Cian's Revenge! Part 1 - The Invitation

There weren’t many spellbreakers at the GSA who would choose spending their Friday nights practicing at the gym facility. Thanks to Colt's "Work Hard, Play Hard" mentality, the weekend was sectioned off as a time of recreation, with most fighters regimenting themselves to the first four days of the week. Fridays were usually spent fighting in a match somewhere off-campus, getting drunk at the local bar, or getting into some other cheeky assortment of trouble.

But Cian had other ideas on how to spend his time wisely, and any moments spent getting stronger—in peaceful solitude, no less—was time well-spent as far he was concerned.

The muscled red-head, built like a diminutive tank, pummelled the punching bag, hammering it without mercy, alternating between fists and and feet. Seeing as he was training by himself, with not a soul around to spy on him, he’d forgone a shirt, leaving on just his skin-clinging, lycra shorts. Of course, the struggle (as always) was Cian’s rather impressive bulge, which he'd tried keeping in check with a snug new jockstrap. But these futile attempts at modesty only service to outline the strap visible beneath his black trunks. It wasn’t always easy having the lower body of a beast of burden, and the leg muscles to match.

Lucky for him, nobody was looking now—and all the better for it. Cian was always in a fighting mood, but tonight he was especially feisty. It had been a day or two since he’d lost to that prettyboy punk, Spike, and he was still raw about it. He pictured pummeling that blonde himbo right in the face, again and again in fact!

WHAM! WHAM! 

The bag shook with each forceful impact.

Not so pretty now, are ye? Ever since their first meeting, Cian had wanted to show that blonde little creampuff a lesson. But the pinup boy was a minor inconvenience. There was no real bad blood there. No, it was an even more insidious opponent Cian desired most to defeat—the brute who had humiliated him in front of Spike and gotten him kicked out of Firebird, Cian’s old fed. Though irritating beyond measure, the blondie was at least a nice guy...if not a total airhead and a priss. But there was one name in all of spellbreaking that made Cian’s mouth water for the taste of blood. Ryan, the so-called Killer Quarterback, a dirty, rotten scoundrel who thought he was hot shit.

WHAM! WHAM! The bag swung back and forth, each kick giving Cian a sadistic satisfaction. 

He'd been working out extra hard lately--squats, deadlifts, the whole nine yards. Cian’s quads—like the hindquarters of a white bull—flexed with each successive kick into the bag. Had it been a human opponent, he’d have knocked the sonofabitch’s head clean off his body, probably. A youth spent playing rugby and football had developed Cian into a fighter who favored their lower body the most. His core strength was titanium, and his legs so wrought with muscle that finding well-fitting pants was often a challenge. Opponents who tried to take him down by the legs often found themselves trapped inside their iron grip, and it was only a matter of seconds then before Cian's ears perked up at the sweet sound of their submission. Unlike that good-two-shoes Spike, Cian always just let them squirm a second longer--to drive home the point--but only a second. He wasn't totally bad. A vicious face, yes? Heel? Nah. At least, not yet...

Strength and fight training was all well and good, but Cian’s goal these days was getting a better handle on his magick. He had been blessed with two glyphs—normally a rare occurrence in most magi. Yet, among the twisting roots and branches of his particularly extensive family tree, this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Cian knew he was descended from a line of Celtic warriors, a so-called 'faeblood lineage; (and Cian’s spellbreaker namesake). In addition to casting illusions and diminutive forms of menta control, Cian’s legacy was said to grant him an even older power, one once called upon by the blessed isle’s greatest heroes: the 'Blood Frenzy'—in essence, a form of ‘berserk’. When triggered, it bestowed a shortly lived--but absolutely deadly--gift: the strength of a hundred men and a vicious bloodlust that was supposedly impossible to defend against and equally difficult to control.

Cian had only activated it once or twice in the past, outside of the ring—and he was not keen to look back on those times. Back then, it had been done out of survival or fury, usually to protect his little bother, Connell. Now, in spellbreaking, it would be an asset.

