Spike's Birthday Surprise

"I'm so spent..."

Sore and sweaty, the fatigued Sailorboy Spike dragged his feet close behind his friend and mentor, Iggy Astro, several paces away and not a care in the world. The August heat didn't help, though even Spike—who felt very much near death—had to admit it was a beautiful evening at the GSA ranch. And not simply for persona reasons either.

A red flannel wrapped around Iggy's waist, and a cut off band T-shirt/crop top lined their sickening body. Hair in a rare ponytaile, Iggy walked with their arms wrapped casually around their neck.

"That's the third time you've mentioned it since we finished drills," Iggy sighed. "Honestly, Spike, you can take so much punishment. It's very sexy."

The compliment, as well as the whiff of B.O. Spike kept getting from his favorite heel and mentor's armpits, renewed his strength. Iggy had intentionally opted to forgo deodorant tonight. And it was headlock endurance night. Spike's neck stung but it had been worth it.

Iggy and Spike approached the little guest house around the back of the Tamberly boy's (and pet Maine Coon cat Zeus') farm house. Crickets chirped in the night air, adding a lovely, romantic ambiance to another wise balmy evening in the Texan Republic. The house with the green shutters was dead silent and dark.

"Did I mention it was my birthday?" Spike said casually.

"That would be the...hmmm...fourth time, yes." Iggy turned around and flicked Spike pointedly on the forehead, laughing at his pained expression. "Did you think I was going to go easy on you just because you're 23 now? Now, be a good boy and help me take these crates of El Amante merch back to the truck for tomorrow night's show."

I can barely lift a slice of pizza to my mouth, Spike inwardly lamented as they walked up the little steps to the screen door. But he dared not say anything in front of Iggy. One wrong word, and that sinister smile would cross his beautiful lips, followed by some corporal punishment...or lack thereof, if Spike was enjoying being bullied already. Iggy knew when to withhold too.

"So why does Victor get a whole damn house to himself," Spike asked as Iggy fiddled with their keys. Of course, Iggy had keys to their luchador boyfriend's sweet digs.

"Colt goes a long way back with Victor and Rosa's family," Iggy explained, fiddling with the keyring. "Ugh, which one, which one. Practice ring. Gym. Dungeon. Ah, here we go. Anyways, Victor was one of Colt's earliest students. Of course, he'd been training long before coming to the GSA. He actually does a lot around here! So, figures he got the guest house and I got a yucky dorm room!" Iggy stuck out his tongue. "I used to be a rock star, kitten. A genuine rock star!"

"At least you have a single," Spike groaned. "Not that I would trade rooming with Kengo for the world!" Which was the genuine truth. He had hoped to have spent his birthday night with his favorite bear and roommate, but Kengo apparently had plans. Come to think of it, so did a lot of Spike's fellow trainees, leaving him alone.

Not that he was too mad or sad about it. Birthdays were always sort of 'meh' affairs to Spike. Came with the territory when you grew up in an orphanage. Still, Spike had banked on at least a bit more revelry at the GSA, and had even considered going out to the Rainbow Saloon (where Victor/El Amante worked as a bouncer) for a drink on himself (and a bit of a birthday cruise) but now he was so dog tired that sleep was the best gift he could give himself now. 

Spike followed Iggy into the dark house. "I just want to take a shower and cuddle up with a bottle of rum. Wow, Victor's house smells so good! Like cinnamon. Hey, Iggy, can you hit the lights, it's so damn da--"

"SURPRISE!"

Lights, and the faces of several of Spike's fellow trainees, hit him up the side of the head like a steel chair. It took him a few seconds to realize what had just happened (as well as to not go into cardiac arrest)

Jaw retracted back into his face, Spike reeled back in instant shyness—he loved having the spotlight on him, but only when he knew it was coming. He felt himself reel over. "I'M GONNA THROW UP!"

"No, you're not!" Iggy said, stabilizing him and pushing him into the room full of smiling friends with solo cups.

