Double Teamed!

A cool, Autumn twilight bathed the GSA compound in a velvety, misty evening. Between tournaments on the world tour arc, the spellbreakers had finally found some well-earned downtime. The recent departure (in good faith) of Reina Rosa, a cornerstone of the GSA and friend to many, was felt by all. Buck, tasked with running the GSA in his father Colt's absence, was settling into his responsibilities. The return of  the mischievous 'Nightmare Prodigals', Deadboy Daemian and Icewolf, had put the others on high alert, least of all Spike, a target of both violence and seduction for the two roguish magi. There was also, of course the ever-hanging threat posed by rival federation, Firebird.

Which was all to say that a little bit of 'nothing' was going a long way for the muscle headed himbos of the scrappy collective. Iggy and Victor, injured either physically or emotionally, were recuperating well. However, this had created a fresh problem. Without a mentor (Iggy), Spike had fallen back into a few bad habits. Namely, lusting after bad-boys. It didn't help that Deadboy Daemian had only recently declared Spike his 'boyfriend', something for which Spike--who had actually wanted a relationship for quite some time--wasn't necessarily in agreement. Daemian came on strong, and the only thing they really had in common was their affinity for referring to a collective group of people as 'yous guys' (a linguistic, convergent evolution shared by New Yorkers and Aussies).

Fortunately, Deadboy's powers allowed him a broader degree of travel. This weekend, he was back in hometown of Marrickville, in Sydney, Australia, training with his federation SxS. Though Deadboy had every intent of keeping Spike on a particular short leash (sometimes literally), his partner, the even-minded demon, Braxius, had convinced him to to channel his aggression on the hapless trainees coming into the irreverent and macabre SxS purview. Without a terrifying (if not occasionally tender) 'boyfriend' to worry about, Spike had time to hang out with his new buddies, Icewolf (Robbie Whitewolf) and the ever bombastic and entertaining, Tirano Rex. As Rex, in his more mild-mannered and intelligent civilian form, Tiago Reyes, was in town assisting the GSA with locating the erstwhile Divine Chalices (a story for another time). After a hard day of research, T. Rex was eager to sink his teeth into a wild animal, and Robbie had thusly suggested some training in the practice ring.

Of course, every guy at the GSA knew what 'training in the practice ring' really meant.

"Finally," Robbie said, stretching his arms in the ring corner. He yawned, his diamond-cut abs visible beneath the slit of his shirt, resting just above his tight trunks. "It's nice getting to spare with you, dino bro. You know, now that you don't need to worry about me kicking your ass, that is." Handsome Robbie smirked. Befitting a hockey player, he was tall, with a rich, dark complexion, and equally dark, shining eyes. With a short cropped hair and muscles to boot, he was the picture of a jock stud.

Sitting in the deck chair at the side of the ring, blonde, Spike (a stud in his own right) cupped his hands to his mouth. "Ooooooooh. Are you gonna take that lying down, big guy?"

The enormous muscular man in the corner directly opposite from Robbie, AKA Icewolf, tugged on his mask's strings, tightening it around his head. The dinosaur masked Tirano Rex (real name, Tiago Reyes) turned his head slowly, monster-like, towards his rival. "I WILL NOT," he roared. "BECAUSE I AM ALREADY STANDING UP!"

Robbie drew back, genuinely intimidated. "Woah, bro, that's deep. Hey, but this just gonna be some friendly sparring!"

"And I'm reffing!" Spike piped up. His feathery blonde hair bounced (along with his pecs) in time with his rambunctious cheering. 

"From over there?" Robbie asked, as dumbfounded as his opponent. 

"Yeah!" Spike said. "Because...I don't want to get hurt! I saw yous guyse's match! I don't need to get frozen solid, or impaled, or accidentally...you know...eaten alive. Besides, if it's just training, you don't really need a ref." His heart-winning smile was assuring.

Still, T. Rex, the smartest of all three (believe it or not) grit his teeth at the sexy spectator. "YOU TRY TO TRICK TIRANO? GRRR. I WILL EAT YOU LIKE A TINY, CHOCOLATE BISCUIT."

"Hey, big guy," Robbie said, distracting his opponent by slowly removing his hockey jersey. He locked eyes with his former nemesis, slowly running his hand down his washboard abs, cupping his bulge arrogantly. "I got your snack right here."

T. Rex's lizard-like eyes nearly bulged out of his mask. "WOOOOAH!" he roared. "TASY WOLFIE. Hehe. BUT I AM THE BIGGEST..." 

He flexed his biceps.

"BADDEST!"

He turned and flexed his rippling back.

"DINO DADDY RARRRGH!"

Roaring like a savage animal, the Jurassic luchador struck a 'most muscular' pose, all of his coppery, veiny muscles bulging out in mass.

Clearly, Spike had the best view of the house. A natural born hedonist, he wasn't shy about letting his hard-on rage, even with his friends. "When the zombie boy's away," he growled softly, stroking the front of his tight jeans, "the sailor will play." 

The cold wolf likewise loved what he saw. "Oh fuck, bro, look at that back. Come at me, you dinosaur chicken nugget!"

The lockup was explosive. Spike could almost picture the sparks. Even though it was just a friendly spar, the attractive Brooklynite saw quite plainly that these two studs were giving it all they got. Thankfully, this bout was far less tense than their previous match. There was a playfulness in either man's eyes. 

Rex was the stronger of the two, but Icewolf was quicker. He went for a top wrist lock, expertly reversed by T. Rex, kicking off a spiralling and twisting of muscular bodies trying to get the other into a painful position. The dance ended, with inelegant tactics, when T. Rex reared up his big boot and slammed poor Icy right in the gut, knocking him off his stance.

Drooling with hunger, and teeth gnashing, Rex went for a take down with a twist...a BITE to Icewolf neck. "SO MEATY!"

"Gah!" Icewolf yelped, trying to shove the hunky, masked man off of him. It was no use! Rex clamped down harder, using his hands to explore and violate Wolf's sweaty chest. "That's grade A Canadian beef you're sinking your dirty teeth into, bro!"

Rex dropped his opponent to the mat. A seasoned spellbreaker might use this opportunity to twist Icewolf into all sorts of submission moves or joint locks, which Tirano Rex could easily accomplish, of course. But the Dino Daddy was content to play with his food, and savor the taste. He mounted Icewolf, who reacted by putting up his leg guard, wrapping his giant thighs around his opponent. If he compressed hard enough, he thought, then he might be able to squeeze a submission off the brute!

But T. Rex was only emboldened by the tactic. "Big legs!" he salivated, drooling onto his opponents too-obvious bulge, a spherical protrusion between the logo of a wolf head.

Icewolf gagged. "That's disgusting!"

"HAHAHA! I KNOW!" Rex dug in like a savage beast, clawing and pummelling Icewolf's chest. "TENDERIZE MY MEAT!"

He can tenderize my meat, Spike thought, ringside, equally hungry for some the action. A mischievous smile crossed his lips, and without thinking, his hands began to wander to his crotch. He pictured Kengo 'poofing' onto his shoulder in a puff of smoke, an angel telling him that he was violating spectator etiquette. Deadboy Daemian, in sulfuric, green miasma, materialized on Spike's left shoulder, encouraging him to slip his pants into his jeans and starting feeling himself up. It wasn't like two oversexed, violent himbos like them would mind, right?

Icwolf struggled to throw off the heavyweight beast, currently clawing and gauging at his opponent with a wild abandoned. "I thought this was supposed to be a friendly practice session!"

"IT IS FRIENDLY!" Rex slobbered. "YOU AREN'T HAVING FUN, AMIGO? HEH. WHY DON'T I TEAR OFF YOUR CUTE LITTLE BRIEFS AND..." Rex stopped, suddenly, mid-sentence.

It was then that Spike realized, with a mixture of embarrassment and terror, that Rex was looking directly at him with those lizard eyes. Hand, buried deep in the trenches of his tight briefs, Spike was the cat that had caught the canary (or certain other, male fowl, in this instance). 

"Uh oh."

"GRRR." Rex seized his merciless assault, pointing an accusatory claw at his one-man audience. "YOU SEE THAT, PUP! THAT DIRTY TWINK IS STROKING HIMSELF TO OUR FIGHT!"

"WHAT!" Robbie, still on his back, struggled to turn his head towards Spike, who was now innocently whistling to himself and looking the other way. He laughed. "Aw, little bro, really? This turn you on, eh?" 

Robbie and T. Rex's eyes met. Their conspiratorial grins mirrored each other. "You thinking what I'm thinking, my prehistoric papicito?"

"HEHEHE." T. Rex licked his lips. "WHY NOT USE LITTLE SAILOR FOR PRACTICE?"

"Look at the time!" Spike squeeked, removing his hand from his underwear, and bolting up out of his chair. "Golly, look at theeeee time. I forgot, I gotta go do that...thing I was gonna do. I'll catch yous guys later!"

Channelling his hockey-playing instincts, Robbie rolled out of the ring ahead of Spike, sliding to the door and taking a grappling stance. He cracked his knuckle against his other hand. "Going somewhere, pup?"

Spike gulped. He knew his goose was cooked when Robbie called him 'pup', with that flirty-but-bulling way of his. "Aw, Robbie, you know I'm a fan! I just need to go-"

Spike felt something poke him in the back. Hot, wet, breath on his back made his blood run cold. A wet, slimy tongue ran up one side of his neck, while a heavy claw dug into his soft, white flesh on the other side. He gulped again, seeing Robbie's smile turn ice cold.

"NOT GOING ANYWHERE, MEAT. HEHEHE." 

"No! No! Nooo!!!!" Was all Spike could let out, before the air in his lungs was pushed out by a tight, suffocating reverse bearhug on behalf of T. Rex, dragging him back to the ring like a serial killer. Robbie, his hands behind his neck like a casual observer, followed in close pursuit.

