Deadboy and Spike's Halloween Deathmatch!

Content Warning: This story features a 'Death Match', in which one opponent is cut by a sharp object in a consensual setting. Minor descriptions of laceration and blood.

And as always, violence >:)

Halloween night.

On TV, the scantily dressed, male camp counsellor (in short shorts and a crop top, naturally) hesitantly opened the creaking, cabin door. "He-hello?"

Spike pressed himself against Daemian's shoulder, trying to hide himself between the TV and his newest flame's pits (he wasn't sure which was scarier. Damiean blew a lock of hair from his face and smiled, with uncharacteristic warmth, at his guy. "Are ya jumpy?"

The last thing Spike wanted to do was show fear to his occasional opponent. "N-no!" 

"Because you've been looking through your fingers this whole time."

"I'm just...making sure my cuticles are in check."

This wasn't Daemian's first attempt at getting Spike to watch a scary movie. Last time had been at Deadboy's haunted hideaway in Sydney. Fresh from Buck's publicity initiative, handing out candy to trick-or-treaters at the local community center in-town, the costumed spellbreakers had all gone their own ways to enjoy the rest of the scariest night of the year. Some had gone to the costume night at the Rainbow Saloon. Others had gone to bed. Though Spike had planned to join the others for frightful frolicking at the club, his newly self-appointed 'boyfriend' had other ideas...namely, horror movies in Spike's dorm room.

So, there Spike sat, dressed as a teenage werewolf, curled into the arms of his newest arm candy. As every day was Halloween for the wickedest spellbreaker at the GSA, Daemian had chosen to go as 'normal'. Or what passed for normal anyway. Inadvertently mimicking Spike's 'varsity werewolf' idea, Daemian had dressed in a black letterman jacket, giving him the look of the high school bully. Brax, Daemian's demon buddy, made the perfect couch. In exchange for a bowl or two of popcorn, that is.

On screen, the hapless jock turned the corner...to discover the headless body of a fellow camp counsellor!

"BOO!" Daemian shouted.

Spike nearly jumped out of his skin. "AAAH!"

"Hahahahaha." Daemian laughed gleefully, taking advantage of Spike's open mouth to push a piece of candy corn inside (they had a whole bag of treats between them).

Brax looked down at an empty bowl full of kernel crumbs. "Hrrrrrhhhh." His glowing eyes shifted towards Daemian. He tapped him on the shoulder. "More...popcorn."

"Okay, greedy!" Daemian sighed, tossing the bowl aside and going for Spike and Kengo's snack cabinet. "Honestly, mate, you're like a vacuum cleaner."

"S-since you're getting up, I'll just go ahead and pause this!" Spike reached over and pressed the TV remote, pausing the TV, and freeing him from gruesome imagery. "Phew. Guess Halloween is almost over soon, huh?"

Daemian considered the flat, unopened bag of popcorn for a moment, before he chucked it towards Brax, who snapped it in one bite with his teeth. Daemian jabbed a finger in his direction. "Trust me, old mate needs the fiber. And ugh, Spike, why do you have to remind me that my favorite Holiday--which is also coincidentally my birthday--is gonna be over soon!" He sighed.

"What!" Spike stood up, startling even Brax. "You didn't tell me it was your birthday, Lachy! I mean, like, I'm new to the whole boyfriend thing, but isn't that something that's kind of...a big deal?"

"My birthday's never been a big deal," Daemian, or Lachlan, said. His face dropped. Gone was the bravado, the aura of deviance and darkness. In the shard of moonlight from the outdoors, and the ambient glow of the TV, the so-called 'Prince of Darkness' looked...forlorn.

Spike didn't consider himself the brightest, but as a survivor of a rough childhood, he could sniff out a sad-boy. "Lachy. I would have made this ten times better than watching some movie."

"Mate," Daemian laughed, sadly, brushing away his hair swoop. "Watching a movie and eating processed sugar is wayyyy better than most birthdays." Then, a more familiar, evil glint caught in his eyes. "Though...I 'spose if you did want to give me a present. There's something I could ask for." With his hands behind his back, and a wide toothy grin, Spike could practically see the devil horns sprout from Damien's head.

He sighed. He knew this moment of surprise vulnerability was too good, and that even if Daemian showed Spike his heart, it was still jet black and ice cold. "Okay. What can the best...er..." Spike knew he shouldn't say the next word... "boyfriend in the world--that's me--do for you?"

Behind him, Brax let out a demonic sigh. "...Beautiful...fool..."

Starry eyed, Daemian took Spike's hands in his cold, black-nail polished fingers. "My precious Spike. Would you....have a death match with me?"

"Oh, sure, I guess I can--WHAAAAT?"

"Heh."

*snap*

The last thing Spike heard before he was thrown into a cold, unfeeling darkness, was the snap of Daemian's fingers. He screamed, but nothing came out. Thankfully, the dark teleportation didn't last long. When Spike next opened his eyes, he found himself standing inside in a familiar ring (Daemian's personal practice ring in Deadman's Gulch), surrounded by tall, interlocking thorns. It was a cage. Situated around the ring, arrangements of jack-o-lanterns (all very creepy) smiled their orange glows. The silhouettes of gnarled trees in the background only added to the effect.

As did the cold, biting leather collar now fastened around Spike's neck. He followed the chain connecting it, by three feet or so, to the other collar, locked around Deadboy's pale neck. 

"Kinky," Spike said, looking Deadboy up and down. He was stark naked, save for a leather black thong and spiked wrist cuffs. With the body of an underwear model, and the complexion and face of a romantic vampire, Daemian Gravesend cut an attractive, if not macabre, figure.  

"It's kind of...sexy? In a creepy way." Spike looked down to see himself in matching gear. It was bit more BDSM than he was used to, but he didn't hate it. "Spikes for Spike," he said, holding up his wrist cuffs. "I feel like a punk himbo!"

"It's perfect," Daemian fawned. He drew closer, but not in an intimidating way. "Do you trust me?" he said, biting his lip. 

Spike looked down. Daemian was subtly but surely pressing his bulge into Spike's. It felt dirty...and amazing.

Spike was charmed. And turned on. This was a lot more deviant than his usual fare. He looked around the canvas. In each corner, there was an assortment of colorful wrappers. Spike looked at his feet and picked up the nearest candy gem, noticing the distinct brand of The Infernals: the jagged skull with the x'd out eyes. Peeling the candy back revealed a jagged, sugar coated bramble or barb.