If only he’d been able to call upon the Blood Frenzy that night back in Manhattan against Ryan, then that stupid quarterback wouldn’t have stood a chance. Instead, all the glory went to that baby-faced, prettyboy--

The gym door swung open on its hinges.

Cian let up on his assault, panting, and wheezing in the aftermath of his high-intensity drill. The light glimmered off his sweat, like morning dew across the surface of a marble statue, and his face was ruddy with exertion. He probably looked like a beast...or more like a mess. Pity upon whoever dared come into the gym now. And who the hell besides him would be this stupid (or bored) to come and train on a Friday night at this hour?

“Hellooo?"

Cian sighed. Of course. The bane of his existence. Cian grunted and delivered a right hook to the boxing bag. Fuck you, universe!

“Oh, Cian.”

How did he always manage to sound both so incessantly chipper while completely unenthused to see him? Pick one, damn it!

The redheaded boxer turned around to face his mortal foe, a wiry blonde in a varsity jacket and jeans. He looked like the cross between a renaissance angel and a porn star. He was also one of GSA's precious new blood, a rookie taken in by Colt “The Bolt” around the same time as Cian. Everyone’s kid brother or heart throb, Spike the Sailor Boy. An attractive annoyance with entirely too much power, the enthusiasm of an adolescent golden retriever, and the libido to match. 

Cian growled. “Whaddya want, boyo?” He grabbed his water bottle and took a swig, letting some water drip onto his chest. Though he hated being looked at like a piece of meat, he enjoyed the power he had over Spike. The kid was probably the horniest little bastard he’d ever met, and Cian loved making him squirm. Then again, he didn’t blame the lad—Cian knew he was a stud. He was just…painfully shy about doing anything about it...

The feather-haied blonde looked askance—trying not to get an eye-full. “I-I was just coming back from the commissary." He clsoed his eyes and looked on the verge of drooling. "Churro night. Anyways, I thought I’d stop and check my mail on the way back. You know, see if I got any fan mail or marriage proposals from adoring, handsome admirers with excellent taste."

"And...did you?"

"Nope! But, I did receive an interesting letter…”

Cian snorted. What was the little pixie prattling on about? “Okay. And what does that have to do with me?”

The little brat had the balls to actually glare at him! “Well, if you’d let me finish…” He took a folded piece of paper out his jacket pocket and clumsily unfurled it. “It’s from Ryan Hartley of all people.”

!!!

The hairs on the back of Cian’s neck stood up, and he felt all of his muscles tense at once. A shot of adrenaline, right to the system. It was like a bell to Pavlov's dogs, and Cian craved blood.

“What the hell does he want!?” Cian roared, back stiffening at the name of his mortal nemesis—the man who had squashed him in front of a live audience and almost cost him his career.

Spike stepped back, wide-eyed. “Okay...I realize that name touches a nerve.” He sighed, and put the letter down on the stool, regarding Cian like a rabid dog that might lunge any second. “You can read it yourself. It’s an offer for a rematch. But I’m not going to take it.”

Cian narrowed his eyes. What the hell was this about?

Taking a deep breath, Spike exhaled. “I think you should. I’m encouraging you to do so. I don’t need to prove anything to that asshole—I already handed him his butt once. But I know what it would mean to you.”

“Don’t pretend you know me,” Cian shot back. But even that was too much for him—and seeing Spike’s pathetic face all pouty was even annoying than he was being cocky. “Sorry. You know how that ol' bastard gets to me.”

“Well, yeah, so I was hoping you’d show him up too. He’s a bully. I don’t like bullies.”

Cian sneered and snatched the letter off the stool. “But you like me.”

“I never said that! Geez, Cian, you’re such a jerk.”

He had him now. “I know what you want, boyo,” the red-headed hunk leered, grabbing a fistful of his own junk, giving it a good tug. He knew Spike was hungry for it, the little bottom bitch.