"B-but I can't do spellbreaking right now!" Spike protestested, kicking wildly. "I have my clothes on!"

"Don't worry, little bro," Icewolf said, burying his nose into Spike's crotch as Rex lifted Spike up into position. Robbie took a deep, invasive sniff. "Mmmm. Smells like fresh meat, Rex!"

"WILL TASTE GOOD TOO," Rex replied, squeezing Spike even harder, and rubbing the front of his trunks against Spike's bubble butt. "WE DOUBLE TEAM THIS BOY?" Rex threw Spike over his shoulder, clear across the ropes.

Spike landed on his front, and it was only for his falling know-how that he didn't slam his pretty face into the canvas and knock out his teeth! Still, the combo of T. Rex's bear hug and his toss was enough to take the momentum out of him. 

Though, it did activate his glyph.

Robbie and Rex wasted no time sliding into the ring or jumping over the ropes, like two pack animals ready to joyously tear their prey apart. "FUCK YEAH!" Robbie hollered, bringing his boot down on Spike's butt. "It's GO time, team!"

"Why I outta'!" Scrappy Spike barked back. He wasn't gonna' just take this lying down...er...on his stomach! He made a fist, ready to wallop either of his pal's handsome faces (masked or no).

Rex got to him first. But it was a creative assault. Spile didn't event realize what he was doing, as the Dino Daddy grabbed the front of his shirt with his hands, pulling the fabric to either side.

"HOPE THIS SHIRT NOT IMPORTANT!"

"It's my gym shirt!" Spike squeeked. But it was too late. Fabric ripped from his body like paper, exposing his pale, model-like torso. 

"WOAHHHHH!" Robbie and Rex said in unison, both of them licking their chops.

I really am fresh meat! Spike thought, as it dawned on him that he was completely outmatched! 

Rex dug back into Spike with a vengeance, gripping him around the back and pulling him into a sweaty, painful bearhug. He took the opportunity to push his knuckles into Spike's tender spine, jumping up and down to pile on the pressure. Spike grit his teeth, buckling against the brutal squeeze.

"I BREAK TOY!" Rex growled. "MORE SCARED. MORE TASTY!"

"Q-quit it," Spike whined. Though, in truth, he didn't mind it.

"WHY SPIKE NOT LIKE BIG MUSCLE BEAR HUG AGAINST SEWATY CHEST IF HIS COCK SO HARD!" T. Rex growled, now gyrating his own bulge against the front of Spike's jeans. "TASTY, TASTY SPIKE! *nom*"

Now it was Spike's turn to get chomped on the neck by the king of dinosaurs! Far from a vicious attack, however, Rex nibbled and licked Spike's neck, deliberatley turning him on. Between being forced into a rough embrace, and having his neck nerves lit up at once, Spike experienced an endorphon explosion. His eyes rolled back into his head. He sincerely hoped he wouldn't pass out from the pain before he maximied his pleasure.

"Hey, Rexy!" Icewolf sneered, squaring up like a goalie ready to take on a shot, "Don't hog the stud! Hand him over to his favorite bro!" Arms wide open, Icewolf was ready to receive!"

Rex was happy to toss Spike throw the hair, a human hockey puck on a collision course with a vicious defense.

"Wolfie's got ya!" Robbie roared, intertwining Spike inside the cage of his muscles. Robbie's bear hug was even worse than Rex's! Spike thought his teeth might break from gritting down. "Awwww what's a matter, chief? Gonna wet yourself, little boy?"

Spike couldn't protest! All the air had been driven out of his lungs by the double bear hug assault. He thought he might even pass out at any moment.

Thankfully, Robbie was slightly more merciful than his tyrannically counterpart. He eased up, and began thrusting and gyrating on Spike's vulnerable bulge. "You like this, pup, don't ya? I saw you stroking it to us. You like our muscles, huh, is that it?"

"N-no," Spike whined.

"Yeah, you do! You like it when Wolfie humps ya, don't ya! Hahaha!" Robbie, unable to resist, forced his mouth onto Spike's.

And Spike, unable to resist the taste of sweaty, muscle jock, tongued him back. He gave in to his carnal impulses, returning Wolfie's bulge rubbing with his own. Both of them were tenting now. Hockey stick against hockey stick.

"That's my little bro from another hoe," Robbie said softly, removing his prying lips from his prey. "You want this, don't you? You want a big bad wolf and dino to make you moan?"

"Fuck, I do," Spike said with a lustful sigh. There was no use hiding it, right?

Rex, gracelessly rubbing the front of his own trunks, chimed in. "YOU WILL HAVE TO EARN IT. THE PRICE...IS PAIN!"

More pain, more pleasure, Spike thought. But he couldn't let them know that!

"Well, since you like muscles so much," Robbie began. "How about a taste?"

Icewolf embraced Spike tightly, nibbling on his neck, the sensation distracting Spike from the reality that was the himbo hockey player tightening his grip on Spike's lower back, bear hugging (or wolf hugging) him tightly. Spike reared his head back, cringing from the compression, but found his pretty blond head pressed forward down, hard, by Rex's claw-like grip. Spike's face was forcefully buried into the sweaty valley of Icewolf's pecs.

Icewolf bristled at his prey's touch. "Lick it like a good pup," he commanded. "Are you a good pup?"

Spike's tongue worked ahead of his brain. He lapped Robbie like a treat, tongue gliding over his hard nipples and the crest of his pecs. "I'm such a good pup," the younger spellbreaker said. He was almost embarrassed at how hard he was, and the amount of precum he was likely leading down his pants. Thankfully, they were still on.

Or so he thought. Rex yanked them off, not shy about digging his claws into Spike and leaving behind traces of deep red. Animalistic and grunting, Rex pulled them off his catch while Robbie hoisted Spike into the air with his iron grip, earning another moan from the poor sailor stud.

Rex wasn't shy about burying his face, mask and all, into Spike's wedgied up bubble butt either. 

Blushing, as well as bruised, Spike looked down at Robbie, sneering at him. "Aww, don't worry, bud. My friend here is just saying hello. How's he taste, eh?"

Rex's long tongue trailed up Spike's back, up to his neck, where he gnawed on him again. "EAT YOU ALIVE, LITTLE ONE."

"Fuck," Spike moaned, ready to tap out from pleasure and pain. "But what if I want to eat."

"YOU HAVE POINT! HEHEHE. FEED LITTLE DINO. LITTLE DINO NEED EAT TOO."

Next thing Spike knew, he was free out Robbie's wolf grip. He breathed, his back soar. But relief didn't last long (nor breath) before his face was buried deep in T. Rex's musky, Jurassic pits. His other harm held Spike in a half bear-hug, doing the work on his upper back.

Spike breathed in his man/beast scent, licking his pits. "Oh fuck, T. Rex. Oh yeah..."

"GOOD. YOU TAKE IN SCENT. REX MARK YOU LIKE TERRITORY."

"Speaking of which," Robbie said, yanking Spike free like a beast ripping back his portion from a fellow hunter, "Show a big pup how his little pup bro greet him."

He threw Spike to the mat. Dizzy with oxygen deprivation and musk, Spike looked up just in time to see a Robbie's brief covered hockey butt hovering inches from his face. Slowly, and somewhat goofily, Robbie swivelled his hips and pulled down his trunks, revealing a mint-colored jock strap and a certified hockey muscle butt. Spike, who considered himself the 'peach prince' was both jealous and honored. Even more so when all of that ass smothered his face slowly.

Spike kept on his feast. If they were going to treat him like a pup, then he was going to show them that he could dig in with the best of 'em.

Icewolf's eyes rolled back into his head. "Ohhhhh damn, Rexy. He just reversed my move."

Rex smiled. "Hehehe. Spike hungry."

Completely smothered and covered by all of the hockey hunk's best features, Spike held out his hand and gave Rex a thumbs up.

"Damn, when is he coming up for air?" Robbie moaned. He had underestimated his foe. "Okay, I'm sitting back now. You get in there in full, little bro."

"Mmmff!!!"

Spike began to thrash his legs and arms, as Robbie leaned back harder, pushing himself into Spike's face.

"Whining?" Icewolf, regaining the upper hand, a. sked. "Oh no, little pup. You might need to go into the Penalty Box for that."

Before he could pass out, Spike, covered in the masculine scent of two men, found his neck clamped down and forced into the jock's pits. Icewolf's dragon sleeper submission was as humiliating as it was brutal. Spike wasn't sure if his neck would break first or he'd pass out.

"That's right," Robbie said, pawing at Spike's giant bulge in his underwear. "I'll put my scent on you here too. Mark my territory." As his prey stuggled for air and relief, Robbie yanked down Spike's trunks, letting the pinup stud's second best feature free. Robbie's eyes grew large and hungry. "WOOOAH! Spikey, you're a thick little stud."

"MMMFFF..." Spike moaned weakly.

In total control now, Robbie gave Spike's seven-inch wonder a few strokes, turning his pain into pleasure. Like a hungry dog, Rex pushed his hand inside and swallowed Spike's girth whole, slurping and sucking on him like a creature starved of water.

It wasn't fair, Spike thought, moments away from tapping out. He was going to pass out just as he was about to reach peak pleasure.

Fortunately, the dino daddy interceded on his behalf. He growled at his fledgling tag buddy. "GRRR! WOLFIE! DO NOT PUT HIM OUT! HE CANNOT HAVE FUN IF HIM K.O!"

Robbie rolled his eyes. "Ugh, fine." He dropped a blue-faced and red-throated Spike to the canvas. "You're free, I guess."

"Let's remove these," Rex said, softly, ripping off Spike's underwear. The kid was out of it!

"We'll join in," Robbie said with a wink, taking off his jock and showing off his fat cock to his admirers.