"Do you like my Deathmatch treats?" Daemian said, sugary sweet. "Or should I say, tricks? These may look tasty, but they're more the razor blades in the apple variety."

Spike gulped. Still, the only real trick and treat here was the sexy demon guy standing in front of him. "Is that dark magick you're working one me?" he said flirtatiously to his opponent and lover.

"No," Daemian laughed, sounding quite sincere. He toyed nervously with his ear. "I'm not actually evil, y'know. Well...I guess define 'evil'. I just like to have fun. Maybe that involves torturing cute guys, but it's not like I eat puppies or anything! But listen here, Spike Waterford. Firebird are a bunch of bloody crooks, and in order to defeat them, you're gonna need to unlock all the powers inside you. Your light shines bright, Spike. Why not try the darkness?" He arched his eyebrows.

Sexy, villainous eyebrows.

Spike gulped. He felt a heat inside himself. Standing naked, chained up, in a leather thong, in the moonlight...well, it felt primal. Naughty. He wanted more. "I...think I might like a little darkness?" He blushed. 

"Mmm." Daemian hummed, licking his lips and gliding a finger up Spike's abs to his neck. "It definitely likes you." He kept his slow grind against Spike. By now, they were both obviously hard.

Spike often thought of himself as looking like a (tiny) warrior angel, so fighting a devil (in chains, no less) seemed kind of hot to him. "What are the stakes?"

"Well, if you win, you can do anything you want with me. And if I win..." Daemian giggled, looked around, and cupped his hands to Spike's left ear, chains jangling from both their neck.

Spike listened. "Mhmm. Mhmm. OH! Oh WOW! Oh man, that's nasty." He blinked. "Wait, with BRAX?"

Daemian snickered. Behind him, Brax materialized in a cloud of shadow. A black and white refs uniform clung, haphazardly, to his bulky, demonic torso. 

Spike blushed. He'd done some pretty nasty things before, but this was a bit much. He squeaked. "Isn't that like, against the rules or something?"

"Yeah hah." Damiean gently rapped his knuckles against Brax's big chest. "He's a consenting, adult demon. Plus, he's offered to ref."

Brax bowed his head, respectively. "I...am very fair. I take my job...very seriously." 

Spike leaned forward submissively, tugging on his own chain. "I dunno...you know how I feel about blood." 

Suddenly, Damiean yanked him forward on his loop, bringing his face dangerously close to him. Fear blossomed in Spike's heart, but deep down, he liked it. "Let me bring out your dark side, beautiful," Daemian whispered. He stuck his tongue out and glided it across Spike's neck, tasting him. "I can show you the most wonderous sights. Pain. Pleasure. Indivisible."

Spike tugged his chain away, rolling his eyes in the process. "You got that from one of the movies we watched, D! Hmmm. Dark Nectar huh? Is it...gonna make me sick?"

Daemian and Brax both laughed hollowly at the thought. "Sick? Nah!" Deadboy's eyed bugged out, manically. "SICK AND TWISTED THOUGH? HELL YEAH! Think of it like...a hit of weed. Or ecstasy. That makes you evil for awhile."

"Oh, no zombie mode huh?"

"Haven't you ever wanted to know what it's like to be a heel? A bad boy?"

To be honest, Spike did. He'd always played the babyface. Lately, he wanted to know what it was like to be a bit...wicked. "A bad boy with my bad boy, huh? Hmmm. If you put this enchantment on me, you promise it won't make me squeamish about blood?"

"Not only that, but it'll give you my healing powers for a time. No scars. No bleeding out." He placed his hand, assuring, on Spike's shoulder. "It's...scary and intense...but...hey, isn't that what Halloween is all about? Besides, I might hurt you Spike...but you're still safe with me."

Daemian looked both ways, blushing slightly (obvious with his pale sin) before he wrapped his arms gently around Spike, pulling him in close. A hug.

"You can trust me. Well, with this shit, anyway. I still might use you to get back at the GSA-"

"What?"

"Nothing! :)"

Spike thought smelled like cigarettes (a bad habit) and cheap deodorant. In other words, Spike was turned on. "Okay," Spike said, hesitantly. "So, do I just-"

A cold, constricting pain struck Spike's throat. He realized Daemian and yanked him forward, instnatly activating his own glyph. Spike's instincts prepared him to yank his chain back, but then he found his 'boyfriend's mouth over his.

Daemian pulled back. "Pucker up, butter cup! Hahaha!" His pupils expanded, covering his irises going dark and demonic.

This was all a bit too freaky for Spike. "Ahh, this is scar-"

Deadboy fastened his mouth over Spike's again, assaulting his pallet with his prying tongue. Then, a strange taste (peppery and fruity) filled Spike's mouth. He looked down, mid-rapture, and saw a strange, flourescent, purple oil dripping from his mouth.

Disgusted, Spike tried to pull back, but either found Daemian's hold on him too tight, or the taste of the Dark Nectar flooding into his system too intoxicating. In any case, Daemian pulled back, purple fluid dribbling down his chin and chest. Eyes still hollow black, his tongue slid out of his mouth, lapping up his excess.

It was then that Spike realized how inhuman, how terrifying, Daemian Gravesend actually was!

"Blegh!" Spike spat out. "Oh...it kinda tastes like cherry cola--"

!!!

A dark shadow covered his mind. Though Spike couldn't see the physical effects, his eyes began to glow with a violet, alien aura. His veins pulsed black, beating with darkness. An animalistic insanity took over Spike. A primal need for blood and destruction.

He reared his head back, clawing at his own, matted, blonde hair. The darkness coursed through him, and he was its willing slave. "HhAHHAAhahhaa!!"

"Yessss," Daemian hissed, growing harder, watching his magick take hold. "YESSS! Gooood."

"MWAHAHAHA!" Evil Spike, near naked and already with the body of a sex demon, cackled in the moonlight. He stared hungrily at his opponent. "I dunno what's gotten into me, Damo, but I'm feeling soooo much yummier." Drooling, with an excess mix of Daemian's dark nectar, Spike snarled, leaking precum from his leather thong (threatening to snap off his raging erection). "I wanna see YOUR INSIDES."

"THAT'S MY BOY!" Daemian snarled back. A spectral ringside bell rang, and Brax looked on as arbiter. "Let's fuckin' KILL EACH OTHER!"

