Content: Mature subject matter, m/m slash, language, BDSM, violence.
Character/s: Jim Fullington (Sandman), Scott Levy (Raven)
Summary: Raven learns that there's only so far he can push the Sandman before it becomes too much.
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. Quotations from "Spirits of the Dead" by Edgar Allen Poe used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Chapter Seven
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I am so fucked. I should have known there was more fury than feeling in him. What made me think testing his limits was a good idea? Now I'm in a world of trouble and I have nobody but myself to blame for it. How did we go from lying in bed together sharing a cigarette to this? How far is he going to take this game, anyway?
"Jim? What do you think you're doing? Untie me right now. I mean it!"
"Shut up, Scotty. I'll untie you when I'm fuckin' well ready to."
"I'm serious! This isn't funny. You're starting to weird me out, man."
"You don't shut up, I'll find a way to shut you up. Ya got me?"
So much for being assertive, Levy. All you're going to do now is piss him off and then he's going to think up even more vile things to do to you. God, do I even want to know what he's capable of? What his sick, twisted mind might dream up? Why the fuck did I ever accept that invitation to dinner? How could I have let my guard down so much?
// Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tombstone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy. \\
Pain. Glorious pain. Comforting in its familiarity. Enlightening in its clarity. My world of shadows brought under the harsh spotlight of his blue-eyed stare. There are no secrets, no hidden thoughts when one is in the throes of exquisite agony. I love it. I hate him for making me admit it to myself, but I crave this attention. So personal. So invasive. So very, very wrong.
"You like that, Scotty? You do, don't you?"
"Fuck you!"
"You'd like me to, wouldn't you?"
"Fucking asshole!"
"You flatter me. Have some patience, ya fuckin' slut."
"I am NOT a slut! Now let me go!"
"Calm down, Scotty. There's plenty of time for fun later. If you're still up for it, that is. I know I will be."
"Is that supposed to be funny?"
"Guess you've had enough of a breather. Brace yerself, Scotty. Wet leather hurts from what I hear."
Well, he wasn't kidding, was he? I'm going to have a fun time trying to explain these marks the next time I go to work, that's for damn sure. I wonder how much longer he's planning on keeping me strung up between the bedposts. Surely he'll get tired of his little games before too much longer. Before my body and my pride give out, at the very least. That's the last thing I ever want to do, beg, especially in front of HIM. I'd have to kill myself, I think. There is no way I could live with that kind of shame. I can NOT cry out.
// Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness - for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still. \\
How many other people have been put in this situation before me? How many other souls were broken and shattered by his unrelenting cruelty, his seemingly tireless brutality? Did any of them thank him for such 'enlightenment?' I seriously doubt it. This isn't entertainment. It isn't fun. It isn't even sensual. He's just hurting me for the sake of hurting me.
And yet every time he stops to drink a beer, take a shot of Jack Daniels, light another fucking cigarette, while my mind cries out in relief, my body feels lonely somehow. Like what he's doing to me has become a comforting, familiar kind of attention. This pain is so personal. When he's laying that leather across my back, he's completely focused on me. I can even pretend that we're the only two people in existence. That my entire world is that red wave of agony that washes over me again and again with every lash, bringing me one step closer to Heaven.
// The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heavens
With light like hope to mortals given \\
"Ready to admit you like this yet?"
"Eat... shit... fucker..."
"Hmm, you sound tired. Maybe I should let you take a little nap."
"I'm... FINE."
"So you're ready for more, then? Maybe something a little more serious than leather this time..."
"I... can take... whatever you... dream up!"
"Well, if that's the case, I may as well stop, right? No point in going on if yer so fuckin' tough, right?"
"No! I mean... what I meant was..."
"You don't WANT me to stop, do you?"
"I didn't say that..."
"The eyes never lie, Scotty. Yer enjoying the shit outta this. You just can't admit it. Not yet, anyways."
// But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever. \\
I can't say it. I WON'T say it. I can't admit that he's right. Never. Not if my life depended on it. Fuck me, he's gonna make me say it. It's his singular goal, to make me admit he's right. And in the end, he'll win. If I don't just come right out with it first, that is. Keep your fucking mouth shut, Levy. Do NOT respond to him. He's just trying to manipulate you into admitting...
"Yes! Yes, dammit, yes!"
"You finally gonna admit it?"
"You were right..."
"That's a good boy... such a good boy..."
// Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass. \\
Such tenderness. After all he put me through, he can still show me such consideration, such gentleness. Rubbing lotion into my lacerated back, massaging the ache from my shoulders, softly stroking my hair. It's so hard to hate him when he's being so... so unlike himself. And even though his hands are braced on my back as he prepares to enter me, he's being so careful not to aggravate my injuries.
Even the burning pain of entry pales in comparison to what I feel knowing that once again he's gotten the better of me. But still, I can't hate him. His body is pressed against mine and the blood that still seeps from my back has run down my back to provide a new and different kind of lubrication. The sharp coppery smell fills my nostrils and sets my senses on fire. He can smell it, too, and it drives him into a renewed frenzy of snarling and growling and more and more brutal thrusts.
// The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries! \\
My head is a mess of confusion. Everything I thought I knew was wrong. All my beliefs about what I wanted in a partner, in a relationship. All of it, bullshit. It's all been just a fragile spider web of illusions. All that matters, all that's real, all that I want, all that I need...