Rex licked his lips. "We are big men, huh?" He tugged his briefs off. The largest of the three, Rex's uncut cock swang pendulously, making even authentic sluts like Robbie blushed.

Spike, dazed, bruised, and in pain, wasn't sure if he was in hell or in heaven. Like Tantalus, trapped between sweet waters and sweeter fruit, he couldn't move his neck up to take in either Rex or Wolf's lengths. 

"Look at that." Robbie said, turning Spike over. "Let's finish him with that cute bubble butt up." Indeed, Spike's best asset was a the bubble butt to end all other bubble butts--two perfectly sculpted spheres of soft, pink flesh. "Jaws of the Predators!"

Both Robbie and Rex wrapped their tree trunk legs around Spike, with Robbie's hocky legs taking is neck, and Rex's beastly thighs trapping Spike's mid section in a vice. Rex tugged on Spike's legs, and Robbie held back his arms so he couldn't escape.

"Ugggnnnn," Spike moaned, feeling both neck and back buckle under pressure. This was easly one of the worst (and hottest submissions) he had ever been placed in!

Thankfully, these heels were more merciful than most. "You give, cutie?" Robbie asked.

"YES! I GIVE!" There was no shame in it, Spike thought. He just knew if he passed out, he wouldn't be able to enjoy what happened next!

Triumphant in their takedown, Rex and Robbie planted their respective boots on Spike's still-sore back, drawing out another sharp cry from their defeated prey. Robbie and Rex both flexed their biceps for each other, with Rex giving Robbie a savage chest bump.

Then, a more tender, but animalistic kiss. The studs and opponent's knew their bodies. Hands travelled across sculpted, copper-colored muscles. Cocks rutted against each other, growing more swollen. Precum dripped on Spike's prone back like drops of rain.

The three men were so horned up, that all of them knew instinctually that they would not last long. Rex and Robbie took turns eating out Spike's hole, making the blond moan yet again (in far better circumstances) Greedy, Rex and Robbie pushed each other away, fighting over their meat, burying their face in. They made a contest of whose tongue could go in deeper, and make Spike moan harder.

Meanwhile, Spike, overcome with endorphins, entered a soporific trance. All is forgiven, he thought, drooling to himself as hunks ate him quite literally alive. He felt a wet puddle under his pelvis. He wouldn't even need to touch himself for long before he spilled everywhere. 

Rex wiped his face, and took the lead in bringing Spike to his feet by yanking on his sweaty, matted hair. "Heheh. WE GIVE HIM REAL FINISHING MOVE NOW."

Robbie lifted the entranced Spike up by the chin and kissed him hard and deep, exploring and violating his mouth with his tongue. "He's like our little sex toy," he said, wrapping his arms around Spike from the front, while Rex took the back. Both studs began grinding their meat on Spike, with Rex probing and teasing the crevasse of his ass cheeks, while Robbie's cock had its own wrestling match with Spike's. "Feel good, getting humped and rubbed on by two muscle studs?"

"Y-yes, Spike moaned." 

The two beasts were relentless. They humped and grinded on their prey, muscles tensing and flexing, coating Spike in their jock sweat. It was too much for Spike to bear.

"Oh shit," he cried out, "I'm gonna cum hard."

"Right there with you, pup," Robbie said, squinting. "Ohhh fuck." 

Like dual fountains, Spike and Robbie creamed at the same time, with Spike a consistent dribble, and Robbie's load thick and ropey. A small puddle formed near their feet, as they finished off with making out savagely, giving way to the beast within.

At the apex of his pleasure, Spike turned and looked at Rex. "Come on, Daddy. Mark your boy."

Rex did as told. "Right...against...your cute butt." He grunted and thrusted, wetting Spike's back with waves of cum.

All three men found themselves against the ropes, leaning back and falling into each other's arms with sighs and contented laughter. Spike, in the middle, cuddled by two mountains of muscle, received plenty of reassuring kisses, neck nibbles, and soft caresses. He felt like the real winner of this match.

That was until Robbie, with a mischievous glint, pointed to the puddle (pool, really) of milky white fluid in the center of the ring. "Loser has to clean up!"

Spike bit his lip, looking at the mess of his own making. "Aw, man! No fair!"

The End

Chapter 6: Alliance Shifts

Moscow, Russia. A well-decorated apartment.

Vahni Rage's eyes flash open, already lit with the start of a fire. First, he looks over at the small, muscular, and severely bruised boy cradled in his arm. Contentment crosses his lips as he breathes. Bored of his acquisition, Rage looks over at the source of his instinctual ignition. Semyon Grigorivich, President of Firebird, and Rage's boss, watches him. An unannounced intrusion. Not the first time, either.

Rage grunts.

Rage: Hey. Boy. Wake up. Time for you to leave.

Boy: ...Huh?

Rage: Put on your clothes. 

Boy: Er, yes.

Rage: Yes, what.

Boy: Yes, sir. Uh...will...you call me?

Rage: No. Have a good a day.

Alone now, and clad in a bergundy colored bathrobe, it's just him and Semyon. Having weened himself off rubedo for weeks, Rage's thoughts and feelings towards the men have decidedly changed. The elixir of the alchemists, perhaps, has blinded Rage for too long. Blinded him with the thrill of conquests. But these little boys continue to bore him. No threats. No contenders. His mind turns, hungrily, to Spike Waterford. Yes, the boys these days do look like him. Tender. Strong. Defiant. 

But Spike isn't what Rage wants, right now, as he sits across from his employer...no doubt about to tell him something grave, with the addition of a request. Always a favor. No, right now, Rage only wants to be where Semyon is sitting. Should the champion, with no worthy conquests left to pursue, not rise to the position of president?

Semyon: You look...tired.

Rage: What a compliment from someone who let himself into my own apartment. I've broken men's faces for less...

Semyon: I will remind you that Firbird paid for this apartment.

Rage: And I'll remind you that I'm the reason Firbird sells so many tickets, so, in a way, I paid for this apartment. I am Firebird. And considering employee relations as of recent, I have strong feedback for you, Boss. What happened to Slayer? And don't give me that sabbatical bullshit.

Semyon: So contrarian today, my prized bull! I have only come to discuss our pursuits outside of the business. Our men are still looking for dearest Arthur.

Rage: Somehow I doubt it.  And you've come here to tell me I was a fool for letting Deadboy and Icewolf do our dirty work. I am here to tell you that it went according to plan. Your little Alchemist friends, laying in wait. That's who I was after.

Semyon: Ah, so you wanted confirmation?

Rage: A champion has multiple paths to victory--I was hoping to bag their agent and the Chalice. Instead, I know now that they are working against Firebird. I was watching your back. You can choose to believe it or not; I don't care. I'm a bastard but I do have loyalty.

Semyon: And I choose...to believe you.

Rage: Were you behind this stunt of theirs? Did you not trust me, or were you honestly worried about Deadboy?

Semyon: Now, don't insult me, dear one! Your wavering faith in me has--most ironically--proven your loyalty to Firebird.

Rage: I am not following.

Semyon: My dear champion, you've drawn the rats out of hiding! Since the beginning, I knew Recida and her strange lot had their own agenda. This proves it. Deadboy's eyewitness testimony does, anyway. And are you certain that he saw an Alchemist take the Chalice of Voice?

Rage: It matches their description. For so-called rats that scurry among shadows, they don rather dramatic apparel. So, is Recida Di Sangro their leader?

Semyon: A golden question, my boy. No. For all their scheming, there is much I admire about the Alchemist chapter of Italy. Their leader is...unknown. I hear they operate through...conduits, shall we say? Recida is up in the ranks, but she does not--as you might say--'call the shots'. Though...in light of this power play, with the Chalice and all, I am beginning what her plan is. Hehe. She probably is thinking the same thing about me...

Rage: You types do have weird ways of flirting. But to answer the question, the Chalice could just be collateral for them. You've been listening to the radio, I assume? The Russians are making some risky movements on their borders just to appease their masses.

Semyon: Which grow increasingly resentful of the Tsar by the day. Listen to the radio? Hah. Look out the window, my dear boy. 

Rage: I assure you, I have.

Semyon: Ah, I have been here before. Riding the uncertain tides of Russia's history--its crests, its waves. It never gets old. My dear, prized bull, chaos and uncertainty are fertile fields for which to sow seeds of opportunity. We merely tend to them now, watch them grow. Perhaps the Alchemists want the Chalice for reasons of security. Something to keep them safe. Annoying, to be sure, but that at least I can work with.

Semyon gets up from the table. Rage's eyes are on the window. Snow falls over all. In the distance, lights from government buildings burning; the aftermath of another protest.  

Semyon: You have confirmed your loyalty, Rage...albeit in a roundabout way. However, we do need to talk about other matters. Something tells me your...disagreeable state, as of recent, may be related to rubedo withdrawals?

Rage narrows his eyes. The snake has sniffed him out. But Rage knows this game. In Spellbreaking, as in backstabbing, there are strategies...

Rage: Do you honestly expect me to trust the stuff the Alchemists are giving us?

Semyon: Hmm. Fair. But you should have come to me, first. Our stockpile of rubedo was given to us before our friends in Italy got these silly notions in their head. I do trust the formula is safe and I expect you to continue using it. Mind you, we still have a tournament on, and we need you in peak performance. And I believe next month you will be defending your home turf, so I hear?

Rage's hands grip the table, harder. The smell of fine wood burning begins to fill his nostrils. So, that's the creep's next move, is it? Come for the Chalice of Spirit, right in Rage's own back yard. Rage stills his wrath. He smiles. He has this under control. He knows what to do.

Rage: Don't worry, Boss. Let your Champion shine.

----

The Palazzo Di Sangro, Italy

A fireplace roars strong in an old, haunting room. Statues of noble-dressed Romans, remarkably lifelike, line the room, watch from their alcoves. They peer down on the glamorous woman, her legs crossed tight, her hands clutching the stem of a wineglass. They peer down at the massive, hulking figure in robe and mask, sitting across from her. 

