Content: Mature subject matter, implied m/m slash, language, violence, angst.
Character/s: Jim Fullington (Sandman)/Scott Levy (Raven)
Summary: Raven continues to fight the conflicting feelings he's experiencing regarding ECW's newest arrival and doesn't like the conclusions he's reaching.
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 "Imitation" 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.
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Chapter Two
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Dammit, why couldn't he just stay the hell away from me? I never initiated things with him and I damn sure never wanted to continue them. He found out too fucking quick just what it was that set my blood to boiling, drove me beyond all reason to heights I never knew I could reach with another person.
It's not supposed to happen this way. I'm a loner. I don't need anyone else, and I sure as hell don't need him there, taunting me with what he knows I miss already. The insufferable bastard...
I wonder who I pissed off in a past life that I should have been cursed by prolonged exposure to Jim Fullington. I never asked to be stuck in some stupid storyline with him, nor did I have any interest in the 'exciting new character development' Paul E. had in mind for me. But did I stand my ground, tell him 'no chance in hell?' No. Like a good worker, I just shrugged, told him "whatever you say," and went with the flow. I was never one to make too many waves anyway. Paul E. had already overlooked enough of my own personal issues, I felt like I should probably cut him some slack and at least try to play nice.
// A dark unfathom'd tide
Of interminable pride
A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life seem; \\
I started dreaming about him after our first night together. The night he stayed in my hotel room after hauling me to the emergency room. A trip I never would have made had he not gotten a little overzealous with his fucking cane, I might add. I think that was the first time I'd shared a hotel room with someone and NOT had sex with them, now that I think about it. I don't know if he expected something more to happen or not. Even if he did, I wouldn't have given in. I'd already made up my mind to despise him and for once, I was going to stick to my guns. But still I dreamed of him. His eyes fixated upon mine, his hands locked in my hair, his mouth...
Dammit, Levy, you're getting off track. Just admit it. YOU'RE the reason you dream about him, and not the other way around. If you didn't spend damn near every hour of the day thinking of new ways to antagonize him, you wouldn't wake up horny, confused, and wondering where he was, would you? This is your fault and nobody else's.
// I say that dream was fraught
With a wild, and waking thought
Of beings that have been,
Which my spirit hath not seen, \\
I should have left the company. I really should have. Because it was all over for me the first time he made me bleed in the ring. I mean REALLY bleed. Fucking Paul E. and his 'no rope/barbed wire' matches. I should have put my foot down and refused to do it. And Fullington... He came up to me immediately after Paul E. announced the match, asking if there was anything I wanted to discuss before we did it. Acting all concerned for my well-being. Like I was some kind of fucking amateur. I blew him off, told him to do whatever the fuck he felt like doing, and leave me the hell alone. He wandered off with a smug, irritating smirk on his insufferable face, like he was in on his own private joke. I briefly thought about calling him back, demanding that he tell me what was going through that sick, twisted mind of his, but I just let him go.
Looking back, I definitely should have insisted on talking about the match beforehand. Had I but known just what he had in mind for me...
// Had I let them pass me by,
With a dreaming eye!
Let none of earth inherit
That vision of my spirit; \\
The bastard insisted upon razor wire. Not just ordinary barbed wire, which is far easier to untangle from hair. Of course, he wasn't sporting a whole lot on top, but still... he should have had more consideration for my own appearance. My hands and forearms were taped up. His were not. And he came out without a shirt on, practically daring me to tear him apart early on in the match. Cocky bastard. Never one to back down from a challenge, I took the fight to him almost immediately.
...and was promptly whipped into the turnbuckle so hard I fell flat on my ass, momentarily stunned.
"Gee, thanks for warning me," I hissed at him. "How about telegraphing a little next time, okay?"
That comment earned me a bitch slap. I paid him back later with a chair shot to the back of the head. Sure, it was a little harder than I'd intended, but you know, the heat of battle, the adrenaline rush... Easy enough to play off as an accident, right? Except that he knew better. He always seemed to be one step ahead of me. He later countered by throwing me full-force into the wire. I had no trouble selling the move as I felt the wire shredding my shirt, tearing my back to ribbons. I struggled to free myself and only succeeded in getting my hair caught up in the wire as well. As I tried to disassociate myself from the pain, I could see him standing over me, brandishing his ubiquitous cane, smirking down at me.
"Ready to go back to the emergency room, Scotty?"
"Fuck you!"
"Have it your way, then."
