Content: Mature subject matter, implied m/m slash, language, violence, angst.
Character/s: Jim Fullington (Sandman)/Scott Levy (Raven)
Summary: Raven is not at all happy about the newest arrival to the company.
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Inspired by the poem "Alone" by Edgar Allen Poe. Words from same used without permission, so please don't sue. All lyrics, quotations, etc. used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Chapter One
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Different.
Odd.
Weird.
Strange.
Enigmatic.
All words I've heard time and time again. When you've been stereotyped as a 'misunderstood soul,' it's easy to slip into the niche that's already been carved for you, keep giving them whatever it is they seem to expect from you. In many ways, it's a lot easier than being yourself, being 'real.' If all you have to do is regurgitate their own preconceived notions back to them, there's no brainwork involved. Just mindless, robotic, reactionary behavior.
// From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring \\
Until some cocky, arrogant, know-it-all asshole wanders into your life with the same confidence he carries as he saunters up to the nearest bar to order a beer. Almost from the day we met, I had serious doubts about working with Jim Fullington. His character, "The Sandman," was just as abrasive and headstrong as the actual man. Just another typical would-be superstar. A walking ego trip with a beer gut and a kendo stick. Oh sure, everybody else in the company loved him. And why wouldn't they? He was just the sort of low-class, white trash, uninspiring loudmouthed idiot they could all relate to. He could talk his way into anybody's good graces. Except mine, that is. It'll take a whole lot more than a night out with the boys and a massive bar tab to win me over.
// From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone
And all I loved, I loved alone \\
I like to work alone. I never liked ongoing feuds involving convoluted storylines, never liked being saddled with a regular tag team partner. Just me, myself, and I. It's funny, though. I'd already made up my mind to hate him from the start, yet the first time we ever stepped in the ring together, it was like 'poetry in motion,' as he is so fond of saying. I had to admit to myself, not only did the fans love the interaction, but we really did work well together. I even swallowed my pride and told him so after our first month of interaction. He was surprisingly humble, which shocked the hell out of me. Not exactly shy, but not receptive to praise of any kind. Hey, the guy can't take a compliment? No problem. It won't happen again.
// Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still \\
So then he decides to turn my whole world upside down. After a particularly brutal show where he laid my scalp wide open with that blasted cane of his, he caught up with me after the match and offered to drive me to the hospital himself. Call it latent guilt. Call it false sympathy. Call it shedding crocodile tears. Just please, for the love of God, don't call it a genuinely nice gesture, because I really don't think I can handle it. I'm supposed to hate him. Helps fuel the on-screen rivalry, you know? So why did he have to be so fucking nice?
// From the torrent, or the fountain
From the red cliff of the mountain
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold \\
So I'm lying there on the gurney, bathed in a harsh fluorescent glow, already woozy from pain meds, getting my head stitched up and I notice that he's by my side. I'd told the stupid, stubborn, son of a bitch to stay in the waiting room. Did he listen to me? Of course not. All I see is red, I'm so furious with him for not doing as I said. But he looks so... worried about me. I beg of you, please don't tell me this is genuine regret I'm seeing. I'm not willing to accept this. Not from him. But he's watching me with such concern, such intensity in his eyes. His extraordinary eyes. So blue. So expressive. So honest. So...
Dammit, Levy, get a grip on yourself. He is NOT your type, you're NOT interested, and you most certainly are NOT going to ask him to...
"Yes."
This is the Percocet talking. It has to be. It's the repeated blows to the head coupled with pain killers. Is this arrogant fuck reading my mind now? I didn't ask him to...
"Yes, I'll stay with him."
// From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by
From the thunder and the storm \\
Game. Set. And fucking match. Great. Just fucking great. Damned if he's not telling the EMT that he'll stay with me all night at the hotel. 'To watch for signs of concussion,' he says. When it rains, it fucking pours. This is not happening to me. I call bullshit! He's got another thing coming, that's for damn sure. Not a chance in hell, my oh-so-concerned not-friend. I don't need you there, I don't want you there, and I damn sure don't want to think about you watching me as I sleep. Fucking hell, how did I end up in this mess? Why do I get the feeling tonight will hold a few surprises for us both?
// And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view \\
I'm too tired and drugged up to protest any more. He's coming back to the hotel with me. God knows I don't want him there. The bane of my existence. The source of all my frustration. The reason it's no challenge at all to work myself into a seething fury in the ring. I feel nothing for him but irritation. Hate. Anger. Bitterness. Resentment. Rage. It feels so... inevitable. That's what it is. Like this was all planned well in advance, with the storm clouds just biding their time, waiting to move in and cast their shroud over all I've held dear. My convictions. My sense of self. My control.
You've fucked up again, Levy. You've opened up the gates of hell, the demon is running rampant, and you're helpless to stop it. And really, do you actually WANT to stop it? Let's be honest, here. Beneath that brash, know-it-all façade, there's something indescribably appealing about him. You may not be ready to admit it to yourself just yet, but it's there, lurking beneath the surface. If you don't deal with this and I mean soon, you're going to be lost, possibly forever.
Such a gentle hand, as he brushes my hair out of my eyes. Why? Why can't I just tell him to fuck off? To leave me alone? To stop treating me like a damned baby? But you know? Part of me likes this sort of mothering attention. It's such a contrast to how we carry ourselves in public. I don't want to enjoy this. I don't. But there's something more behind his touch. Something in the way he looks at me, something beyond mere concern. I've been playing this game long enough to know what that look means. I've done more than my fair share of initiating the new talent. They're always so intimidated, so nervous, so willing to do whatever I tell them to do. But I honestly don't think I can handle this one. We'll be fighting for the upper hand the entire way.