Jackal: Love the spooky digs, Recida. But let's cut to the chase. I thought you told Grigorivich you had no damn idea where the Chalice given to the Alchemists was hiding?

Recida: Mmm. Yes, I did, didn't I? I lied.

Jackal: Paris! Quelle sournois!

Recida: Well, not exactly a lie. We knew it was either in Paris or Prague, and likely sealed in one of the bone ateliers used by the Old Masters. Dr. Reyes might be certifiably insane, but his research is clear as day. Rage, the necromancer, and the ice magi led us right to it. What I want to know, Gold Mask--

Jackal: Please, my friends call me Jackal.

Recida: --is what Vahni Rage is doing acting as a free agent? As I understood, Semyon wished to keep him on a very short leash.

Jackal: Of course. He's a human weapon! A double edged sword can be turned both ways. Besides, his family has the Chalice of Spirit. Would be a shame if the Alchemists threw Semyon and the Tsarina under the boss and got their hands on two McGuffins, now, wouldn't it? Oopsie!

Recida: ...You're lying.

Jackal: Am I?

Recida: Just what is your aim, here, Jackal? Don't play games.

Jackal: Ah, ah, ah! I keep my cards close to my chest. Same as you.

Recida: Are you looking to pit our gray triad against each other? I hear you can be very manipulative.

Jackal: Oh, you have no idea, woman. But I have no qualms with the Alchemists, Di Sangro. It's the Tsarina that I distrust the most. She's short-sighted and crazy. That expensive egg of hers that she lives in now has scrambled her brain.

Recida: Concerning the old bitch, you and I are in agreement. The UN won't stand for her insanity. Nor will Aradia, once they get a whiff that arcane weaponry is involved in these affairs. And it's only a matter of time. That's to say nothing of what Semyon plans to do with the Chalices. Our researchers have been looking into that, and Kitezh.

Jackal: Ah yes, the so-called lost city...not so lost anymore. 

Recida: Something happened there about a millennia ago. 

Jackal: Yeah, it sunk!

Recida: You've heard of Atlantis, yes? Or Imran, of the Pillars? Or Madain Saari?

Jackal: Two are myths. One is not.

Recida: Two were wiped off the face of the planet, and Madain Saari lay in ruins and avoided by the locals for incurring the wrath of the Goddess. These were great civilizations, whose legacies only live on in oral history and rumor. 

Jackal: ...Because their records were destroyed?

Recida: Exactly, and Kitezh, the same. From what we gather though, all of these kingdoms had one thing in common: a strong tradition of magickal experimentation in defiance of the Goddess Aethrin.

Jackal: And you think divine punishment is what did them in?

Recida: No, I think fear of divine punishment is what kept other cultures from doing what they did! I strongly believe they tried to unlock a type of forbidden magick, and it cost them dearly. And I suspect Semyon intends to do the same, with the Chalices, and with whatever lay in Kitezh.

Jackal: A...space laser?

Recida: Don't be stupid.

Jackal: How science fictiony! I love it, I love it. Oh, and I already gathered as much as well. Hands in many pots, you know! Many curious whispers in my ear from my informants. Good to know we're on the same page, though, Recida.

Recida: Goddess, spies everywhere...do you understand now how we Alchemists cannot trust a soul?

Jackal: Er...bit of projection there, don't you think? So, what, is the Chalice here in the Palazzo Di Sangro? Oh, don't look at me like that! You'll break my tender little heart! I have more power than a damn Chalice, and no reason to give over to the Tsarina.

Recida: Yes. It is here. Where no magick can reach it.

Jackal: Not with the devices you have here, anyway. Talk about hostile architecture...  

Recida: The Chalice is merely a bargaining chip if Russia turns against us.

Jackal: Who is this 'us' you speak of?"

Recida: Don't pretend. You may wear that mask, but I see right through you. You want power.

Jackal: Who doesn't want power? Two Chalices with the GSA. One with Firebird. One with the Alchemists. One with the Agni Temple. That leaves two unaccounted for. But...I may know where one lies.

Recida: And I may know the location of one as well. Which one are you talking about? You go first.

Jackal: Don't be coy. I have word that the GSA is coming to Italy, as it were! Ciao bella.

Recida: For us?

Jackal: Don't be paranoid; unlike that color you're wearing, it looks bad on you. Our buff boys in colorful underwear appear to be acting in a double-capacity as foot-soldiers for Aradia. I mean, requires a fair amount of suspension of disbelief, admittedly--magickal pro wrestlers in the service of an international organization hunting down mystical artifacts? But hey, that's what the people want...

Recida: That plucky blonde pinup boy?

Jackal: The very same twink.

Recida: I want that twink obliterated!

Jackal: ...Define the method of obliteration and perhaps I'd love to help with that.

Recida: UGH! Those vultures! It better not leak that the Chalice of Voice is with us. We Alchemists can be very unforgiving. 

Jackal: Then, I say we forge an alliance for now, Recida. 'Til we find out what Semyon's true intentions are. Now, speaking of power plays...Italy. What the hell is going on here? Why all the drama?

Recida: Do you know anything about us Italians? Well, where to begin? The great unified nation of Italy has always been, in actuality, many kingdoms at each other's throats. Our parliament is no different. To put it in words you'd understand, there are extremist factions using Rome as their own spellbreaking ring. Innocents caught in the crossfire. It was much nicer when it was magi vs Bereft; at least we knew where the lines were drawn. But that's the beauty of Alchemy. We are the unifiers. And this country needs to be brought to peace. One way, or another. 

Jackal: And I assume the Alchemists are backing a political party?

Recida: Let's just say we've gotten this far by hedging our bets. Yes. We have chosen a path. I will not have Italy bow down blindly to the next Alban Empire--certainly not Russia. So, we are hosting a ball to help bolster support and solidify our alliance with The Sons United.

Jackal: Ew, you picked the fascists?

Recida: Oh, do not mistake my intentions. I am no racist. But...unlike the millions of other annoying parties in this damn country, the Sons have their own sort of enchantment on the populace. People buy into their language. It will make them all te more easier to control. ...Plus, they have better aesthetics than the Communists.

Jackal: So you don't support their ideology but you will help them seize power?

Recida: Anyways, it will be a rare occasion, having guests here.

Jackal: Letting in strangers while you have an artefact others want, locked in the basement? Sure that's a good idea?

Recida: The Alchemists have a plan, and we will not let fear stand in the way of our goals. The Great Work WILL be completed. And it starts with putting the dogs who rule this great country on a choke-collar. Plus, I love big parties. You know I do.

Jackal: Hmm. Well then! Good luck with your shindig. Hehe. I wonder who the chandelier will fall on this time?

---

Santorini Harbor, Greece

A young woman in a white sundress stands on the docks in front of an enormous yacht. Beautiful, tall women in tailored suits, all wearing sunglasses and carrying sidearms, stand on guard around the massive boat. A ramp is lowered. Lily Suarez, out of office, looks up in awe and confusion at the giant standing in the doorway of the ostentatious ship's luxurious cabin.

Salim Netjeer: benefactor, businessman, bodybuilder. With long hair, tied in a ponytail, and an expensive custom made suit (very little naturally fits his frame) his size is imposing but his smile inviting. One flash of his grin, and Lily knows she is under his protection. She climbs the ramp and shakes his hand. They have a professional relationship, tinged with the friendliness of a wise uncle having lunch with his favorite niece. 

In the conversation pit of Salim's cabin, lined with expensive, rare artefacts and works of art, Lily tries very hard not to look impressed. Salim exchanges words with an intimidating redhead, before she shuts the door and leaves them to their meeting.

Lily: Salim, I didn't think a man of your stature even needed bodyguards.

Salim: It keeps the job economy going, habibi. And I only hire women. Never trust a man. Can I get you something to drink? Non alcoholic or alcoholic? 

Lily: I am not used to this level of class. Tea is fine.

Salim: You must try this Oolong. More expensive than most houses!

Lily: Thanks. It's nice to get out of the office. The research we're doing has me worried. 

Salim: I take it you've arrived to the very fun phase of international subterfuge where men in dark sunglasses start following you around?

Lily: How did you know?

Salim: I just do. And I will deal with them. Though, knowing your level of magickal expertise, I probably won't have to?

Lily: Oh! That's nice of you to say, sir, but my powers aren't all that much, honestly.

Salim: Ah, one of those sell-yourself-short types? You and the GSA boys are very much the same. In ring, and in research, you're cocky as all get out. Get outside performance mode, however, and you an barely make eye contact.

Lily: Look, tough childhood. Not easy being a trans girl in the nation of Texas. Sure, it makes you tough--if not damaged--but...not all of us should have to be tough just to get through this thing called life.

Salim: Then I take it back--you're probably braver than most spellbreakers at this point. That brain of yours. It's something.

Lily: Awww, thanks. But...let's get to it. What have you found?

Salim: Turns out, Reye's research was correct. The Chalice of Voice was hidden in the catacombs, likely where the Alchemists before their schism stored it. Deadboy and Icewolf are lucky they didn't try to touch it first. It was probably booby trapped by some weird pseduo-magickal crap. The Alchemists love doing spooky, morbid nonsense like that. Secret societies are so dramatic.

Lily: And where might it be now?

Salim: If I had to make an educated guess, it's with the Alchemists of Italy. The magickal mafia themselves! I hear our old friend, the Gold Mask, is among them. If he's there, then it stands to reason the Chalice is definitely with the Alchemists.

Lily: This is the one they call Jackal, yeah?

Salim: Yep. I looked into him, by the way. He's an enigma if there ever was one, but I can tell you he was likely a mercenary from the Great War. A soldier of fortune, I hazard.