It was whirlwind of emotion. Spike was in complete and utter shock! All of his friends, here, cramped into a semi studio space full of balloons and tasteful Southwestern décor. Stunned and smiling like an idiot, Spike did the rounds, embracing and thanking all who showed up. His eyes fell on a keg of beer propped against a cartable full of liquor, beer bottles, and boxes of pizza. At the back of the room, taking in the good vibes, Victor. He wore tight jeans and even tighter, lavender shirt that could barely restrain his pec cleavage. Spike briefly locked eyes with the masked man, who smiled warmly at him and raised his solo cup in salute. Spike blushed and turned to hug the luchador's spunky cousin, and Spike's best friend, Rosa. Big Kuma Kengo, dressed in a very formal (and well-fitting) suit, accompanied her. 

The girl in red gave him the double cheek kiss. "We had to wait in the dark so long!" She gently cuffed him on the shoulder.

"Thank you!" Spike said. "I think?" He politely took the beer she handed him.

"I am sorry for lying to you," Kengo said, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck. "But I wanted to surprise you roommate Birthday hug!"

"Best birthday hug ever," Spike said, burying his face into Kengo's bulk. He'd finally mastered how to squeeze him without crushing his ribs. Progress. "Hey hey just watch you don't spill the beer!"

Rosa threw a sideways look at her buff cousin, now making small talk with his mentee and fellow luchador, Blue Dragon. "Viki wanted to do the thing where we shove your face in the cake when you blow the candles out." She shrugged. "Mexican tradition. I talked him out of it."

Spike nearly spat out his beer. "WHAT!? Don't get me wrong, I love burying my face in cake, but that seems like a waste of perfectly good pastry!"

"Ugh. You're so sweaty. And you smell."

Spike blinked, unsure if he'd really heard the familliar voice behind him. He turned around and looked over at the smug, handsome, redhead. "Cian? You...you came to my birthday party?"

He rolled his eyes and took a sip of his beer. "What else was I gonna do on a Friday night, paint my toenails? Besides, free beer and pizza?" He sighed. "Happy birthday, boyo. Hopefully this year I get to kick you ass."

"I'd be honored," Spike said. This was crazy nice! I'm seriously gonna cry if I don't start to drinking. "Is that New York style pizza!?"

"Well, the closest you can get to it anyway," Buck, wearing a tasteful, floral button up said. He didn't waste time pulling Spike into a tight embrace.

But it was the cheek kiss, held perhaps a second too long, that Spike really appreciate. In fact, he was speechless. Which was a feat, considering his infamous mile-a-minute mouth.

Why is my heart beating so fast?

"Happy Birthday, you goober," sly Buck, heir to the GSA said. "I got you a card. Dad signed it. He's busy, of course."

Spike looked down at the work of art in his hands. There he was in comic form, rendered in colored pencil, punching Vahni Rage in the face.

"DID YOU MAKE THIS?" Spike said, forcing his eyeballs from falling out of his skull. This was a work of art!

"Oh, that's not the only thing he made," Rosa said, coming up behind her 'will-they, or won't-they pseudo boyfriend. She handed Spike a small, flat box tied with a navy blue ribbon. "Well, I helped too."

"She sewed it," Buck added.

"Buck, you're gonna spoil it!"

Thankfully, Spike was too distracted by the shiny bow to hear them. Tongue hanging out of his mouth, the tiny titan ripped the ribbon off with ease and opened the box. A white sheet of tissue paper lay inside.

"Awww," Spike said. "I love paper!"

"It's...beneath the paper, Spike."

"Oh! Gotcha." Spike lifted the soft paper up. His eyes almost immediately welled with tears. "STAHP! You guys..."

It was a brief-cut pair of trunks and knee covers, both in royal, navy blue velvet. Rosa had stitched a white anchor, Spike's icon, over the crotch. The back, appropriately, was embroidered in fine lettering that read: Sailorboy.

Spike pulled his friends into a giant bearhug. "THIS IS THE GREATEST FUCKIN' GIFT!"

"Erp..." Buck groaned, struggling against the too-tight embrace. "Spike, you're really strong! I can't breathe!"

"Oops," Spike let them go. "Seriously though. This is amazing. Probably the best birthday I ever had."

Which was, by and large, very true. Spike spent the rest of the time co-mingling with his fellow spellbreakers, drinking beer, and wolfing down pepperoni pizza (it was no New York style, but it wasn't bad). More than seeing everyone turn out for him though, Spike was warmed to seeing his buds having a good time hanging out. With the world tournament coming up, the crew had been a bit on edge lately. It was nice to let off steam.