Spike grabbed the chain with both hands, pulling Daemian closer to him. He kneed him in the gut, sending him down to the mat with brutal force.

SLAM!

"OOF!" Daemian cried out, shocked...but still smiling.

"HAHAHAA." Spike yanked the chain back, reeling him in like a fish. It was fun to be bad! "Aww, what's wrong, Deadboy? Thought I was just another boy next door? Well this NEW Spike IS the boy next door...with SKELETONS IN HIS BASEMENT."

Struggling to breath, Deadboy's eyes may have turned into the shape of two black hearts. "THAT'S MY BOYFRIEND!" But he wasn't a stranger to violence. Strangling himself in the process, Deadboy used the leverage to pull himself up with his side of the chain, getting onto his feet. "Ohhh I am gonna make you BLEED!" 

A sharp elbow to Spike's face answered Deadboy's threat. Spike knew he should have been able to dodge that. Daemian was deadly but he had a bad habit of telegraphic his moves.

What Spike hadn't seen was the blood-colored candy apple Daemian had snuck into his other hands. A giant razor blade stuck out the side, hardly concealed. Using the candy apple weapon as a cudgel, Daemian swiped at Spike's arm.

He missed by inches. "How dare you try to cut my perfect skin!" Now, Spike was pissed. He snarled, tearing the weapon from Deadboy's hands and tossing it to the other side of the ring (nearly hitting Brax's head in the process. He tackled Deadboy and tossing him into the side of the cage. "YOU DID THIS TO ME. I'LL SHOW YOU WHO THE REAL DEMON IS NOW!"

Spike put aside any 'legal' spellbreaking techniques, reverting to pure street brawl. He pounded mercilessly at Deadboy's face and torso. Brax stood by and watched (which raised the question of his legitimacy in this match at all). Spike reached down and pulled Deadboy up by his hair swoop, slamming his head into the side of the cage.

"Nobody touches my hair and lives!" Deadboy roared back. He tugged on Spike's chain, bringing him down to his level.

A tangle of muscular limbs, Spike and Deadboy wrenched their bodies into each other, trying to pile on the pain. All the while, the length of chain became less and less. 

Wrapped around Spike like a toxic weed, Daemian wrapped the chain around his fists, using it at a makeshift iron knuckle. "You're too pretty, Spikey! I'm gonna make you a monster!"

CRACK.

The fist collided, sickeningly, with Spike's jaw. Instead of falling to the knock-out hook, however, Spike spat onto the canvas. "Ain't bleeding yet, you zombie bitch." He decided on some evil improvisation. "Good boy Spike wouldn't do what he's about to do..." he starred.

SLAM.

"Fuck!"

Spike had taken his spike collar and dug it across Deadboy's face, gouging him in the eyes.

"But good boy Spike ain't here!" Spike laughed. "Come on, baby, BLEED FOR ME."

Spike tried the same technique, hoping to cut open Deadboy's handsome face with his cuffs. As he did, Deadboy caught his arm, and twisted it.

"UGH!"

"Love the energy!" Deadboy said, tongue hanging out of his mouth. Oh, he was hungry alright. "Too bad, cutie. You're in MY cage."

Daemian scooped up Spike with ease, carrying him over to the pile of bright colored, 'barbed' candy wrappers laying in an assorted pile. Even Spike put two-and-two together.

"Nooo," he squeeked, already feeling the sharp pain in his back.

"TRICK OR TREAT, CUNT!" Deadboy cackled, lifting Spike into the air and body slamming him right onto the jagged, sharp candy thorns.

"FUCK!" Spike screamed as he felt his spine buckle and hundreds of sharp points embed themselves in his back. He peeled himself off the canvas, sharp pieces of Deadboy's special candy still embedded into his skin. Streaks of blood ran in tiny red threads down Spike's poor, bruised and bloodied backside.

Hungry for pain and punishment, Deadboy yanked one off his opponent, and popped it into his mouth, despite the sugary weapon's deadly attributes. "Tastes like suffering," he said, crunching down. "Look at that poor back."

"Nnnggg," Spike winced. Even with the soma protecting him, it felt like Brax had clawed open his backside. Pieces of sharp candy continued to fall off him, onto the now bloody canvas. "Shit. I'm too pretty for a deathmatch."

"YEP!" Daemian grinned with evil intent, not wasting a second of his opponent's stunned state. The dark spellbreaker used his chain and wrapped it quickly around Spike's neck.

Spike abruptly fell the dark draw of Daemian's enchantment begin to fade. "N-n-no-"

"Y-y-YES!" Deadboy mocked. He stepped behind Spike, kicking his spine.

"GHGRRR!"

Spike couldn't make a noise. He was cut off by the chain wrapped around his neck. He grabbed it, trying to pull it apart. Even with his super-powered strength, Spike could barely get a budge on it. Deadboy wasn't just magickally powerful, but dangerously strong.

Brax lowered himself to Spike's level. "Give?"

"Nnnmmm."

"I think that's a no!" Deadboy laugh. "But that's not how death matches work, now, do they, chook?"

Deadboy tugged tighter. Spike could feel the darkness sink he. He knew it was futile to tap. He looked up, catching the glint of something reflective in Deadboy's hands.

The evil sadist looked down at him. "You forgot the most important part about a cage fight, mate. Always check to make sure your opponent doesn't smuggle a foreign object into his budgie smugglers. And this ain't not budgie."

Spike didn't even know what a budgie was; he just wanted to make sure his head didn't pop off! That's when his eyes zeroed in on the familiar object in his so-called boyfriend's hands.

"You're from Brooklyn, ain't ya, cutie? Well, haven't you always wondered what it was like to feel like a Brooklyn pizza?"

A pizza cutter. The circular blade was most definitely familiar. 

"D...d..." Spike struggled. He could probably yank these chains off like Samson if he pulled hard enough. 

But it was too late. Licking his lips, Deadboy lowered the sharp object to Spike's sweat covered, unblemished brow.

"I've wanted this for so long..." he moaned.

SNICK

Spike blinked, confused. "That's...it?" The pain was quick and sharp, but hardly the brutality Spike expected. Deadboy let go, dropping Spike to the canvas. Struggling to breathe, the Sailor rolled as far as the length of chain would let him (which wasn't far) and attempted to get on all fours.

Drip. Drip...

Dots of red peppered the canvas below him. Heart beating faster, and fear slowly creeping over him, Spike touched a dinger to his face and pulled back red.