Lily: Mmm. Speaking of mystery men, I've been in contact with Marcy Diamond, my friend from Las Vegas. She picked up on some gossip surrounding Redback, the would-be assassin who tried to kill Joseph Haw. We've traced him back to Australia. Turns out he might have fought for Deadboy's old fed, SxS. I heard Deadboy is going to look into him.

Salim: Stone the crows, habibi! Now that I do not believe. Deadboy is...playing nice?"

Lily: He got his ass kicked by El Amante shortly after the Paris incident. I wouldn't say he's playing nice, but he is cooperating. Besides, he's probably pissed someone tried to kill Joseph before he did. They...have a weird thing going on between them, I think. But as for the Chalice of Voice...do they have a base of operations, these Alchemists?

Salim: Several. But the most secure one would be the Palazzo Di Sangro, my old associate Recida's family's estate.

Lily: Associate...sounds like a loose word. I thought you hated her?

Salim: Meh. Hate? Beguiled by? Weirdly attracted to? It varies. I love a bad girl. Or boy. Anyway, the next leg of the World Championships is now being held there in Italy.

Lily: Oh? I thought the spellbreaking championships were moving on to Spain?

Salim: They were, until I made a call to Buck....speaking of bad boys. Well, I say 'bad' but he really is a good man, that Buck Tamberly. 

Lily: Scientifically speaking, he's my best friend, so I am inclined to agree.

Salim: Yes, he has quite the hidden power. He agreed to move the next tournament to Roma, which is not far from the Palazzo. They're going to be doing some kind of carnival ball thing there for a politician.

Lily: Carnival? Salim, it's not even Yuletide. 

Salim: Yeah, yeah, sounds very Eyes Wide Shut, I know. Kinky, I hope. I have a contact in Italy who has connections to the Di Sangros--a spellbreaker named Belladonna; former rival and current friend of one Giovanni DiToro, the GSA's hunky titan. And let me tell you, Ms. Saurez, this Belladona? She is HOT.

Lily: More...bad girls?

Salim: Can't get enough of 'em!

Lily: Okay, so we know the Chalice is in the Palazzo Di Sangro. Great. But how the hell do we get it? It's not like the government of Italy is playing nice with Aradia and... ...I...hey...I don't like that look in your eyes.

Sailm: Hehehe. Habibi, are you a fan of heist movies?

To Be Continued

Day of the Deadboy - Naughty Version

The crunch of loose pebbles and discarded candy bar wrappers drew Buck Tamberly's eyes downwards to twisting path ahead. Candles, likely placed by the target of Buck's consternation, dripped wax onto the road, and illuminated the hunched over, leather-speedo clad forms of Buck's peers. Eyes bewitch with ghostly glow, Sanjay and Blue Dragon moaned and looked up. The dark magi's magick had turned them into his puppets.

Fittingly, Buck found Deadboy Daemian--and his demon tag partner, Braxius, nestled on a throne made of skulls piled high. Deadboy munched down fiendishly on a Dracula Delight, one of Australia's ghoulish treats. The bright, cherry filling made it look like blood was dripping from his mouth. Deadboy's open mouth chewing was even more nauseating than the fact that he had turned almost all of Buck's employees into his zombie servants.

Caught in the act, Deadboy looked up and blinked at his new boss. "Oi!" he greeted, wiping cherry blood from his lips and giving Buck a mischievous, toothy grin. "Don't worry, the skulls are fake."

Behind him, Brax (whose enormous tail Daemian was using as a recline) turned the page of his self-help book (The Miraculous Power of Optimism) and yawned with a mouth full of fangs.

Buck looked down at the base of the throne. Tied in chains to a stake in the ground, was a leather-thong clad Spike, his head lolled to one side. He too had been bewitched.

Sighing, Buck greeted his wayward employee. "Happy birthday, Lachlan," he said, addressing Daemian by his real name. "Looks like Paris treated you mighty kind." He crossed his arms. Though Buck could only dream of becoming a Spellbreaking, of the lot, he was the least scared of the macabrely sexy, demonic sorcerer sitting before him. Then again, danger was one of Buck Tamberly's favorite turn-ons.

"Fuckin' oath," Daemian said, picking something out of his teeth and flicking it. He belched, loudly, lazily resting his angular jaw on his hand. "Those Alchemist c***ts thought they had a leg up on me. We might have lost the Chalice--which did alter my wicked plans--but I got something much better. Hehehe. A spell that us dark magi have been doin' our heads in tryin' to hunt for ages."

Buck scanned Daemian's face. This had already been a trying week before Deadboy and Icewolf showed up and bewitched half the staff, turning them into mindless ghouls. Fortunately, Buck--who didn't know much about magick, being unable to wield it himself--had help from some friends in high places (said 'high places' being the Ivory Tower of academia). "Yeah, Lily said they got their hands on some spooky tomes. You really were able to do all of this just by hearing an incantation just one time?"

"Always was a quick study," Deadboy said, grinning ever-so-innocently. Behind him, Brax gave Buck--the interim president of the GSA--the briefest of acknowledgments.

"You're smart, Lachlan. You hate to hear it, because it challenges your badboy personality, I'm sure. But it's true."

"What a sweet compliment," Deadboy said, though genuine or not, it was hard to tell. The demonic prince stood and stretched, showing off his rippling, sinewy arms, lined with muscles. He looked like a vampire turned Olypmic swimmer turned MMA fighter. "You know...Bucky, I can sniff out a fellow baddie. You're as sadistic as they can come. I can see the darkness inside you--definitely ain't your daddy's boy. Why not join up with me."

Buck cocked an eye. "Sniff me out?" He raised his armpit and bit his lip. "Shit, I knew I forgot something."

Deadboy licked his lips. "In addition to raising the dead..." Daemian leered, "I can be a bit of a pit pig. Whaddya say, mate? Join me. We can torture jobbers together. Do some really freaky shit."

Admittedly, it was tempting, Buck thought. Plus, it would show up his dad. Still, loyalty was loyalty.

Well, almost. "What have you done with Spike?"

"Mmmm. Blondie? Oh, he's totally my little slaveboy zombie now. So innocent. I told him he was my boyfriend. But I can be a bit...unfaithful." He winked.

Buck was not amused. "Hell, stud, you got good taste. But here's where you're wrong about blondie. You don't go around playing with a heart like that. He's something special. You might be right, boy. I got the heel streak in me--definitely do. But I break bones, not hearts. You're messin' with my friend. And I don't like that very much."

Deadboy scowled, and behind him, Brax let out a soft, concerned groan. "Huh. Sounds like the Bereft heir to the GSA has a crush. On my property."

"Forget it, Deadboy. I'm still your boss. And HR needs to have a word with you about your...behavior."

Daemian stuck out his tongue. "Aww, why can't you let me have fun!?"

"Deadboy, you know I like a nasty heel as much as anybody else, but your antics are really starting to stress me out. I'm doing my best to keep this ship in shape and you're..." he gestured broadly to the huddled zombies around them.

"What? You don't like what I've done with the place?"

Buck's eyes fell upon enslaved Spike, his muscular form barely constrained by chain and the six inch piece of leather holding back his immodesty. "I like some things you've done. But it's gotta' stop."

Deadboy glowered. "And what is someone without a glyph gonna do? I like ya, Buck. You're a sadist like me. But if you interfere in my fun, we're gonna have some problems, mate."

Don't tempt with a good time, Buck thought, his dad's warnings of 'not shitting where you eat' coming back to haunt him just as much as the specters swirling around the bewitched woodland on the GSA that Deadboy had turned into his hellish throne. "Yeah, I figured you'd be difficult."

"The only idiot who could even stand a chance against me now is White Tiger," Daemian said. "And he's busy with the tournament. Nobody is gonna save you, Bucky boy. This is MY kingdom now!"

From the shadowy bushes, a familiar, accented voice spoke. "Psss. Presidente, Is this where I come in?" 

"I'm still doing the diplomacy thing," Buck whispered back. He re-addressed Damian. "So, I guess I'm gonna have HR speak to you after all...." 

Deadboy rolled his heavily-lined eyes. "Ugh, and what pencil-necked little sap is the head of human resources? Besides, human resources doesn't apply to Brax."

"Inhuman resources does, but Brax is a model employee, so that's not a concern." Buck cleared his throat. "You can come now."

The branches parted. A statuesque figure, bulging with muscles (and with only a purple speedo to cover them up) stood tall and heroic, with hands posed on hips. The mask mine's smile lit up the dark. "It is I, El Amante Intoxico! Warrior of Love! Defender of the Heart! New appointed human resources manager!" He struck a new pose. "If there is a hatred in this world, then I shall put it to the sword! If there is terror in the night, then it stands no match for my might! If there is an OSHA violation, then the correct paperwork shall be filed in a timely and ORDERLY FASHION!" El Amante flexed. Around him, the zombified members of the GSAW moaned and swooned.

Deadboy, on his throne of skulls, stood tall and grit his teeth, spitting down at the imposing luchador. "Nobody makes my zombies moan and swoon but me! YOU!? The great masked himbo? YOU'RE Bucky's little lapdog?"

El Amante stared at the pile of skulls and put his finger to his chin in deep contemplation. "This is a fire hazard. It must go. And also," he pointed at Deadboy, "YOU need to be taken down a peg, amigo."

Buck shrugged. "Iggy said that the only way to take down a Scorpio was with another Scorpio." Buck pointed to the scorpion tattoo on El Amante's bulging shoulder. "As a Virgo, I don't believe in astrology, but Iggy has never been wrong."

"UGH, I thought that light magi was on my side! What about my nemsis. White Tiger. Where's HE? Afraid to fight his old lov--I mean RIVAL, I bet!"

"He's taking care of actual threats," Buck said through his teeth. "You know, like Firebird. Sounds like you and Rage were getting chummy, so I had him go hit the pavement and do a little recon." Buck nodded to the smiling, muscular, masked man at his side. "Fortunately, my dad has a thing for babyfaces, so we got some heroes to spare."