Feeling more confident, thanks, in part, due to the liquid courage, Spike snuck to the edge of the room, where Victor and Gio were drinking wine and regarding Victor's collection of potted cacti and succulents.

"Is Icy still back in Toronto?" Victor asked his large, hirsute friend.

"Si," Gio said, swirling the wine in the glass. "Probably beating up all the boys and bullying them."

"And then sleeping with them," Victor laughed. "And what about Deadboy?"

"Do not say his name so loud! He might hear us, come creeping out from the shadows, and make us drink beer from the shoe again!"

"Ah, Australians."

"Still, Viki, it would be nice to have the whole family back together again. I know Joseph was busy tonight too, but..."

"Hey studs," Spike interjected, unsure who his coaches were talking about. "Oh wow, Victor, I love your cacti!"

Spike was not, in fact, looking at the cacti. But somewhere else entirely...

Gio smiled proudly. "I help him with them." 

"Err...yeah." Embarrassed, Victor looked away. "I may have killed the first batch."

"Do you know how hard it is to kill a cactus?" Gio whispered in Spike's ear.

Victor cleared this throat, clapping his hands together for silence. "Ahem! Now it is time for the stripper!"

Spike nodded along. "It's...WHAT?"

"Yes." Victor said, tossing his hair back. "Me." he pointed to Iggy, standing dutifully by the record player, which had been playing rockabilly and motown for most of the night. "Musica!"

Rosa put her drink down next to Buck and pointed to the door. "I'm gonna go."

"I'm gonna stay!" Buck said, drooling as he took his seat on the couch. Rosa, sighing deeply, abandoned the boys to their fun.

Before Spike could speak, he found Gio forcing him down onto a folding chair. He blinked, in confusion, as a raunchy reggaeton bop blasted out from the player.

Victor sauntered over, gyrating his hips and turning around on the beat. He unbuttoned his shirt, slowly, and then tossed it to the side with the grace and poise of someone accustomed to taking off their clothes. He revealed his gorgeous, buff, ripped body to the other men in the room.

"Oh wow."

"I think I'm gay."

"I think I'm gayer."

Spike, a little embarrassed, but mostly excited, found his head being pushed into Victor's crotch, and then immediately picked up off the seat and dry-humped in the mid-air. Oh wow. He's good. He's REALLY good at this. 

Victor wove his love spell, but it wasn't even necessary. His movements were masculine and erotic. He tossed his hair like an unbridled stallion in heat, and teased Spike by pulling down the back of his jeans, slowly, revealing a cherry-red thong.

"He wore that for me last night," Iggy whispered coquettishly in Gio's ear.

Victor turned and presented his rippling back for Spike's pleasure...as well as his muscle ass, which he bounced and flexed, g-string completely eaten up between his cheeks.

Spike was already rock hard, but now he was duly impressed. And, perhaps, envious too. Not possible...my ass is the ass that is legendary. This ass is beyond mortal power! 

The ripped luchador (still masked, naturally) straddled Spike, careful not to crush him under his bulk, and rode him, grinding against him. Spike, bright red but loving it, caressed the wrestler's giant pecs and biceps. What I'd give for just one night...

Victor got a bit bolder with his tease, pulling Spike's face into the ample bulge of his thong--which already showed off a hint of Victor's dick cleavage. Even though Spike was fully aware all eyes in the room were on him, he wasn't shy about rubbing his face all over it.

"Wow. He's really going for it."

"Wasn't he raised by nuns?"

"Yeah, they did a bad job."

"It's Spike's party, what did you expect?"

Amused, Victor pulled back his generous birthday package and held up a finger. "Now, now," he said, teasing Spike by poking his nose. "Just a taste for now."

"Where do I put the dollars?" Spike said, mischievously. Only a cocky ex-pinup like Spike would dare try and seduce back a stripper. He parted his legs for Victor to see the outline of his hardon in his silk workout shorts. "Or would you like me to return the favor?"

For a moment, the hunky stripping luchador looked blindsided. But he resumed his normal cool. "This one is on the house," he said. "You are very, naughty, Spike. You may need to get punished later."

"Oh?" Spike asked, demurely. "Punish me? What kind of punishment.

The music finished, maybe sooner than Spike had hoped. To answer Spike's question, Victor looked down and grabbed his junk (though junk, perhaps, was too crude a word to describe the beauty that lay between his legs). He leaned forward and gave Spike a quick peck on the lips, before pushing him back and away.