"My...face. My beautiful face!" Spike, eyes wide with terror, looked into the reflection of the pizza cutter, dripping with his own blood. Daemian had indeed turned him into a monster and given him the humiliating, infamous crimson mask!

The sight alone was enough to drive the power of the dark nectar out of Spike, replacing it with raw terror. In the moonlight, Daemian looked like a death god--a beautiful horror story. He sneered down at Spike, the defeated, and yanked his chain, pulling him to his knees in front of him.

"That's the match," Brax growled. "The victor, Deadboy Daemian! Grrrrr."

Brax held his tag partner's hand up, but Daemian brushed it away like an afterthought. He was mostly interested in his latest acquisition. His new pet.

Unbeknownst to Spike, the dark enchantment laid upon him had an additional effect. With blood drawn, pouring freely from Spike's once-handsome face, it activated pure terror and submission. He trembled like a frightened dog, looking into the eyes of his master.

Daemian reached down and stroke his gored lover's cheek with the side of his hand. "Are you gonna' be a good puppy for me, Spikey? Hmm. Spike. You already have a dog's name, don't ya?"

"...Yes."

Deadboy leered in, closer. "Say it."

"I...I'll be a good doggie. W-w-woof."

"HAHAHAHA! Love the enthusiasm, cutie. Mine. You're ALL MINE. HAHAHA!!!" With a manic lust, Deadboy leaned and licked Spike's chest, up to his neck, and then across his bloodied face.

Even Brax, looking on, was taken aback. "My kindred! That is unsanitary."

"Relax, mate, I'm on PreP!" Deadboy blew his hair swoop back, studied Spike's face, and sighed. "I could put you out, I suppose. I didn't really get the finisher I wanted..."

"N-N-no, master. I'll do anything."

"Aw, that's right! We did have stakes, didn't we." Grinning still, Daemian pressed his thumb to Spike's gushing wound, sealing it up. He sighed. "Don't want my precious boy to bleed out, yeah?" He kissed Spike, taking away the fear.

Trembling still, completely submissive, Spike fell into Deadboy's chest. "So...so scared," he said, teeth chattering.

Daemian caressed his hair, tenderly. "But alive." Another kiss, longer this time. Connecting by mouths and chains, the two near naked men fell into each other's arms, a cloud of shadow and deviance surrounding them. "And now...I'm going to make you feel more alive than ever before, Spike. Time to give you a very happy Halloween..."

To Be Continued!

BONUS: Date Night Frights

The hidden upstairs studio in Gravesend Manor, lair of the 'Demons from Down Under'. The most sinister bachelor pad this side of the southern hemisphere, situated in the infamous Horror Land 'Scream Park', beneath the beautiful Sydney Harbour Bridge.

A large, cobweb covered room with creaking floorboards and gothic, iron-latticed windows. Despite its grim apparel--its bookshelves stacked with wicked tomes, a skull candle-holder on the table, and grotesque heavy metal and punk posters lining the walls, there are enough gentle touches to give it a cozy vibe. 

The door creaks open...the angelic face of Spike Waterford peers around the corner. Tonight he is about to look into the eyes of terror itself, and face the most eldritch horror of them all.

A first date with a cute boy.

Spike: H-hello...

Daemian: BOO!

Spike: AHHH!

Daemian: Spikey, I literally walked you here! Hahaha. Awww...my cute little boyfriend is so jumpy.

Spike: Hey, D-Man, I never agreed to the whole boyfriend thing. I just agreed to one date night. In...a haunted house, apparently.

Daemian: Uh, yeah, MY haunted house, bitch. 

Spike: Does...all of Sydney look this scary?

Daemian: Yes. Now, I'm not too fussed if you wanna touch anything--besides me that is--but hands off that ominous, glowing, red box on the box shelf over there.

Spike: Oh, but I love Rubix Cubes! I've never solved one before, but the colors make me happy.

Daemian: Not that one you don't love.

Spike: What happens if I solve it? Do a bunch of S&M demons come out of a portal and torture me, showing me pain beyond the scope of imagination before taking my soul back to their unseemly realm for all eternity?

Daemian: Nah, it's just a real bitch to put back together if it falls apart. *yawn* If I wanted kinky sex demons I can open the portal to that dimension myself. But this is date night, and the only kinky sex demon here is...me.

Spike: Oh, you. Wait, you said your were human. You...are human, right?

Daemian: Much to my fucking chagrin, yes. *sigh* I'm just soul-bonded with Brax. I get all the powers, but very little of the actual cool demon appendages. That being said, I can glamor myself to look more demonic, which I usually do when I'm in Gehenna, but sadly I'm a mortal man. A mortal man who can survive getting his limbs chopped off, but mortal nonetheless. 

Spike: So...you...live in a haunted house theme park ride?

Daemian: Um, not just ANY dark ride. It's Gravesend Manor! The scariest, largest haunted house in the world!

Spike: So, since you can do that dark teleport thing, you just stay here instead of at the GSA?.

Daemian: Yeah, nah. You know that shack by the gulch? That's where I live on campus. Away from those other losers. And I just rent out two unused rooms here. I cut a deal with the theme park owners. Think of it like my villain hideout! 

Spike: It's...surprisingly cozy. And it smells better than I thought it would.

Daemian: What's THAT supposed to mean?

Spike: UM! You know, it's just like...if Dracula had good taste.

Daemian: Ah, bless your cotton socks; you're warmin' me black heart. The smelly ghoul thing is just part of the territory. I actually like a very clean space. Well, besides the bugs and spiders, but they're my mates. Well, I guess I do only shower on the third day, you know. But hey, I'm told the funk works for me!

Spike: Your place away from the GSA is actually really cool! For instance, I love this giant fake spider you got here. So lifelike...

Daemian: Oh, that's Hairy Bob. He's my pet huntsman.

Hairy Bob: *wriggles, spiderly*

Spike: AHHHH!!!!

Daemian: Hehehe. 'Straya, cunt!

Spike: I think I'll just settle down on this oversized beanbag. AGH! It moved.

Brax: Grrr....

Spike: Oh, sorry, Brax! I forget you sometimes look really cuddly. 

Demian: No wockas! Brax loves a cuddle. But, this here is the beanbag.

Heart pounding, and not just from the decorations, Spike settles into the beanbug. He breathes. 

Spike: Cozy. And warm. Oh...hi.

Daemian settles into and pulls him (perhaps too tightly) closer, snuggling him.