El Amante held up a finger. "Ah, ah, ah. Tecnico."

"Yeah, what he said."

Deadboy kicked a skull off his throne. It tumbled and fell at the masked man's feet. The dark magi's eyes went pure black, shining with dark and dreamy wickedness. "Well, fine. You want to lock up, Romeo? You'll make a fun plaything." He growled. "We'll do it your lucha libre way too. I'll wear a mask and put it on the line! All the better for when I rip yours off and cut open your handsome face."

El Amante smirked. "You want to challenge ME to a masked fight? Silly, little Australian. Well, if that is the poison you wish to pick..." His eyes glowed pink. "Then prepare to taste my venom, chico. We settle this at midnight."

Next to him, Buck caught the brunt of El Amante's love magick. "Oh wow. This is hot."

"Do not make me file a harassment complaint," El Amante said, turning up his nose. "I have a Deadboy to wrangle."

"I can't believe this is the venue," Buck said to Icewolf (the only other GSA member not zombified), as he stared at the ring in the middle of the old cemetery.

Robbie was more sullen than usual. Ever since Paris, he and Deadboy had parted ways. "Scary Bro said I wasn't even worth zombifying," Robbie sniffed.

"Awww buddy. You're worth that and more." Buck winced. He wasn't very good at the whole 'cheering up' thing, but he was happy to have one less problem to worry about in Robbie, who was now on a self-proclaimed 'redemption arc' to try and win back Cian's heart (which he never had to begin with...)

A low mist crept along the ground, turning the ring into an island in a sea of craggy headstones. Hundreds of votive candles dotted the ground, adding a touch of ethereal beauty to the gloom. Next to Buck, Robbie, dressed as a teenage werewolf (complete with tufts of fur stuck to his handsome face) removed his letterman jacket and handed Buck a pumpkin spice flavored beer. "Well...Happy Day of the Dead, broski," Icewolf said to his friend and boss. "You think Daemian could really unmask El Amante?"

The dreadful thought hadn't actually occurred to Buck. He was supposed to be acting as a manager for these boys; watching out for any bad career moves. Granted, the only two 'conscious' spectators (besides the zombified GSA boys at ringside) were Buck and Icy. But Buck knew luchadors had very strict codes of honor. An unmasking was humiliating.

"Deadboy has way less to lose since he always shows his face," Buck pointed out, grimly. "El Amante must be really confident."

"Or cocky," Icewolf winked. "If his face gets unmasked. I'm totally gonna smooch the hell out of it."

"You'll have Iggy Astro to deal with then, bud."

Icewolf huffed. "Well, I'll smooch them too. Hey," Robbie said, nudging Buck, "Check out Spike in that skimpy little leather number, eh? You gonna have fun with him?"

"Not while he's a zombie!" Buck nodded to the aisle of candles leading to the ring. "Check it. It's starting."

"Cool, cool. So, who's the ref?"

Buck and Icewolf looked at each other. Buck's mouth dropped. "SHIT! I forgot to hire a ref!"

"Awww as if that would ever stop ME," came a malevolent, echoing voice. A green light shone down on the earth in front of the candle-lit aisle. The ground shook, lines in the Earth like breaks in skin, giving way to upturned soil. A black coffin emerged from the ground, swinging open to reveal its evil inhabitant with his hands cross his chest, leaning against plushy red velvet. Deadboy's outfit was his standard black briefs and half torn tights, but now he wore a fiendish, skull-printed black luchador mask across his head. Sharp plastic fins, like a razor mohawk, lined the top. 

Even Buck and Icewolf shivered. "Damn, that's a creepy look," Buck said.

Flanked by his zombie followers, the malicious (and mischievous) Deadboy shuffled with a feral gait towards the ring. "What a beautiful night for a CURSE," he snarled, waving his hand over his hypnotised followers. Their eyes glowed bright red. He made them turn, about-face, towards the still 'unturned' spectators sitting in folding chairs. "You two c***ts are NEXT."

Icewolf pointed to himself, dumbly, and spat out his beer. "But...I was your bro! I HELPED you get this far!"

Buck whipped his head towards him. "I knew dad said you were trouble."

"I was BORED AND HORNY," Robbie grunted. "Deadboy, quit the shit! You're ruining my chances with Cian! Er...I mean, redeeming myself! Yeah!"

Climbing to the top rope, Deadboy leaned forward with a twist. His long tongue stuck out of his mask. "That's what you get for making a pact with a DEMON!" He pointed to Spike, chained to a rinside post, drooling onto his chest. "That himbo was your only hope. With all of you turned, and Iggy and El Amante to follow suit, I'll raise my zombie army against White Tiger! The Divine Chalices you collected will be mine. I'll be the one who takes down Firebird. And then, the WORLD will be mine! HAHAHAAHAHA!"

It was probably the most clumsy, least intimidating, and plainly stupid villain monologue that Buck had ever heard. He was now more annoyed than concerned. 

From the opposite 'aisle', the mists parted. El Amante's broad shouldered (and larged pectoral'd) shape was unmistakable, but even Buck did a double-take at his interesting choice of outfit. El Amante was prone to showing off his body in the tightest, skimpiest little briefs possible, to the point that even Colt bemoaned the masked fighter's 'lucky thong' always sticking out of his trunks. Tonight, on this strange and exciting occasion, the masked 'Warrior of Love' (and employee payroll) wore a tight fitting singlet. It didn't do anything to make the beefcake more modest--if anything, his pecs threatened to break the lycra straps at any minute, and his bulge was...obvious--but his overall look was truly something to behold. A colorful 'Day of the Dead' inspired outfit, complete with a sugar skull mask. 

"Papi, this is art," Buck said, jaw dropping. He caught El Amante's eye. He looked serious. Buck almost wish he hadn't said anything.

But the jovial luchador was glad to attend to his audience. Hands on hip, he looked around. "Crowd's a bit...dead tonight, huh?"

Somewhere in the shadows, Brax laughed hollowly Deadboy shot him a dark look. "How DARE you laugh at my opponent's puns?"

Buck ignored his unruly employee. "Thank you for coming," Buck sighed, experiencing a momentary pang of relief. "Really...I wanted to handle this by myself."

El Amante put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, inadvertently causing Buck's neck hairs to stand up with. 

"All you had to do was ask, pobrecito. Asking for help isn't tapping out. It's tagging in." He looked over his shoulder and glared at the sneering skeleton waiting for him in the red corner. "Don't worry. I know exactly what Deadboy needs..."

El Amante flipped over the top rope, landing with poise and shaking the ring. Deadboy responded with a loud belch.

"You know nothing of the honor of the mask," El Amante said with a sternly pointed finger (to which Deadboy yawned). "Guess I'll have to tear that ridiculous looking thing off of you, eh?"

This only pissed off the delicious demon even more! He wiped his nose and puffed out his chest, drawing closer to his foe. "Heh. You're like me, chook. I can smell the darkness in you."

"My name is Victor, NOT chook! And I know the darkness well enough. The difference is that I know how to tame it. Just like I'll tame you."

The two men, both in skeletal attire, demonic blood running in their veins, stared at each other with glowing eyes--pink and green. After a few seconds of stare down, chests pushed together, Daemian cocked his head to the side.

"Uh...bell?"

"Oh right!" Rex piped up. He ran over to the bell table and gave it a good strike with a conjured up icicle. 

Deadboy and El Amante went for the lockup, teeth gritting and arms bulging. Midway through, Deadboy pulled back with a cheeky 'arms in the air' pose, with Daemian glaring in confusion. Then, El Amante went in for his signature 'male stripper' dance, swivelling his hips to imaginary bachata music, even turning to give Deadboy a good look at this butt wiggling in his tight singlet. 

Daemian seethed. "I'll fuck you UP, mate!" He went for a deadly strike with his boot.

But El Amante had anticipated this. It was trap. He grabbed Deadboy by the ankle and spun him around, forcing him off his feet. Still, Deadboy was an expert gymnast, and was able to turn the stumble into a donkey kick, striking El Amante right where it hurt!

"UNGH!" El Amante said, clutching his nuts. From ringside, Buck and Icewolf winced and covered up their own tender areas out of sympathetic reflex. 

"You needed to be neutered," Deadboy sneered. He didn't waste his larger opponent's stunned state, running up, wrapping his hands around El Amante's neck, and brinding him down for a snapmare.

It hit, but El Amante was made of sturdy stuff, and was able to roll out. Still dazed, and with a sore neck, he pivoted onto his feet from his back--a breath taking feat of athleticism. "You like kicks, eh, zombie boy?" He delivered a roundhouse to Deadboy's chest, hitting him hard. Then, he pulled the evil spellbreaker's head in-between his thighs, clamping down tightly.

"Bet you wanted to be caught inside these," El Amante laughed, mockingly. "Let's dance!" 

He gyrated his hips, in the process grinding Deadboy's sensitive neck between his monster muscle quads. It was humiliating as it was painful, even more when El Amante jumped up and planted Deadboy's face into the mat.

He went for the roll up pin. "One...two..."

Deadboy kicked out and flipped over, flipping off El Amante in the process. El Amante rose, smirking, to face him. He gave him the "come on" wave with his hands.

Buck turned to Icewolf. "This is goooood. I wish Dad could see this!"

Robbie gave Buck a rare, thoughtful response. "He'd be real proud, eh, bro?" His watery eyes trembled. "But bro, I'm proud, bro."

The nightmarish Aussie surveyed El Amante's mask and its iconography. "A bleeding heart," Deadboy sneered, forming his hand into a claw. "I think it needs more blood!" Tendrils of shadow formed on Deadboy's black-polished fingernails, turning his hand into a claw of cold darkness. He took a swipe at the masked man.