Spike was speechless. "I...yes."

"That is the usual reaction," Victor said, with a sly wink. "Happy birthday, guapo." He put his jeans back on, much to the disappointment of almost everyone in the room. "I also got you a more tangible gift." He grabbed a pretty bottle of liquor on the shelf and handed it to Spike.

"I mean that was pretty fuckin' tangible. Yeah, it definitely looks like I tanged a little. Oh hey, tequila! My favorite!" He leered mischievously at his host. "Y'all wanna do shots?"

"Don't do it!" Sanjay alerted the others, who were all still reeling from Victor's sensual performance. "Spike can drink anybody under the table. And tequila? This will turn into an orgy at the drip of a hat."

"Hey," Iggy said, annoyed, "don't go ruining a good time."

And it was true—Victor's ambient love magick had worked too well. Whether they were fully aware of it or not, all the men in the room and suddenly coupled up into private conversations. Even Cian, still shy about his seldom explored sexuality, was making eyes at Buck. Strangely though, Buck kept throwing hungry looks at Spike, who was both oblivious and free-pouring tequila into his and Victor's red cups.

It had been almost a year now since Spike had been kicked out of the Navy, and he'd missed that sense of comradery. Now, he had it in abundance. He felt accepted. Loved. He was in awe of his peers, supporting them as much as they supported him. And so, in a rare glimpse of maturity (hey, 23!) Spike raised his solo cup to the crowd.

"All of these presents are amazing, guys. I..." he found himself choking. "Nah. I'm not gonna' cry. You are all so wonderful. I'm lucky to have you as my teammates! I feel the love." He threw back the tequila in one gulp. "I'm also drunk!"

Drinks were had, though truthfully not that much more. Guests began to pour out, giving Spike well wishes and tight hugs (and some kisses) before filing out the door. Iggy was the last one left, and one of the few to notice that Spike and Victor had gotten chummy around the card table, swapping stories.

"Viki," Iggy said, trying hard to seem responsible. He pointed to Spike. "Make sure he gets back to the dorms safe." He turned and opened the screen door, but not before looking coyly over his shoulder. "And...make sure he has a good birthday night."

He shut the door behind him. Spike hardly realized that it was just him and Victor left in the room.

Victor got up to pour Spike a glass of water. "You feeling good, chico?"

"Yes," Spike said, pouring himself and Victor one last shot. "Here's the last one. I want to remember tonight, not blackout!"

"Sounds like something a mature, twenty-three-year old would say." Victor smiled at Spike with his eyes, and held up the cup. "To two lonely boys with sad childhoods who turned out somewhat okay."

"Or at least, turned out hot as fuck." Spike tipped the cup of tequial to him "Salud." He tossed it back and sighed. "You know, it's nice to see you outside of training and all of that."

"Ah, I'm a busy man, Spike! I feel bad not taking the time to talk to you more."

"It's okay, man of mystery. You know...to be honest...I was super intimidated when I met you."

"Ha! Who wouldn't be." Victor stood up and flexed. Veins popped in both of his boulder biceps. "With muscles like these."

"They...are pretty nice." Spike gulped down his water, but there was an entirely different thirst he felt needed quenching now. He stood up and walked over to the kitchen sink. "Hey, I'm just gonna get another glass of water."

Spike used the moment to recollect himself. There was a tension in the air. He recognized it. He'd been here before. That moment when two people want something but are too afraid to act, even though they know the answer. Spike poured water into his glass and took another gulp.

"Did Iggy want you to haul those boxes of shirts back tonight?" Victor asked. He scooped a few glasses, stacking them with the expertise of someone who had been working at a bar for a solid period of time.

"Yeah, it's not problem." Spike put the glass down. He heard Victor come up behind him. He was glad the man couldn't see him grin. "I should get going soon anyway."

He turned around. Victor, looking at him, reached behind him and placed the glasses in the sink. His wide arms were now to either side of Spike, with the muscular, blond caught between.

"Do you want to leave?" Victor asked.

"No..." Spike said.

There is a magick in a first kiss between two people impossibly attracted to each other. No words need to be exchanged. It operates on an invisible language. In that moment, all Spike and Victor—who were both comically mismatched in height—had to do was look at each other, before their lips met, and met hard.