Daemian: Hi.

Spike: Cutie. So...I've never had a boyfriend before. I guess I didn't really have any say in the matter, but...what about you, Lachlan?

Daemian: I had one or two exes. But...er...stuff happened. 

Spike: ...Had? Oh, where are they...like...now?

Daemian: One's buried out in the back. The other is one of the Grand Princes of Hell. I'm lying about one of those things.

Spike: ...Eep.

Daemian: Yeah, I'm scary. Scary as they come. But...I'm safe. You're safe with me.

Spike: Ohh. This is...kind of nice. Cuddles. The light coming through the window. The ambient warmth of a giant demon. So, what are we gonna do now? Besides more kinky, raunchy sex?

Daemian: Hehehe you're a real pants man, ain't ya, Spikey? That'll come later. And so will you, chook. But for right now, I thought we'd order some pizza and watch some of the goriest thrillers ever!

Spike: While...eating? Might ruin my appetite. 

Daemian: How about some topping?

Spike: ...Right now? With Brax here?

Daemian: ...I meant the pizza. Um...can I let you in on a secret though. Brax, you can't hear.

Brax: Grr...

Daemian bites his lip. After a moment's consideration, he whispers to Spike.

Spike: Oh...uh uh. OH REALLY? Ha, I thought you'd...you know. The way you're so dominant.

Daemian: I can still be dominant like that. Ever heard of a power bottom? That's the thing, Spike. When you grow up being told you can't have something, that it's forbidden...you just want it even more. 

Spike: Huh, Well, your boy here is a true, vers king! 

Daemian: I picked the right guy for my evil schem--I mean, to be my boyfriend.

Spike: Again, I never really agreed to--

Daemian: Shhh...you'll ruin the vibe. Kiss me instead.

Spike: Okay. *smooch* Mmm tongue ring.

Daemian: You really do like a bad boy, hey? So, what do you think about good ol' Neo South Wales?

Spike: It's...spooky. Why is it so scary?

Daemian: Ah, that's just good ol 'Straya. Scary is what we do here. Venomous creatures, killer crocs, giant spiders, colonialism. You name it.

Spike: I'd like to see more, sometime! I guess if there's a divine chalice on this continent like T. Rex says there is, then I probably will. 

Daemian: Here's an idea. Since it's still early, why not do a movie before pizza. That way you wont lose your lunch. Er...dinner.

Spike: Okay.

*movie*

Spike: AHHHH! He just...with the eyeball...and the cake mixer...and that's so much BLOOD!

Daemian: I know, isn't it AWESOME! I love what the killer does with the intestines. That's the sort of creativity I try to put into my matches.

Spike: Hmmm. Are you comfy with my back up against you, Brax?

Brax: I...enjoy cuddles.

Spike: Hmm. I feel like I should get to know you, better too. So...you're a demon. That's neat. How does that work?

Brax: Hnnngggg....my kind have walked the face of this world for centuries before you Lilin crawled up, putrid and mewling, from your primordial soup. I am a scion of Gehenna. A war demon of clan Iridium. We rise above your human concepts of morality. 'Mercy' is considered vice at best and weakness at worst. My clan and I aspire to consume the still-beating heart of our enemies, for this is our highest virtue. And yet...your world fascinates me. Your Lilin lives are so short. Your bodies, so breakable. You take pleasure in such strange, violent delights. I admit, some are even pleasing to me. Pit fighting. Petty violence. Sitcoms. Flower arrangement. When I do not wish to break the skulls of my opponents alongside my mortal kindred here, I find myself drawn to the pairing of mid century furnishings with tasteful, muted pallets.

Daemian: Oh yeah, Brax here fitted the whole place out! We argued over the color scheme of course.

Brax: I am a demon. Why would I wish to dwell in Hell when I can bask in the formic simplicity and ergonomic comfort of affordable Swedish design?

Spike: You...two sure have an interesting relationship. 

Brax: Hrrrrrrnggggg....you are now my mortal kindred's consort. Therefore, I am your sword. Your shield. Call upon me when you are challenged, kindred Spike, and I shall REND your malcontents for your pleasure, ripping their limbs off one at a time until you have purified your dignity with their BLOOOOOD.

Spike: Wow, that's the nicest thing anybody ever said to me. Hmm...I guess I could get used to having a spooky boyfriend. You know, if I agree to it. Remember, Daemian, I said I'd give you one date. But...so far, I'm actually having a lot of fun.

Daemian: Awesome! I knew you'd like hanging out. By the way, how's your Latin?

Spike: Well, I was raised by nuns, so...wait, why do you ask?

Daemian: Thought we could summon one of the Soul Flayers from the Festering Abyss and WRESTLE it til it cries for its bloody uncle! Er....wait, do Soul Flayers have Uncles, Brax?

Brax: More of a hive minded brood pustule, my mortal companion.

Daemian: Anyways, Spiky, how's your groundwork when there's tentacles involved?

Spike: *sigh* 

The End (?)

Death From Above / Dark Nectar

"Please...don't hurt me anymore."

The long, dark-haired pretty boy collapsed to the mat, bruised, bloodied, and broken. He hadn't anticipated a cage match. He hadn't anticipated a one-sided fight like this. Now, he understood, as he tried to focus his blurry stare on the dark shadows looming outside the iron chain-link, that he'd entered the spider's web.

A black boot, decorated with a gravestone, appeared dangerously close to him. He expected to find the toe of that boot inside his skull any second now. He looked up, into the eyes of evil. A devious grin. The body of the devil. Deadboy Daemian Gravesend was death incarnate.

And death looked good.

Like a slasher movie killer, Deadboy took his time with his plaything. He slowly cocked his head to the side, surveying the squirming little worm. So delicate. So breakable. So pretty.

"Know what I do to pretty little c***ts like you?" Deadboy whispered, planting a boot on the young fighter's back side. It forced a small yelp out of him. "I turn them into monsters." He cracked his knuckles. "It's a multi step process. Step one..."

SLAM!

"Drain the life out of them." Deadboy curbed stopped the boy's head, sending his eyes rolling back into his skull, and flipping him over with sheer force. A trickle of blood spilled from his nose.

For Deadboy, it wasn't enough. He turned around and jumped onto the cage siding, crawling up like the cage like a possessed, feral cat. He reached the top. With his dark magick activated, the seem tattoo on his neck split into a thin, violet shadow, allowing for extreme contortion. Deadboy, tongue sticking out of his mouth, twisted his head around 180 degrees.