El Amante pivoted back and stepped away with the grace of a dancer. Deadboy went again, and again, earning him a bored 'tsk tsk' from the colorful fighter. He scooped him up by the crotch and threw Deadboy into the canvas without breaking a sweat.

And he wouldn't give him the luxury of getting back onto his feet so quickly either. El Amante yanked Deadboy up by his skull-mask (though his tecnico code prevented him from ripping it off until the match was won). Into position, El Amante pressed his knee into the sensitive part between Deadboy's shoulders, wrapped his hands around his chin, and yanked the zombie stud back into a a cavernaria.

"Oooh," Buck, impressed, said. "Classic lucha libre move right there." He didn't realize he had become an impromptu commentator. It came natural to him, a lover of a the sport. "I think I see what El Amante is going for. Defeating Deadboy with traditional moves."

Deadboy grunted but did not submit.

"You bring people pain because it gives you pleasure," El Amante said, with his mix of brash heroism and gentle cordiality--even whilst trying to seperate a man's shoulder blades from his body. "I bring them pain because it gives them pleasure. Here. Looks like you need a taste."

El Amante's eyes glowed a soft pink, and the sinister lighting over the arena became a gentle, rosy haze.

For a moment, Deadboy's eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he began drooling like a hound getting his belly rubbed. "Fuckin'...oath."

"Hehe. You like it?" El Amante dug in further with his knee, pulling Deadboy's neck back slower. "The goal is not to crank on the move, but go slow. Pain and pleasure light up similar parts of the brain. Eventually, the sensory overload will make you pass out...in a way that may be embarrassing to you, calaverito. You should save yourself the trouble and give, and then I can kiss you all over when that mask is off."

"Blegh!" Deadbopy spat, snapping out of it. His eyes grew dark, solid black, and the gentle aura around the ring faded. "You're gonna' give me diabetes, sugar skull. You want some traditional moves? I'll show you how we do it down under!"

El Amante didn't notice the conjured up, dark fist behind his back, until the last second. He tried to dodge, but it whapped him on the cheek, knocking him sideways and forcing him to break the hold.

Deadboy snapped up and struck El Amante in the chin. While he was dazed, he jumped up to the top rope with a vampiric, fluid motion, perching on top of the chord like a dark carrion bird. With no time for snark (what a pity) Deadboy jumped into the air and aimed his steel-toed boots right for El Amante's face.

The luchador dodged by a fraction of an inch, his skull nearly knocked off by what would have been a match-ending manoeuvre. Deadboy landed on his feet, shaking the ring and no worse for wear, but he had left himself open.

Forget defeating him with classic techniques, El Amante thought, leaping onto his opponent, I gotta' put this sick dog down quick!"

El Amante went for a simple, but effective, sitting arm bar. Deadboy's pale, skeletal arm, knotted with muscles, bent behind his back. El Amante's long, luscious hair stuck to his pectorals, now slick with sweat. He put the hold on tighter. There would be no nice, 'romance' for Deadboy now. Only pain.

"If you do not tap, then I am afraid I may have to break your arm," El Amante said, annoyed. "But don't worry. I'll fix it after." Though he may have to fill out an incident report. Dios mio, is that ethical if I'm the one who caused the injury!? I'll have to check the manual when I get back. 

Instead of crying out in pain from his arm second from being snapped off, Deadboy cackled maniaclly, filling the air with sharp laughter, and making his entranced zombie co-workers at ringside bristle. "Do it, you masked clown!"

"Tch." El Amante looked down and bit his lip. He could. He'd done it before. But...

"Heh, I fuckin' knew it. Because you're weak, possum! Fine. I'll do it myself."

CRACK

Smiling all the while, Deadboy jerked back and didn't just fracture his own arm, but broke it off cleanly, wrenching it from from a shocked and horrified El Amante in the process.

Buck and Robbie looked at each other once, before turning in seperate directions and spilling their guts all over the graveyard lawn.

"Hahahah! Oh, that tickles," Deadboy said, grinning all the while and watching El Amante draw back in horror. He snapped his own arm back onto his shoulder, healing in rapid time with his dark powers. "See? That's not so bad. Not as bad as what I'm about to do to you."

Deadboy snapped his fingers.

El Amante looked side to side, detecting the sharp spike in magickal energy. From the shadows of the ring corners, four chains of violet-black darkness shot out, wrapping themselves around El Amante's limbs, and binding him to the spot.

"Agh!" He cried out. The chains weren't just impossibly strong, but they burned pain into his chest. El Amante bent forward, his hair dangling pendulously in front of his face. He tugged on the chains, his muscles bulging, sweat pouring off his body in drops of dew. Nothing worked. He was bound.

"This is what I like to see," Deadboy said, biting his lip. He drew closer to El Amante, stabbing his finger into his opponent's chin and lifting up his head to look at him. "All that meat-head muscle, and still....so helpless. I think I'll take my time as I remove your mask, cutie. And then, I'm gonna cut a nice long gash into your pretty face. Give you a NEW, better mask! A crimson one! HAHAHAHAAHAHA!" 

El Amante glared at him. "Poor Deadboy."

"Huh? WHAT!? Don't try that hero shit, mate. I know you're scared. Just like you can detect all those sickly sweet vibes, I can smell fear. You're quaking in that little thong of yours."

"Scared? Oh, yes. For you. You hurt yourself just to hurt others." El Amante looked to his glassy-eyed coworkers, some of who he had trained, all of whom he loved, slumped at the side of the ring. "You do all of this. Why?"

Deadboy shivered. "B-because it's fun!"

"I see it, chico. A lonely childhood. Just like mine. Scared. You've been scared all your life. So, you fight back by trying to be more terrifying. You fear people will hurt you, or leave you, so you enslave them with your dark magick. Your loss to White Tiger must have really been the last straw, eh? Imagine, going from champion to disgraced. Completely loved for all your wickedness, to being bound and having your gear taken as trophy by a hero."

The temperature in the arena suddenly dropped. The clouds in the sky draped themselves over the moon, casting the already dark arena into deeper darkness. Deadboy's head drooped, his face hidden further beneath his mask. Without noise, more chains and tendrils of darkness sprouted from the ring, the Earth. The zombies of the GSA moaned and shuddered, drawing back. 

Behind them, peering from around a mausoleum, the demon Brax, Deadboy's tag partner, growled low. "Not...again," he said. "I will...have to....intervene." The hulking beast stepped forward, ready to enter the fray and disrupt the match (for all their sakes), but a chain of darkness shot out from beneath his clawed foot, grabbing him by the ankle.

"GRRRR!" Eyes red, Brax looked towards the ring and shouted. "LACHLAN! STOP THIS MADNESS."

"...Stop..." Daemian said, softly. A green glow appeared in his eyes. Then, the smile, manic and raw. "STOP!? YOU WANT ME TO STOP? WE'RE NOT GONNA STOP! WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED! HAHAHAHAHAHA! SCARED!? I'LL SHOW YOU ALL WHAT SCARED LOOKS LIKE!!" Heaving like a beast from the underworld, and head bent backwards, Daemian made a motion with his hands. "I...bring...HELL."

With hollowing, echoing words, Deadboy incanted the spell muttered by the Alchemist in the dank catacombs. 

"P̶͖͉͠à̵̳̮ř̶͖̮g̴̋͗ͅo̴̢̡̚͝n̴̰͚͑͒ ̷̙͐t̸̨̧̾͊í̶̡͖̃e̶̡͘ř̸͇̗͘ ̵̯̠̀̾ă̴̜r̶̨̳̾e̵̠͑̑t̷̨͇͝e̶̫̿͠k̶̟̈!̴͈̠̋̓"

The ground beneath the ring trembled. Deadboy's zombies moaned in anguish. El Amante, whose binds had not tightened, but remained fastened, tried to break free again. Nothing. He locked eyes with Deadboy. He would show no fear.

The soil in front of the faded and eroded tombstones fell away. Dirty, skeletal hands, burst out from the ground.

Buck jumped out of his eat, looking to Robbie. "Shit, what's going on?"

The hunky Canadian tried to make sense of the surroundings. "T-this is evil. Pure, dark magic." He gulped. "Necromancy, bro!"

The dead, in droves, crawled from their graves. Some of them still wore their funeral attire. The older of their lot were nothing but bones, their clothing long since rotted away. From their hollow orbitals, a sinister green glow sprouted, and cast the arena in an evil light.

Deadboy beckoned to his army of darkness. Bones rattled, coming closer to the arena. Buck and Robbie cowered, hugging each other for security.

"Bucky," Robbie panicked, "It's bones."

"Behold, youse cunts," Deadboy proclaimed, hands stretching out towards his 'children'. "My army of darkness. I was just going to bloody you up, El Amante. But look what you made me do? I'm going to have my army of the dead RIP you to shreds and feast on that hunky body of yours! Right in front of the eyes of your helpless coworkers. And then? I'm gonna do the same to White Tiger, and THEN Firebird! I'll be the champion of the damn world, and I will turn into my own hellscape!" 

"Hehehe."

"Huh?" Deadboy's eyes shifted back to normal. He blinked. "WHAT? You're...laughing? You're not honestly laughing, are you? Didn't you just hear what I was about to bloody do?"

El Amante smiled. "Oh, little Lachie. You make the dead your playthings. But they are not puppets. They are people. And they are loved."

Around the ring, the skeletons suddenly froze in their tracks.

Deadboy looked around, wildly, tearing at his own mask. "What?!"

"Your birthday is over, Daemian. It's now Día De Los Muertos. The day when the dead come back...not to harm, but to celebrate!"

The green glow from the skeletons faded. Instead of drawing closer, the masses of the dead stopped at ringside. The air filled with a rattling, percussive sound.

Buck looked around. "What's...They're...clapping? Robbie, they're applauding."