Moments passed. Victor held Spike firmly, gently, pulling him in close. His tongue prodded his mouth, but not invasively. His kiss was soft, but potent, empowered by his magick.

After what felt like a blissful eternity, Spike pulled away slowly, surprised at himself. Usually, his first time kissing a new guy was forceful or playful or slutty. This was different. It wasn't 'love' (not that Spike had known that before) but it was mature and different.

Spike and Victor looked at each other, unsure of what had just happened. 

"I...have wanted to do that for awhile," Spike said. 

"I know." Victor reached up and stroked the side of Spike's face with his finger tips, a soft and powerful caress. "Should we keep going or would you like me to walk you home? I know you've been drinking."

"Keep going," Spike said. He smiled, with confidence and surity, lost in Victor's dark eyes. The fact that he had never seen his face...it almost made it feel more pure somehow. "Seriously. I promise you Victor, this is the most sober decision I have EVER made."

"Thank Goddess," Victor said, his finger tip finding its ways into Spike's mouth.

Spike took it in and sucked it, long and deep, before slowly removing it. "Why?" he asked.

Victor laughed, but it didn't ruin the moment. "Uhhh...because you are hot?" He leaned in, powerfully and hungry and in complete control. "I love compact, muscular studs like you. Face of an angel. Body of a devil. Spike, the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew I had have you one day."

They kissed again. Longer. Deeper. Spike didn't even care he had to stand up taller in order to reach the masked stud. His arms were strong around his waist. They picked Spike off the ground, just as he had done during his strip tease, and held him in the air. Spike wrapped his thick legs around Victor and allowed himself to be carried over to the lounge in the back of the room, by his comfy looking bed with the satin sheets. He sat him down on the edge of the bed and then easily removed his pants again. Spike looked up, almost at eye level with his cock, but it was the man's entire pysique that took his breath away. Abs. Pectorals. Giant legs. Massive arms. He was a god on Earth; of course he couldn't reveal his face to mere mortals; Spike was already burning up admiring him.

"I just know you're handsome as hell behind that mask," Spike said, breathelessly. He kissed Victor's abs. Hard as diamond (and double for Spike's cock right now). "Can I touch your muscles?"

"Mi amor," Victor said, taking Spike's hands and guiding them up his ab muscles, "my body is your playground tonight."

"Fuck." Spike was trying very hard to to drool. He was tenting so hard in his workout shorts that he worried he might drill a hole through them. But worries quickly faded away. All he cared about was worshipping his master's muscles.

Victor sensed as much, and flexed his arm for him. Spike's hands followed his mouth and tongue. He fondled the masked fighter's mountainous bicep, inspecting every bulging vein, first with hands, then with tongue, capping it off with a series or worshipful kisses. 

Every new muscle offered a new delight. Spike pulled his head back and looked down at Victor's chest, so large and round that it was almost obscene. "These arms and pecs," Spike said, grabbing a handful, only for Victor to bounce his pec. "Ffffuck."

"Watch," Victor said, with a mix of mischeif and juvenile cocikness. He flexed his chest muscles in perfect isolation. His upper pecs contracting, and then making them bounce up and down with his middle pec muscles. It wasn't just hot, it was a damn feat of the human body.

Spike felt a trail of percum leak down his leg. His jockstrap was already soaked through.

He coulsn't control himself. Maybe it was the tequila. Maybe it was Victor's magick. Spike fell forwrd and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face in the crook of Victor's meaty neck, taking in a scent of fine cologne and natural man. "I love muscle guys," Spike moaned.

"You're a sweet kid," Victor said, kissing Spike on the cheek. And speaking of cheek, he cupped Spike's bubble butt. "With a fucking hot ass," he said, punctuating the statement with a slap to Spike's rock hard rear. "Damn! Iggy said he enjoyed fucking that. I can see why."

Normally, Spike would have been offended. Truthfully, he loved the idea that Iggy had told their partner how much enjoyed using him like a slut. "He tore it up," Spike said, biting his lip. He returned to worshipping Victor's chest, gleefully narrating the encounter, hoping it might stir up some animal jealously. "Fucking cored me out, made it gape, and made me watch in the mirror. They've got a great cock."