All of this was lost to his victim, the fighter with the swimmer's build, struggling to get to his knees.

"Good...good boy..." Daemian whispered from his perch. "Set yourself up for your own destruction. Step two. DEATH...From Above!"

Deadboy jumped back from the cage, flipping in mid-air, and aiming his boot square for his victim's head, just as he looked up.

CRACK.

It was an instant knockout. The boy's head nearly snapped back, as his body slammed into the mat. Deadboy, twisting his own head back around with a nauseating CRACK, sniffed the air. He prowled like a blood-starved beast, crawling over to the young man's twitching body.

"Yessss," he said, relishing the sight of fresh blood. "Step 3. Disfigurement. DONE." As always, his finishing move had given his opponent--if you could call this worthless husk 'opposition'--a crimson mask of bright, red blood. Daemian clutched his head, cradling him in his lap with an almost paternal tenderness.

"Shhh..." Deadboy said, fingers creepily playing across his opponent's bloodied face. "Step four. Mind erasure. You're under my spell, punk..."

The broken opponent's eyes fluttered open. His lips moved, but barely. "Please....no--"

"Shhh." Deadboy's fingers pried open his mouth. "Like the bird feeding her young...you, my sweet possum, will drink of my darkness."

Deadboy's eyes went black, like two windows looking out into a starless night.

"N-no..."

A purple, luminous fluid leaked freely from Deadboy's mouth in a grotesque, horrific fashion. He let it pour, drip freely into his opponent's parted lips.

"Gurrk...unnggg...gluk."

The young man's body shuttered and shook as Deadboy forced his venom down his throat ,gagging, resisting, all in futility. He sealed it, with a kiss, rubbing the boy's throat like a master making his hound take its medicine. Damiean pulled back, looking down at his paralyzed, zombified, victim. His eyes had gone white, like marble.

Mockingly, taking his sweet time, Daemian lifted up his arm. "One." He said, letting it fall. "Two." Again. "Hehehehe. Two easy." He leaned to the catatonic young man's ear. "That's how you make a monster. Three."

Deadboy snapped his fingers. His victim suddenly rose, like a corpse from its coffin.

"Nnnnggggg." It turned to face him, head at an odd angle, drooling dark nectar.

Like a psychopath in the throws of a fresh kill, Deadboy grabbed both side of his head and reared back, cackling. "HahHahqahaha!!!! More. I WANT MORRRRE! HAHAHAHAhahaha!"

He stood, grabbing his opponent by the hair and making him stand as well. "Very good," Daemian said, observing his work. "Oh, you're gonna be gone for awhile. My little zombie..." he flicked the opponent's nose. "Toy. But you know what? I think you're more of a chew toy. Oh...Brax."

Whips of black smoke filled the arena, coalescing into a dark portal from which emerged a massive, muscular, canine-like demon wearing similar fighting gear to his tag partner.

"You...have called me, my mortal kindred." The fanged, long-tongued demon sniffed the air. "I smell....fresh blood." 

Snickering, Daemian kicked his zombified servant towards his demon buddy. "Don't eat this one this time, hey. But...you can do whatever you like. As long as I get to watch, mate."

"Hngnnhnhn." Hollow, greedy, demonic laughter poured out Brax. He licked his chops and picked up the toned, muscular young man, tossing him over his shoulder like a rag doll. "I will....have my fill of him," he said, as he tuned around, towards the dark portal.

"Nobody fucks with The Infernals," Daemian said, extending his hands, champion-like, towards the invisible audience. "Now, I think it's time we showed this little twink sights beyond his wildest nightmares."

The End!

Chapter 1: Night of the Living Deadboy

The cedar-scented office of the Global Spellbreaking Alliance was a cozy, circular room, part college dean's office and part rambunctious cowboy hideaway. A cow skull head hung on the wall, next to placards and photographs of Colt the Bolt in his heyday. A portrait of a gruff, pink-faced man with a tremendous moustache (bearing striking resemblance to both Colt and his son, Buck) scowled down from over the mantel place, on which slept Buck's Maine coon cat, Zeus.

In a leather upholstered desk chair, Buck Tamblery, a slick new haircut and fancy glasses to his name, toyed with the phone chord in his hands. "Thank you, kindly," he said in his urban, Texan twang. "If that's all well and good, we'll book in for the Dublin show and then...Glastonbury. Great. Have a good day." He hung up, allowing all of the welled-up anxiety to burst through in one, long sigh. "Phew!"

Across from him, watering one of the plants Buck had moved into his erstwhile father's old office, Spike looked up at his friend (now boss) and smiled affectionately.  "Hard work?, Mr. President..."

Buck rubbed the bridge of his nose and smiled at his favorite 'stress sponge', Spike. His presence was sorely welcome. "Honestly, not much of a difference, Yankee. I guess I never realized how much of this place I already ran. Still, I can't believe Dad made me interim president while he gets to go off and re-live his glory days." He growled, annoyed. "No, wait, actually...I can."

With that said, Buck turned to his lazy cat. "Hey, Zeusy, rise and shine."

On command, the somewhat comical cat opened his eyes and mewed. 

Buck motioned for him. "Don't give me that attitude. Come down and play with Spike."

The car hopped off his perch, and--sure enough--sauntered over to Spike, who affectionally pet him on the head.

"Wow, Buck, your dad was right."

"Hm?"

"About you being good with animals." Spike took the seat across from the mahogany desk. "You know, Varla's daughter was like that too. Did you ever meet her and her kid?"

Buck laughed. "Dad's old flame. And probably the best woman he never married. Definitely not Ma, bless her heart. Yeah, I like Varla. Laurie and I get along fine too. Like the little sister I never hard." Buck took a sip of green tea on his desk. "I heard her glyph awoke recently?"

"Yeah. Nature glyph."

"Lucky. If she had a brother, he'd probably get that one too." Buck glanced over at a small photo frame, smiled, and placed it closer to his friend (and employee). "Lily says the nature glyph is one of the few genetic ones shared by siblings. It skips a generation. She's been researching it."

Spike looked at the picture. He recognized Buck. Even at a young age, he favored basketball shorts as daily attire. However, he didn't recognize the child with him, dressed similarly.

Wait. Maybe he did. Spike squinted. "Who's that kid with you?"