Spike turned away before he could let the Irish hunk's wily magicks work on him. “I haven’t the slightest clue what you’re talking about. Anyways, don’t shoot all over the messenger—I mean, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just letting you know.” He put his hands in the air, as if Cian actually had a knife pointed at him, and then backed up towards the door. “But I will say this,” he said with mischievous grin. “I love when bullies teach other bullies a lesson. And you’re my favorite one.”

“Piss off, you!”

"And you know how I like to do a facepin to the guys who give me lip, right?"

"Yeah, and it's disgusting!"

Spike pointed at him with a 'finger gun', his eyes zeroing on his junk. "With balls like that, you should go for a teabag. It would really emasculate that testosterone-addled idiot."

"Ew! Get out, you!"

Mischief in his eyes, the Sailor Boy leaned against the door. “We’re gonna be friends, Cian!” he announced. “One of these days, I swear. Even if I have to drop kick you and schoolboy pin you a million times.” And then the cocky little bitch blew him a kiss before he shut the door behind him. Cian could hear him giggling like a fucking pansy as he walked away.

Cian growled. “One of these days, boyo,” he gritted his teeth, imagining how good Spike’s little blonde head would feel between his thighs before he—

He looked down at the letter, seeing what Ryan had to say. Cian was already riled up and spoiling for a fight.

Dear Losers (AKA Sailor Boy Slut and Cian the Fairy)

It’s me, your favorite Homecoming King. I won’t ask how you’re doing. I’m sure you two wusses have been busy sucking each other off in your gross little dorm rooms down in that shithole GSA school. Anyways, as luck would have it, I’m in town for a few days and wanted to officially challenge either of you to a rematch.

But not just any rematch!

No, I’m talking a no-holds-bar, no spellbreaking style match. Pure wrestling only. You see, my girl likes watching me dominate other men, so I want to rig up a camera in a private mat room and just go at it! I’ll even be willing to pay you—of you win that is. Which you won’t. Because I’m the best!

Oh, and the loser must suck off the winner. You read that right. I’m sure it has you two queers excited. I can’t wait to conquer either of your bitch-asses and then invade your throat with my cock. I’m getting hard just thinking about it!

Er…well, I would if I was queer that is. Which I am absolutely not! And you’ll see.

If either of you wimps has the balls to throw down, then show up at the address below at the appointed time.

And bring a throat lozenge, cuz you’re gonna need it!

P.S.

You better not spit.

Cian roared and crumpled the paper into a wad, letting it fall to his feet. That fucking jerk! If it wasn’t in such lousy handwriting, Cian wouldn’t have believed it was his—but considering the spelling mistakes—it was his. So, his girl got off to him fighting other men, did she? And there was prize money on the line on top of that?

No, it was almost too perfect. In the halogen hum of the gym, a deadly silence washed over all as Cian considered his move. He grinned maliciously to himself. This was the perfect opportunity to show that boy who was boss. But this time, Cian was all too happy to fight dirty. Pure wrestling was it? Well, Cian was the best grappler around—he’d pop that jock like a pimple.

Cian squatted, stretching out his legs, eager to feel another pathetic man’s head between them, gurgling for mercy before he…

Cian pivoted and roundhouse kicked the bag one last time. It burst on impact, scattering stuffing and detritus around the room. In the artificial snowfall, Cian sneered, a dark and evil look in his emerald, green eyes.

“You’re on boyo, and I haven’t forgotten. We got a score to settle, you and I. And your girl’s about to watch her dumb jock boyfriend get massacred.” Cian kicked a pile of stuffing for good measure, before he looked at where Spike had exited. "Hmmm. Teabagging, you say? That's real fuckin' dirty." 

Then, he sighed. He had to admit, the brat did amuse him...sometimes. "Ol' Spike, you're still a little bottom bitch, but you do inspire me..."

Next Chapter!