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Jesus H. Christ! Just one blow would have been sufficient! Now blinded as well as torn to pieces, I could only yank myself forward away from the wire and try to regain some semblance of dominance. Mercifully, he backed off a bit and started showboating for the crowd. God, they loved him. All of his drunken swaggering, his arrogance, his lewd gestures with the cane, they ate it up. And with him distracted and entertaining the crowd, I was able to clear the cobwebs from my brain long enough to escape the ring, yank a leather belt from one of the ring crew, and get back into the ring before he noticed I was back on my feet.
// Those thoughts I would control,
As a spell upon his soul:
For that bright hope at last
And that light time have past, \\
His surprised yelp of pain as I brought the leather slashing down across his back wasn't an act. I'd timed the blow perfectly and shivered in delight at the angry red welt that rose up immediately. He whirled around, spotted me, and began to back away. Was that real fear I saw in his eyes? Did he know he'd finally pushed me too far, genuinely pissed me off? No matter. I advanced on him until he felt the wire at his back. His choices were narrowed down now. Either the barbed wire or the leather belt. Both were going to hurt.
I was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of pleasure, knowing that I'd stripped control away from him. Sure, he was older than me, but this was MY playground, after all. The arena of blood, sweat, tears, and pain. This was MY specialty. No smoke-filled, dusty pool hall here. Just the glorious pain. And I was prepared to give him all he could stand and more. There's nothing quite so intoxicating as finding out what a person's limits are and then forcing them to go beyond those limits.
Except he wouldn't let me.
// And my worldly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it pass'd on
I care not tho' it perish
With a thought I then did cherish \\
The last thing I clearly recall before being dragged down into the bliss of unconsciousness was being forced onto my stomach, his weight pressing down on me, pinning me down as he straddled my back, a length of razor wire in his already-bloody hands. He'd doubled the wire and was whipping me across the shoulders with it. Through the haze of pain, I became dimly aware of finding the whole situation strangely erotic, but my thoughts were coming fast and furious at this point, so I hardly think I was seeing things too clearly.
After lashing me a dozen times or so, he proceeded to drag the wire down my shoulders, carving out some kind of pattern in my skin. I knew I had to be delirious by now, because I was definitely getting more and more turned on by a combination of the pain, my vulnerable position, his weight upon me, the knowledge that I'd been beaten, and the unmistakable feeling of his hardness pressing against my back.
Perhaps I should re-think this whole 'hating him' thing...
Character/s: Jim Fullington (Sandman)/Scott Levy (Raven)
Summary: Raven continues to fight the conflicting feelings he's experiencing regarding ECW's newest arrival and doesn't like the conclusions he's reaching.
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 "Imitation" 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 Two
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Dammit, why couldn't he just stay the hell away from me? I never initiated things with him and I damn sure never wanted to continue them. He found out too fucking quick just what it was that set my blood to boiling, drove me beyond all reason to heights I never knew I could reach with another person.
It's not supposed to happen this way. I'm a loner. I don't need anyone else, and I sure as hell don't need him there, taunting me with what he knows I miss already. The insufferable bastard...
I wonder who I pissed off in a past life that I should have been cursed by prolonged exposure to Jim Fullington. I never asked to be stuck in some stupid storyline with him, nor did I have any interest in the 'exciting new character development' Paul E. had in mind for me. But did I stand my ground, tell him 'no chance in hell?' No. Like a good worker, I just shrugged, told him "whatever you say," and went with the flow. I was never one to make too many waves anyway. Paul E. had already overlooked enough of my own personal issues, I felt like I should probably cut him some slack and at least try to play nice.
// A dark unfathom'd tide
Of interminable pride
A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life seem; \\
I started dreaming about him after our first night together. The night he stayed in my hotel room after hauling me to the emergency room. A trip I never would have made had he not gotten a little overzealous with his fucking cane, I might add. I think that was the first time I'd shared a hotel room with someone and NOT had sex with them, now that I think about it. I don't know if he expected something more to happen or not. Even if he did, I wouldn't have given in. I'd already made up my mind to despise him and for once, I was going to stick to my guns. But still I dreamed of him. His eyes fixated upon mine, his hands locked in my hair, his mouth...
Dammit, Levy, you're getting off track. Just admit it. YOU'RE the reason you dream about him, and not the other way around. If you didn't spend damn near every hour of the day thinking of new ways to antagonize him, you wouldn't wake up horny, confused, and wondering where he was, would you? This is your fault and nobody else's.