Buck laughed. "You don't recognize her? That's Lily. She went by a different name back then. She's a smart one. Once told me that people have different 'awakenings' across their life. Some people awaken to their glyph, which, of course, she did. But she also awakened to her gender. Seems the two manifested at the same time." The Tamberly heir leaned backed in his chair and rested his cowboy boots on his desk. "The other kids at school bullied her when she did. 'Til dad showed up one day."

"And then what happened?" Spike asked.

"They stopped." Buck grinned, devilishly. "Lily's family and ours have been thick as thieves. I sleep better at night knowing she's watching out for us. Still...I feel like I should have been able to stand up for her, back then. I really hate feeling weak..."

This again, Spike thought. But, he wasn't annoyed. He had his insecurities too. "Hey, if this about what happened in Bolivia, remember that you actually resisted Serpent's magick. Not even your dad or myself could do that."

"Still have no idea how it happened either," Buck said, deep in thought. 

Across the room, Zeus perked his head up. "Meow."

"Yeah," Buck said, seemingly to the cat. "I had considered that too..."

Spike looked between cat and man. "You can...understand each other?"

"What, and you can't? Hahaha. Anyways, sounds like dad is having a grand time, crushing men's skulls and re-living his glory days. Hell, I'd say the old man probably needed it." Buck glanced over at a postcard his father had sent him from Nairobi, full of its solar powered skyscrapers and skyways. "I still can't get over the fact that my dad, the biggest clown on Earth, was the guy who made you realized you were..."

Spike blushed. "Hey, speaking of awakenings, right?" Still, Spike picked up on Buck's low mood. "I know being GSA president must feel kinda' weird still, but you're doing so well, bud! And...I know your dad did this because it keeps you grounded and he doesn't have to worry about managing the GSA while he's out fighting Firebird."

"Oh, a thinly-disguised manipulation that somehow benefits someone else while at the same time elevates him and makes him look good? Gee..." Buck sighed. "Dad is a deeply frustrating man."

Spike could tell he was fumbling the ball. Buck had summoned him here to discuss the next show, but Spike had ulterior motives. After much encouragement from the others, Spike had decided to ask Buck to get drinks or coffee with him. 

I.e. a date. 

But now it felt like he'd lost the opportunity. Getting into the ring with scary monster men was easy. Asking boys out? Impossible.

Instead, Spike's eyes settled randomly on a portrait opposite the late Oxnard Tamberly. It was smaller picture, to be sure, but its subject seemed to extend her influence beyond the frame. She was a rather intense, dark skinned woman in a prairie dress, with white hair pulled into a bun. She balanced one hand on a gilded cane. The other hand was clutched around a Cuban cigar.

"Who's the scary lady?" Spike asked, nodding to the portrait. 

"Huh? Oh! That's the actual President of Texas. Madame Wilma Hidalgo. She's a fan of spellbreaking. Shares the same glyph as dad's, too. Anyways, on to business..."

"All ears, Mr. President."

"You're booked in for the Dublin show in a few weeks. Then, on to Glastonbury. It's a bit off the beaten path, but it's an important show." Buck lowered his glasses and tapped to a Shiner beer stein on the desk.  "*cough* *cough*"

Spike stared ahead, blankly. Next to him, Zeus scowled and resumed his nap in the carpet.

"We're...getting a beer sponsorship?" Spike proposed.

"No!" Buck said, slapping his forehead in frustration. He mouthed: the Chalice.

"Ohhh. That." 

"T. Rex said the Divine Chalice of Compassion is hidden in Glastonbury, England, former seat of the Alban Empire. Sadly, that's all the information we have. Lily is supposed to reach out on a secure line soon to hammer out the details concerning where to find it and how to keep it out of Firebird's hands. As for the Dublin match--"

Spike jumped out of his seat, with all the intensity of a man about to swing fists in a bar brawl. "Who am I fightin'!? Sailor is on a roll!"

"Yes, actually, on to that." Buck leaned forward and adjusted himself to look more professional. "As your friend, I want to keep up the encouragement. You're now at the Silver Star level after almost a year in. That's big. You're also gaining in popularity, especially with the male demographic."

Spike's response to this was a flirty wink.

"But, as your boss, it is my job to select the best opponent for you--to keep up an interesting 'storyline'. That said, there is someone else at the GSA on a similar level to you. And...it's been a long time coming."

Spike strained his brain to think. "Uh...Gio? You want me to fight Gio?"

"No," Buck winced. He smiled, devilishly. "Spike, you will be going up against...Cian Enbarr."

Prologue: The Champion of Firebird

The spellbreaker with the blue mohawk collapsed onto the canvas, struggling to breathe and get up, their broken spine already setting back into place thanks to the divine blessing of soma. The bell rang, signalling their defeat. It was a mercy.

"The winner...Vahni Rage!"

The tall, long-haired warrior of flames ripped his arm away from the intimidating ref. "Don't touch me, commoner," he spat, ordering the ref out of his arena. In the shadow of the ring, Semyon Grigorivich smiled.

The water magi struggled to get up. In the distance, medical magi and security stood at attention, waiting to intervene. Vahni Rage met their eyes. They shrunk back, leaving the lamb to the lion.

The water spellbreaker struggled to look up, into the eyes of their conqueror. "I...should...have been able to dose your flame."

Vahni raised an eyebrow. "But you didn't, did you?"

Rage answered this defiance with a kick to the head with his boot, turning the spellbreaker punk over and onto his back. He didn't stay down there long. Rage grabbed him by the mohawk, pulling him closer.

"Now you shall be branded," Rage said.

The audience gasped. Semyon eagerly leaned forward.

"No..." the water magi moaned. "Please. My career."

"What career?" Rage said, as he singed mark into his victim's forehead with his fingertip. The scent of burnt flesh filled the arena; the spellbreaker trying not to scream out as he was marked with a single "V" across his brow.

Rage yawned, dropping his now unconscious (and marked) opponent to the mat. "No challenge here," he sniffed, already on his way out.

Once upon a time, Vahni Rage relished the boo of the audience. The jeers. The disapproving looks. He looked over at a group of children, crying over their defeated hero. Even this did not satisfy him. His shoulders dropped.

Am I...getting bored of spellbreaking? After all, there was nowhere else for him to go, other than the world champion title. Yes, perhaps that would suffice.

In his private shower stall, the rain that hit Vahni Rage's naked, muscular, super-heated boy turned to steam.