"Silly Deadboy. You didn't raise an army. You gave us a crowd!" 

Now, it was time for Deadboy to be afraid. Mouth agape, he put his back against the ropes. But there was nowhere for him to run. He was surrounded. Without fear to wield against others, he lost control on his magick.

El Amante grunted, and flexed, his muscles tearing through the chains as if they were made of smoke. He brushed his shoulders and tossed back his hair, giving Buck and Robbie a flirty wink.

"Ohhh," the two spectators sighed in unisons, falling back into their chairs. "He's sooooo dreamy."

"These treats and tricks of yours might scare other people, Lachlan. But I am not 'people'." The big stud smiled. "For I am the god of love!" He flashed another grin at the crowd. "Tricks and treats. Because it was just Halloween. Get it?"

Deadboy was beside himself. But he wasn't done yet. "Grrr! There IS no Aztec god of love!" With his dark powers dampered from the ego blow, he would have to rely on his skill now. He charged forward. 

"There is NOW!" El Amante shouted, running the ropes and bouncing off for momentum. "And for your information, I'm Mayan." He jumped, catching Deadboy by the neck. "And YOU are history." With his thighs around Deadboy's beck, he flipped the main over in the air, and slammed him down, headfirst, into the mat, with a flawless and elegant hurricanrana.

Deadboy's skull was rocked. "Unnnnnggg..." he moaned, just like one of his zombies.

"This is it!" Buck said. "He's gonna do his finisher. I used to play this one back on tape all the time." He blushed. "It was totally my awakening."

El Amante didn't have to worry about Deadboy getting up after that. Still, he needed to be put down. El Amante, smiling warmly, leaned down and positioned himself against Deadboy, hosting him up to face him. He looked lovingly into his eyes, still darting around post-concussive strike.

"Time to end this nightmare. Only sweet dreams for you..."

Smooch.

The masked hunk grabbed Deadboy around the neck in a reverse nelson, practically driving the defeated heel's chin into his sternum. As Deadboy grunted and moaned, El Amante slide his hand down and compressed his hands around Deadboy's carotid artery, depriving his head oxygenhelped, of course, by the suffocating and relentless kiss the masked fighter piled onto him.

"Mmmnggg!" Deadboy struggled and wined, his eyes watering. His seizing eventually ceased, and he fell forward, limp, and drooling.

El Amante wiped his mouth and let Deadboy's hands drop slowly. "Uno...dos...tres! That is it! LOVE WINS!"

The skeletons and zombies at ringside applauded El Amante, who did a little dance for the crowd. Meanwhile, the GSA team snapped out of their zombie state. The enchantment was shattered.

Spike, chained to the post still, blinked. "Huh?" He looked down at himself. The chain. The leather thong. He smiled. "Looks like I had a fun night. What's going on?" He glanced over at the strange, skinny audience. "Wow, those are some awesome Halloween outfits! I didn't know we were set to have a home Halloween match. The last thing I remember was..." He noticed El Amante flexing over Deadboy. "Victor? And...who's the dummy in the skeleton mask. No. WAIT!? DEADBOY!?"

"It WAS Deadboy," El Amante laughed, hands on hips, tapping the drooling, white-eyed and unconscious fiend with the front of his shoe. "I don't think he'll be doing any spellbreaking matches for awhile. Though, perhaps he will change his ways."

The skeletons slunk back into their earthly abodes, happy to have seen such an exciting match. Unseen, but perhaps present, the spirits of the dead enjoyed their return to the world of the living, leaving the once-ensorcelled spellbreakers standing around the ring more than a little bit confused. 

"Now..." El Amante leaned forward and grabbed at Deadboy's mask, peeling it off of him in strips of cheap fabric. "Wow, that craftsmanship on this is shoddy. I will have to take you to my guy in Juarez if you ever want to do this againe. You have much to learn before you can become a real, masked spellbreaker, little boy."

Deadboy's head lolled out of the torn mask and onto the canvas, revealing the handsome, pale, slumbering face of a hardly intimidating punk with messy, black hair.

"I like you better this way," El Amante said, ruffling his defeated opponent's head. "You look sweeter and you don't cause trouble. Now, let me give you a wakeup kiss." And let's see what we can do to make you a bit more happier...for all our sakes.

El Amante straddled Daemian and leaned in for a long kiss, pumping him full of good energy. The two beefcakes took on a pink aura.

Deadboy's eyes fluttered open. Stripped of his dark designs, he looked remarkably innocent. "Fuck, mate, I just had the best nap of my...huh?" He spat. "Ew! Himbo drool."

El Amante reeled back, shocked, but not because of his opponent's reaction. He cocked his head to the side, and, making sure nobody could read his lips, whispered to Daemian. "So, White Tiger. All for him?"

The cockiness and mania in Deadboy's eyes faded. He looked away, pouting. "Please...don't say anything."

"Cariño, your secret is safe with me."El Amante smiled, and kissed Deadboy's bare cheek. "We can talk about it later, stud."

"Blegh! No we won't." Deadboy tried to push the big man off him, but it was like trying to get out from beneath a ton of bricks. "Get your sweaty hands....Ooohhh. Fuck."

El Amante had placed his palms to Deadboy's bare chest, injecting him with a heavy dose of love venom. Deadboy's brain burst with endorphins and positive energy.

"There we go!" El Amante. "Just relax, Deadboy. I know what you need." He winked. "A bit of love." El Amante held his prey tight, in an embrace just beneath the force of a reverse bear hug (of course, it didn't take much; El Amante's muscles were unrivalled). The masked man soft kissed the nape of Deadboy's neck.

The defeated, dark magi punk wriggled like a worm. "EW! No..NO I hate lo---ooohhhh fucccck." How quickly his tune changed as El Amante's potent love magick took effect, turning Deadboy's brain into melting chocolate, and filling his vulnerable, wily torso with sensation.

"So high strung!" El Amante laughed lightly. He caressed Daemian's cheek, assaulting him with more kisses on the most sensitive parts of Deadboy's beck and back. "Just let Papi do all the work." His hands moved down, grabbing fistfuls of the pale mage's pectorals, working on his nips.

Spike giggled, summoning the other boys over to watch. Kengo blushed, and Gio laughed, but Spike wasn't shy about taking a few tugs on his own junk as he watched El Amante do what he did best. 

"No..." Daemian fought back weakly, going hard. "Oooh yessss."

"Let's see what we have here," Deadboy said, reaching into Daemian's trunks. "Do you want to see it, boys?"

"Hell yeah," Spike said.

Daemian was in no position to fight back. He watched helplessly as his long, uncut cock spilled out for all of his peers to see. However, he had nothing to be ashamed of.

Gio whistled. Spike gulped. "Yep. He's definitely Australian."

Though enchanted, cocky Daemian grinned at his audience. "Like what you--"

"Shhhh," El Amante said, sticking a prying finger into his moth. "Relax,: he whispered, tonguing Daemian's ear. "Be a good boy for papi. Do what he says. Wow, you're leaking a lot. I think you needed this."

"Nnooo," Daemian trembled, eyes rolling back into his head. His precume was like a river, going down on his thigh. Somehow, all those prying eyes watching him get stroke and handled by a bigger man, turned him on even more. It was rare he felt helpless. It was, he silently admitted, a refreshing change of pace.

El Amante cradled Deadboy tighter, not letting up for a second on his twisting strokes. "More like a cow than a fighter," he said. "Getting milked by a big muscle man. You love it, chico. You want to give me your load right in front of everyone. I know you want it. The freedom of feeling vulnerable in a safe space. Well, chcio, I'm the safest space there is. And now you know what it's like to be dominated." El Amante whispered this next part. "Even more than White Tiger dominated you. You're mine now."

With all of his being, Deadboy shuddered. "Oh fuck."

The moment was now. "Say it." El Amante nibbled his ears, and sloweed his strokes, picking up on Deadboy's senses to maximize the perfect motion, from base to shaft. "Here's a classic luchador technique they won't show you on televison. How's it feel?Come on, chico, say it. Shoot a load right there all over your mask and ruin that silly thing."

"Not my mask," Deadboy stammered, but it was no use. "FUCK! Yes, Papi, I give! I GIVE."

Daemian shot a creamy blast, wet at first, and then thick and ropey, all over his mask. He didn't stop either. He squeeled, arching his back into El Amante, who wouldn't let up.

"Every drop, boy. On that mask. Ruin it."

"FFFFFUCK!!!!"

Jaw hanging loose, Spike stepped away from the ring. "Wow."

Finally, El Amante relented with a final kiss. It was too much for Deadboy, who felt down right next to his ruined, soaked mask.

Spike was happy to yank off his collar and toss it right next to him. "Hmph. Serves you right, dick. You must be humiliated."

"I am..." Deadboy moaned. Then, his evil smiled returned. "And I bloody love it!"

"Huh?" Spike backed up.

Confusing even his aggressor, Deadboy sprouted up, glowing with post-orgasmic energy.  "I'm a dirty, twisted freak. Shoot ropes in front of my mates? You think THAT'S where I draw the line." He pulled El Amante to him and gave him a long kiss, finishing it licking the masked stud's lips in a snake like fashion. El Amante was half disgusted and half amused.

"D-Daemian! Oh, you are a naughty boy."

Clad only in moonlight, and cock still dripping, the proud punk stood in front of his peers, who oggled his lanky, sexy form. He jabbed a thumb into his chest. "Damn right! I'm the naughtiest. And don't you forget it, losers! Hey, masked man. Why don't we combine our powers. Turn this into a den of dark, deviant delights." He gave El Amante a sly look.

El Amante stood, bowing to his opponent with a gentlemanly floirsh. "Er...I think that's too many D's."

"Not yet!" Deadboy said, looking at his audience. "Hehehe."

Spike sighed. "Like a slasher movie villain, he just keeps getting back up again..."

The End!