Am I up for the challenge?
Character/s: Jim Fullington (Sandman)/Scott Levy (Raven)
Summary: Raven is not at all happy about the newest arrival to the company.
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Inspired by the poem "Alone" by Edgar Allen Poe. Words from same used without permission, so please don't sue. All lyrics, quotations, etc. used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Chapter One
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Different.
Odd.
Weird.
Strange.
Enigmatic.
All words I've heard time and time again. When you've been stereotyped as a 'misunderstood soul,' it's easy to slip into the niche that's already been carved for you, keep giving them whatever it is they seem to expect from you. In many ways, it's a lot easier than being yourself, being 'real.' If all you have to do is regurgitate their own preconceived notions back to them, there's no brainwork involved. Just mindless, robotic, reactionary behavior.
// From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring \\
Until some cocky, arrogant, know-it-all asshole wanders into your life with the same confidence he carries as he saunters up to the nearest bar to order a beer. Almost from the day we met, I had serious doubts about working with Jim Fullington. His character, "The Sandman," was just as abrasive and headstrong as the actual man. Just another typical would-be superstar. A walking ego trip with a beer gut and a kendo stick. Oh sure, everybody else in the company loved him. And why wouldn't they? He was just the sort of low-class, white trash, uninspiring loudmouthed idiot they could all relate to. He could talk his way into anybody's good graces. Except mine, that is. It'll take a whole lot more than a night out with the boys and a massive bar tab to win me over.
// From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone
And all I loved, I loved alone \\
I like to work alone. I never liked ongoing feuds involving convoluted storylines, never liked being saddled with a regular tag team partner. Just me, myself, and I. It's funny, though. I'd already made up my mind to hate him from the start, yet the first time we ever stepped in the ring together, it was like 'poetry in motion,' as he is so fond of saying. I had to admit to myself, not only did the fans love the interaction, but we really did work well together. I even swallowed my pride and told him so after our first month of interaction. He was surprisingly humble, which shocked the hell out of me. Not exactly shy, but not receptive to praise of any kind. Hey, the guy can't take a compliment? No problem. It won't happen again.
// Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still \\
So then he decides to turn my whole world upside down. After a particularly brutal show where he laid my scalp wide open with that blasted cane of his, he caught up with me after the match and offered to drive me to the hospital himself. Call it latent guilt. Call it false sympathy. Call it shedding crocodile tears. Just please, for the love of God, don't call it a genuinely nice gesture, because I really don't think I can handle it. I'm supposed to hate him. Helps fuel the on-screen rivalry, you know? So why did he have to be so fucking nice?
// From the torrent, or the fountain
From the red cliff of the mountain
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold \\
So I'm lying there on the gurney, bathed in a harsh fluorescent glow, already woozy from pain meds, getting my head stitched up and I notice that he's by my side. I'd told the stupid, stubborn, son of a bitch to stay in the waiting room. Did he listen to me? Of course not. All I see is red, I'm so furious with him for not doing as I said. But he looks so... worried about me. I beg of you, please don't tell me this is genuine regret I'm seeing. I'm not willing to accept this. Not from him. But he's watching me with such concern, such intensity in his eyes. His extraordinary eyes. So blue. So expressive. So honest. So...
Dammit, Levy, get a grip on yourself. He is NOT your type, you're NOT interested, and you most certainly are NOT going to ask him to...
"Yes."
This is the Percocet talking. It has to be. It's the repeated blows to the head coupled with pain killers. Is this arrogant fuck reading my mind now? I didn't ask him to...
"Yes, I'll stay with him."
// From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by
From the thunder and the storm \\
Game. Set. And fucking match. Great. Just fucking great. Damned if he's not telling the EMT that he'll stay with me all night at the hotel. 'To watch for signs of concussion,' he says. When it rains, it fucking pours. This is not happening to me. I call bullshit! He's got another thing coming, that's for damn sure. Not a chance in hell, my oh-so-concerned not-friend. I don't need you there, I don't want you there, and I damn sure don't want to think about you watching me as I sleep. Fucking hell, how did I end up in this mess? Why do I get the feeling tonight will hold a few surprises for us both?
// And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view \\
I'm too tired and drugged up to protest any more. He's coming back to the hotel with me. God knows I don't want him there. The bane of my existence. The source of all my frustration. The reason it's no challenge at all to work myself into a seething fury in the ring. I feel nothing for him but irritation. Hate. Anger. Bitterness. Resentment. Rage. It feels so... inevitable. That's what it is. Like this was all planned well in advance, with the storm clouds just biding their time, waiting to move in and cast their shroud over all I've held dear. My convictions. My sense of self. My control.
You've fucked up again, Levy. You've opened up the gates of hell, the demon is running rampant, and you're helpless to stop it. And really, do you actually WANT to stop it? Let's be honest, here. Beneath that brash, know-it-all façade, there's something indescribably appealing about him. You may not be ready to admit it to yourself just yet, but it's there, lurking beneath the surface. If you don't deal with this and I mean soon, you're going to be lost, possibly forever.
Such a gentle hand, as he brushes my hair out of my eyes. Why? Why can't I just tell him to fuck off? To leave me alone? To stop treating me like a damned baby? But you know? Part of me likes this sort of mothering attention. It's such a contrast to how we carry ourselves in public. I don't want to enjoy this. I don't. But there's something more behind his touch. Something in the way he looks at me, something beyond mere concern. I've been playing this game long enough to know what that look means. I've done more than my fair share of initiating the new talent. They're always so intimidated, so nervous, so willing to do whatever I tell them to do. But I honestly don't think I can handle this one. We'll be fighting for the upper hand the entire way.
Am I up for the challenge?