He sighed, content, throwing back his jet-black main and leaning against the bricks. This was his moment of peace. There was no better feeling than a shower after a conquest. Well, perhaps sharing a shower with a conquest was better. But that water-manipulating loser, who dared think he could channel an opposing element against him, was too butt-ugly to even fondle. Vahni had very particular and specific tastes. He liked younger men, well built. Strong, with a touch of the feminine. Submissive, but bratty. Beautiful contradictions.

He also rather enjoyed beating them senseless. Either way, no such man had presented himself tonight. The only individual befitting that description, that Vahni could think of anyway, was Spike Waterford. He hadn't spoken it aloud to the others--not that Vahni got too chummy with his Firebird compatriots, anyway--but the little, blonde brat had been on his mind as of recent.

Especially at night.

Vahni grunted, upset at himself. To desire another was to give into weakness. He had thought enough Rubedo in his system would have corrected that flaw. Perhaps he was going through withdraws. That would make sense, as Rage's thoughts had instead turned back to his family and their wellbeing.

I wondered what foreign dishes mother has become obsessed with this month. Last time Vahni was home at the family estate, it had been French. Rage had ordered the family servants to get their hands on every 5-star French cook book they could find, and had even flown a famous French chef to give his mother cooking lessons. She had produced a remarkable soufflé by the end of it all. But that was mother. She set her mind something and did it.

I must get it from her, Vahni laughed to himself. Certainly not Father's side.

He wondered how his many brothers and sisters were keeping, as well. It really had been some time. Amit probably has his nose in a book. Deepak probably has a nose in a girl instead. I wonder if Lakshmi has released her new fashion line....

Vahni Rage suddenly looked up. The droplets on his skin evaporated into steam at once, with the instinctual activation of his glyph. "Hm!? Who dares--"

"Calm yourself, Rage. It is I."

Rage narrowed his eyes, and sighed. The President really did love coming in and watching him shower. "Yes, sir." Like an attack dog on a short leash, Rage sometimes resented the man who had offered him such power. 

Up until now, however, Semyon had maintained a careful balance of demand and acquiescence. The tall ghoul stood outside the stall. "Well fought, Rage. A most impressive battle, as always. I wanted to let you know that Slayer I will be leaving for Ireland this weekend."

"That so? Shall I have my servants pack my bags, then."

"Your assistance is not needed at this time, Rage, though I am sure you would make short work of the spellbreakers lined up, anyway."

At one point in time, Rage would have accepted the flattery. Now, however, his recent ennui had alerted him to the gaps in Semyon's management style. "This is the third leg of the world tour, and yet you have not put me on the card yet. I am sure you have a strategy, Mr. President. You always do. But, you would certainly have heard it by now from my fans that it is...odd to be under-utilizing your champion in such a way."

"As always, my prized bull, your beloved president has only your best interests in mind. And, perhaps monetary gain. But that is secondary to your shining talent. Mark my words, you will be joining the journey in due time."

In addition to being a deadly brawler, however, Rage was a shrewd tactician as well. He swiftly put together that Semyon's gallivanting overseas meant that his presence back at Firebird HQ in Moscow had been diminished. Which also meant that the team's scheduled rubedo injections were more infrequent. Enough so, perhaps, that it had dulled Rage's blood lust. 

Maybe this is why I am so damn bored, he thought absently. Yet, beneath it, something else bothered him. Maybe there was a secret benefit to these withdrawals. A clearer head. 

"What happened to bringing aboard Camazotz Jr." Rage asked, waving for Semyon to hand him a towel. "I was under the assumption he was being fast tracked. Took me by surprise, especially with Serpent's...er...control, on his men."

"Ah, the good Serpent has his methods. I have mine. Unfortunately, Camazotz Jr. passed away. Heart failure. Magick can do many things, Rage, but it cannot stave off the angel of death."

"Huh, that's odd. Well, my condolences. I had hoped to face him in the ring. Slayer has also been absent as of usual. Seems he's been coming to your office with unusual frequency." Rage smiled. Dull his suspicions with a bit of humility. Throw him off the trail. "Even I do not wish to bother you that much, President."

"So many questions, Rage!" Smeyon said, handing Vahni a towel through the gap in the curtain.

As well as a syringe, full of slightly luminous, crimson red liquid. 

"You are going through withdraws, Rage. Allow me to fix that."

"More Rubedo? Is that necessary?"

"Oh, Rage, my sweet boy! I am quite saddened to hear these tones of mistrust in your voice! You know I only have the best for you in mind. But, suit yourself. Of course, I cannot--in good consciences that is--put a spellbreaker out on the reserves if he's going through rubedo withdrawal. Even if that spellbreaker is the champion..."

The puddle beneath Rage's bare feet instantly boiled into steam. He couldn't stay his anger. Still, it was unwise to bite the hand that fed him. "Yes, sir," he said.

"I shall leave it to you then, Champion. Oh, but before I go...how is your family?"

"Fine," Rage said, curtly. "Thanks for asking." You never did ask before. "My mother seems to have an obsession with foreign cuisine. I am considering ordering the servants to help her start a business. I think she has the mind for it, and it will keep her active and happy in her age."

"Ah, a mother's son at heart. How...nice."

Rage grunted. He didn't like being perceived as 'soft'. "Funny, Sir. You never really ask about my family."

"The House of Ray are celebrated. To have a son of one of the Fire Priests among my ranks, especially with the blood of the embodiment of the flame himself, is a rare thing. Your family intrigues me. I hear, in fact, that a great many artefacts can be found at your family's temple. While I know many carry religious importance, I hope you would not mind me asking about the...hmm...secular objects of renown? Is perhaps, a goblet or chalice among them?"

Rage was silent for a time, before he spoke again. "The treasury and vaults of the temple are a private matter, and even I have little knowledge of the inventory. I am sorry, sir. However, perhaps when I am on the phone with my mother again..."

"Ah, it is no pressing matter." Rage heard footsteps, and a door open. "Enjoy your rest, Rage. I will have Sveta brief you on your next match."

The door shut.

When Rage was absolutely certain he was alone, he sniffed, cracked open the injection of rubedo, and poured it down the drain.

Perhaps it is the withdrawal talking, but I daresay that devil is starting to outlive his usefulness. He wants to know about the Chalice of Spirit? I'll need to have a word with Uncle. And I'll need to have Sveta book me a flight to Ireland. I think it is time that I made an...unannounced appearance.