"One of the many reasons Iggy is mi amor," Victor said, looking at Spike hungrily suckle his nips. "And we love to share our toys. Do you want to be my toy Spike? Ah, you like the pecs don't you."

"I love everything about you," Spike said, eyes watering (and mouth too). If this was El Amante's spell, Spike never wanted him to lift it. Was it possible to get drunk off a person? "You're so hot. I know I talk a game, but..."

Victor laughed lightly, pressing his finger to Spike's lips, enjoying how he took it into his mouth. "You have a playful, slutty, sexuality. Like a college boy. I, on the other hand, am a gentleman of seduction. My sensuality is my power. You must learn to take it slow. To withold. To tease. I will teach you so many things." He leaned in and kissed Spike deeply, tonguing the inside of his mouth, before pulling back. "Would you like me to show you how it's done, my apprentice?"

There weren't enough languages to say 'yes'. Spike, choked by raw lust, just nodded submissively. He would let this man do terrible things to him. He honestly hoped he would.

But El Amante wasn't one of those 'alpha' types who drilled and jackhammered their submissive partners and called it a day. His method was relaxed. Sensual. Targeted. Like the Scorpion tattoo on his massive shoulder, his venom worked slow, building up. He was content to return Spike's slow caresses and rubs, looks of longing (his eyes were gorgeous, but it helped that was one of the few facial details Spike could see), interrupted only by briefs utterances of "Wow," when Victor touched a muscle he liked. 

"You have such a great body, Spike," Victor (kneeling now) said, kissing Spike's neck and abs. His hands finally moved to Spike's bulge. His shorts had a massive wet spot. In any other circumstance, Spike would have been embarrassed.

But with his head reared back in ecstasy, he didn't care. "Please. Touch me there."

"I intend to so much more, chico," Victor said, rubbing and fondling Spike's bulge. "Let me do the honors." He pulled off Spike's workout shorts, and admired Spike's jockstrap pouch, which was half hanging off his erect cock. "Blue jockstrap?"

Spike smiled down at his stud. "Gotta be on brand."

"Mmmm." Victor looked at Spike's bulge, fondling it and rubbing it with his thumb. He took his time with everything. Savored it. "Can I be a bit of a dog right now?" he asked, looking up at Spike. He leaned forward and took a whiff. "Mmm. Yes, that smells good. Just worked out, right?" 

Spike felt scandalized (though this wasn't his first rodeo). "Oh fuck..."

"I love mouthing it first. Teasing it." Victor put his lips on Spike, sucking on his pouch. "Tastes so good. But let's see if you are a worthy opponent to El Amante's glory."

The moment of revelation. Victor pulled down Spike's pouch, revealing seven and a half of inches of Sailorboy. Spike's cock was just a bit girthy, with a slight upwards hook, like a devil tail, belaying his impish nature. He'd though once, fleetingly, of getting it pierced (but was too afraid of needles).

In any case, Victor was a fan. Again, he uttered a low, throaty, "Wow." His way of sex was quiet and cool, with a slow-burn passion. Iggy had mentioned casually to Spike that Victor was a 'textbook Scorpio'. From what Spike gathered, it meant that not only would this man fuck him great, but would totally consume his senses while he did.

"Spike, you have a beautiful cock. Bigger than I expected." Victor was content to play with it, rub his knuckles against it, admire it.

Spike wasn't sure if he should take offense to that or no. "Hey, what's that supposed to....Ohhhhhh fffffuck."

He was cut off, of course, by Victor completely engulfing Spike's mouth with his cock. He didn't even lick or go slow. He took it all into his throat with masterful expertise, letting his big lips do the work. Spike liked getting head, so this wasn't anything new, but he could safely say he hadn't been sucked off this hard before. Whatever Victor was doing with his throat, his tongue, his movements, was pure magick.

My life might be in danger, Spike thought, eyes rolling in the back of his head as every never on his cock was activated. I'm fine with that. Twenty three? Dying from orgasm from a muscle stud? Fine way to go.

Victor pulled his lips away, a mercy. "You like that, chico?" he said slyly, caressing Spike's abs with one hand and circling his thumb around Spike's glans with the other. "You can hold onto my mask, if you want. As long as you don't try to pull it off."

"In the position I'm in?" Spike said. "I'm dumb but not that....ffffffuck."

