with disdain by some of the snooty yuppie types, who eyed him like one eyes a cockroach. But most just simply walked by him without even offering so much as a glance.
Either way, Raven didn't care. He tried to ignore the opinions of other people. Hell, whenever possible, he tried to ignore other people altogether. So even here, walking in the midst of a crowded sidewalk, he was alone. And he was cool with that... well, maybe not as cool as he let on or would like to think, but cool enough.
A person bumped into him and walked on without saying a thing. Raven grimaced and pulled his jacket tighter around himself- except when fighting, he really didn't like to touch or be touched by others. This was as much for the benefit of others as himself. After all, touching in a non-aggressive or even a fond manner, like a handshake or a hug, could lead to a relationship- friendship, romance, something involving trust. That didn't sit well with him, for two reasons...
A. He'd had his trust shattered and his heart broken more times than he'd care to think about.
B. He was dead set on the idea that he was cursed, bound to eventually lead anyone who dared to care about him into some sort of misery.
He cast his dark brown- almost ink black, really- eyes downward, trying to avoid even making eye contact with anyone moving on the sidewalk past him... and then he spied it. A... something. Laying in the raingutter, mostly hidden under a wet New York Times sports page from about a week and a half ago. The Yankees had won the day before, according to the drenched newsprint. But Raven couldn't care less about the Yankees. His eyes were on a sparkle of iridescent deep violet glass underneath.
Furtively glancing back and forth, he stepped over to the gutter, toes of his beat-up black Converse poking over the side of the curb. Nobody else seemed to notice the lovely shimmering color. He wasn't surprised. Subtle beauty... Hell, subtle ANYTHING... was lost on most people these days. Sighing, he knelt down and moved the wet newspaper aside.
There was a bottle underneath, but not a beer or wine bottle, at least from the looks of it. The bottle was, indeed, made mostly of deep violet glass with a light iridescent glaze, blown in an exotic shape- a thin, graceful neck, capped with a lovely tear-shaped stopper, expanding to a round, somewhat onion-shaped body. The body was painted with gold glaze stripes, and appeared to be studded with different colored jewels. Picking it up gently, Raven raised an eyebrow- the thing sure was heavy for something that looked so delicate.
Shrugging, Raven stood up and stowed the bottle inside his jacket. He was guessing it was more likely to be a cheap knockoff than a genuine antique of any kind- why else would it have been laying in a gutter? Oh, well. He'd take it back to the arena, clean the gutter grime off of it, and he'd have himself a pretty little thing to keep- or at the very least, he thought, it'd probably hurt if he clocked somebody with it. Knicknack, weaponry, it's all good.
He overheard some teenagers in preppy clothes snickering to themselves about 'the grunge wierdo digging in gutters.' Turning with a sharp swirl of leather, flannel, and auburn curls, he shot the kids such a glare that they immediately shut up and moved away, their cocky expressions now looking very nervous.
He couldn't help but snicker to himself as he walked away.