// I say that dream was fraught
With a wild, and waking thought
Of beings that have been,
Which my spirit hath not seen, \\
I should have left the company. I really should have. Because it was all over for me the first time he made me bleed in the ring. I mean REALLY bleed. Fucking Paul E. and his 'no rope/barbed wire' matches. I should have put my foot down and refused to do it. And Fullington... He came up to me immediately after Paul E. announced the match, asking if there was anything I wanted to discuss before we did it. Acting all concerned for my well-being. Like I was some kind of fucking amateur. I blew him off, told him to do whatever the fuck he felt like doing, and leave me the hell alone. He wandered off with a smug, irritating smirk on his insufferable face, like he was in on his own private joke. I briefly thought about calling him back, demanding that he tell me what was going through that sick, twisted mind of his, but I just let him go.
Looking back, I definitely should have insisted on talking about the match beforehand. Had I but known just what he had in mind for me...
// Had I let them pass me by,
With a dreaming eye!
Let none of earth inherit
That vision of my spirit; \\
The bastard insisted upon razor wire. Not just ordinary barbed wire, which is far easier to untangle from hair. Of course, he wasn't sporting a whole lot on top, but still... he should have had more consideration for my own appearance. My hands and forearms were taped up. His were not. And he came out without a shirt on, practically daring me to tear him apart early on in the match. Cocky bastard. Never one to back down from a challenge, I took the fight to him almost immediately.
...and was promptly whipped into the turnbuckle so hard I fell flat on my ass, momentarily stunned.
"Gee, thanks for warning me," I hissed at him. "How about telegraphing a little next time, okay?"
That comment earned me a bitch slap. I paid him back later with a chair shot to the back of the head. Sure, it was a little harder than I'd intended, but you know, the heat of battle, the adrenaline rush... Easy enough to play off as an accident, right? Except that he knew better. He always seemed to be one step ahead of me. He later countered by throwing me full-force into the wire. I had no trouble selling the move as I felt the wire shredding my shirt, tearing my back to ribbons. I struggled to free myself and only succeeded in getting my hair caught up in the wire as well. As I tried to disassociate myself from the pain, I could see him standing over me, brandishing his ubiquitous cane, smirking down at me.
"Ready to go back to the emergency room, Scotty?"
"Fuck you!"
"Have it your way, then."
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Jesus H. Christ! Just one blow would have been sufficient! Now blinded as well as torn to pieces, I could only yank myself forward away from the wire and try to regain some semblance of dominance. Mercifully, he backed off a bit and started showboating for the crowd. God, they loved him. All of his drunken swaggering, his arrogance, his lewd gestures with the cane, they ate it up. And with him distracted and entertaining the crowd, I was able to clear the cobwebs from my brain long enough to escape the ring, yank a leather belt from one of the ring crew, and get back into the ring before he noticed I was back on my feet.
// Those thoughts I would control,
As a spell upon his soul:
For that bright hope at last
And that light time have past, \\
His surprised yelp of pain as I brought the leather slashing down across his back wasn't an act. I'd timed the blow perfectly and shivered in delight at the angry red welt that rose up immediately. He whirled around, spotted me, and began to back away. Was that real fear I saw in his eyes? Did he know he'd finally pushed me too far, genuinely pissed me off? No matter. I advanced on him until he felt the wire at his back. His choices were narrowed down now. Either the barbed wire or the leather belt. Both were going to hurt.
I was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of pleasure, knowing that I'd stripped control away from him. Sure, he was older than me, but this was MY playground, after all. The arena of blood, sweat, tears, and pain. This was MY specialty. No smoke-filled, dusty pool hall here. Just the glorious pain. And I was prepared to give him all he could stand and more. There's nothing quite so intoxicating as finding out what a person's limits are and then forcing them to go beyond those limits.
Except he wouldn't let me.
// And my worldly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it pass'd on
I care not tho' it perish
With a thought I then did cherish \\
The last thing I clearly recall before being dragged down into the bliss of unconsciousness was being forced onto my stomach, his weight pressing down on me, pinning me down as he straddled my back, a length of razor wire in his already-bloody hands. He'd doubled the wire and was whipping me across the shoulders with it. Through the haze of pain, I became dimly aware of finding the whole situation strangely erotic, but my thoughts were coming fast and furious at this point, so I hardly think I was seeing things too clearly.
After lashing me a dozen times or so, he proceeded to drag the wire down my shoulders, carving out some kind of pattern in my skin. I knew I had to be delirious by now, because I was definitely getting more and more turned on by a combination of the pain, my vulnerable position, his weight upon me, the knowledge that I'd been beaten, and the unmistakable feeling of his hardness pressing against my back.
Perhaps I should re-think this whole 'hating him' thing...