...is him.
Character/s: Jim Fullington (Sandman), Scott Levy (Raven)
Summary: Raven learns that there's only so far he can push the Sandman before it becomes too much.
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. Quotations from "Spirits of the Dead" by Edgar Allen Poe used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Chapter Seven
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I am so fucked. I should have known there was more fury than feeling in him. What made me think testing his limits was a good idea? Now I'm in a world of trouble and I have nobody but myself to blame for it. How did we go from lying in bed together sharing a cigarette to this? How far is he going to take this game, anyway?
"Jim? What do you think you're doing? Untie me right now. I mean it!"
"Shut up, Scotty. I'll untie you when I'm fuckin' well ready to."
"I'm serious! This isn't funny. You're starting to weird me out, man."
"You don't shut up, I'll find a way to shut you up. Ya got me?"
So much for being assertive, Levy. All you're going to do now is piss him off and then he's going to think up even more vile things to do to you. God, do I even want to know what he's capable of? What his sick, twisted mind might dream up? Why the fuck did I ever accept that invitation to dinner? How could I have let my guard down so much?
// Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tombstone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy. \\
Pain. Glorious pain. Comforting in its familiarity. Enlightening in its clarity. My world of shadows brought under the harsh spotlight of his blue-eyed stare. There are no secrets, no hidden thoughts when one is in the throes of exquisite agony. I love it. I hate him for making me admit it to myself, but I crave this attention. So personal. So invasive. So very, very wrong.
"You like that, Scotty? You do, don't you?"
"Fuck you!"
"You'd like me to, wouldn't you?"
"Fucking asshole!"
"You flatter me. Have some patience, ya fuckin' slut."
"I am NOT a slut! Now let me go!"
"Calm down, Scotty. There's plenty of time for fun later. If you're still up for it, that is. I know I will be."
"Is that supposed to be funny?"
"Guess you've had enough of a breather. Brace yerself, Scotty. Wet leather hurts from what I hear."
Well, he wasn't kidding, was he? I'm going to have a fun time trying to explain these marks the next time I go to work, that's for damn sure. I wonder how much longer he's planning on keeping me strung up between the bedposts. Surely he'll get tired of his little games before too much longer. Before my body and my pride give out, at the very least. That's the last thing I ever want to do, beg, especially in front of HIM. I'd have to kill myself, I think. There is no way I could live with that kind of shame. I can NOT cry out.
// Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness - for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still. \\
How many other people have been put in this situation before me? How many other souls were broken and shattered by his unrelenting cruelty, his seemingly tireless brutality? Did any of them thank him for such 'enlightenment?' I seriously doubt it. This isn't entertainment. It isn't fun. It isn't even sensual. He's just hurting me for the sake of hurting me.
And yet every time he stops to drink a beer, take a shot of Jack Daniels, light another fucking cigarette, while my mind cries out in relief, my body feels lonely somehow. Like what he's doing to me has become a comforting, familiar kind of attention. This pain is so personal. When he's laying that leather across my back, he's completely focused on me. I can even pretend that we're the only two people in existence. That my entire world is that red wave of agony that washes over me again and again with every lash, bringing me one step closer to Heaven.
// The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heavens
With light like hope to mortals given \\
"Ready to admit you like this yet?"
"Eat... shit... fucker..."
"Hmm, you sound tired. Maybe I should let you take a little nap."
"I'm... FINE."
"So you're ready for more, then? Maybe something a little more serious than leather this time..."
"I... can take... whatever you... dream up!"
"Well, if that's the case, I may as well stop, right? No point in going on if yer so fuckin' tough, right?"
"No! I mean... what I meant was..."
"You don't WANT me to stop, do you?"
"I didn't say that..."
"The eyes never lie, Scotty. Yer enjoying the shit outta this. You just can't admit it. Not yet, anyways."
// But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever. \\
I can't say it. I WON'T say it. I can't admit that he's right. Never. Not if my life depended on it. Fuck me, he's gonna make me say it. It's his singular goal, to make me admit he's right. And in the end, he'll win. If I don't just come right out with it first, that is. Keep your fucking mouth shut, Levy. Do NOT respond to him. He's just trying to manipulate you into admitting...
"Yes! Yes, dammit, yes!"
"You finally gonna admit it?"
"You were right..."
"That's a good boy... such a good boy..."
// Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass. \\
Such tenderness. After all he put me through, he can still show me such consideration, such gentleness. Rubbing lotion into my lacerated back, massaging the ache from my shoulders, softly stroking my hair. It's so hard to hate him when he's being so... so unlike himself. And even though his hands are braced on my back as he prepares to enter me, he's being so careful not to aggravate my injuries.
Even the burning pain of entry pales in comparison to what I feel knowing that once again he's gotten the better of me. But still, I can't hate him. His body is pressed against mine and the blood that still seeps from my back has run down my back to provide a new and different kind of lubrication. The sharp coppery smell fills my nostrils and sets my senses on fire. He can smell it, too, and it drives him into a renewed frenzy of snarling and growling and more and more brutal thrusts.
// The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries! \\
My head is a mess of confusion. Everything I thought I knew was wrong. All my beliefs about what I wanted in a partner, in a relationship. All of it, bullshit. It's all been just a fragile spider web of illusions. All that matters, all that's real, all that I want, all that I need...
...is him.