He was cut off by Victor's head game. The man was an an artist. Eventually, he took his mouth off Spike's cock and started to milk it, tugging it closer to his chest.

Spike took the lead and moved his cock head up the valley of Victor's pectorals, nice and smooth. It felt amazing. He realized he could probably fuck his pecs if he wanted to. But he would settle for dragging his shaft and cock head up to their peaks, across his nipple. It was dirty and depraved, but he didn't care.

"Yeah," Victor said, enamoured with Spike's worship of his chest. "Slap that nice cock against those pecs for me."

Spike did as he was told, slamming his meat against Vic's chest as the muscular fighter bounced and flexed his pecs, adding to the sensation. "Ohhhh," Spike groaned, at a loss. He had reached a trance like state. He didn't care how depraved he was with his cock. Victor alternated between mouthing it and forcing Spike to worship his pecs with his cock head, admiring the cocktail of saliva and precum that dripped onto his meaty muscles.

"I'm not gonna last long," Spike moaned. This was beyond anything he'd felt before. A damn great birthday.

"I can make it feel really good with my power," Victor said, grinning, and in total control of his boy. "But you might faint."

Spike took a deep breath. I better not regret this. "Fuck, do it." He knew he was thinking with his cock, which was close to shooting anyway, but it didn't matter. 

"You probably will cum right away," Victor warned, as he pressed his finger tip to Spike's cockhead, injecting it with a wave of warmth.

"Don't care just—" he was cut off by the overwhelming sensation of something pushing its way into his prostate and base of his shaft at the same time, a feeling that was painful and uncomfortable for all of a second, before all of the serotonin inside Spike's brain released himself, and all of his genital muscles contracted at the same time.

It would have been embarrassing, if Spike was capable of any other thought. His voice cracked. "OH FUCK I'M GONNA CUM."

"Aim for my pecs," Victor said softly, "I want you to cover them."

Spike did as told, but it was a photo finish. "OH FUCK. OH I'M GONNA SHOOT SO HARD."

He wanted to scream, and had to bite down on his tongue to prevent himself from doing so. Whatever Victor had done to him was impossible to describe. It was like an orgasm from a different part of Spike's cock than he was used to. He shot out the fattest load of spunk he'd ever seen, at a high velocity and volume. He moaned and gasped, as he pumped a load of cream all over Victor's chest, watching it slide down smooth.

"Wow," Victor said, impressed. "That's incredible." Watching Spike try and not faint back down on the bed, contented Victor gathered Spike's cum in his finger and put it to his lips. He kissed Spike with it. "Taste yourself, boy."

Spike could have been told anything in that moment and he would have gladly done it. He was far gone. Eyes in the back of his head, all he could do was let free a string of giggles, in disbelief of what had happened.

But he wanted more.

"I need to keep going," Spike, already exhausted, said. He dropped to his knees, in front of Victor's tenting bulge in his red thong. He looked at it like an object of worship. There's no way I'm taking in this giant man's cock after all that pizza. Not a problem. I'll suck out his soul instead.

"It's my love magick, mi amor. It's addicting." Victor was patient and understanding. "I'll make sure you sober up by the--"

"Shut up and let me suck that cock!" Spike snarled, like an addict cut off from the source. He couldn't contain himself. Slut became aggressive slut, a tiger on the hunt for raw meat. Spike yanked Victor's thong off and pulled it down his legs. 

"HOLY SHIT," Spike said.

Victor, ready to receive Spike's mouth, looked down. "Everything okay, handsome?"

It was beyond okay. Spike looked upon Victor's glory. Sure, it had been hyped. He had tempered his expectations, even. But to look upon it now was like staring at a priceless work of art. Nine inches of length and an optimal amount of girth, straight and beautifully shaped, with a spherical and symmetrical head. It was, without a doubt, the sceptre of a king, beautiful in its composition, right down to the length of cum vein that ran across it. The Goddess herself must have shaped this cock, Spike thought, taking in Victor's equally large and finely shaped balls. He was shaved smooth, which was hardly a surprise. Spike placed a finger against the tip, where a bead of precum, formed like a white pearl.

Hungrily admiring his cock, Spike looked up submissively into his master's eyes. "Victor, this should be in the fuckin' Met." He couldn't control himself. He took all of Victor's length inside his mouth and made a silent vow to give him the best head of his life.

The feedback was promising. "Oh...fuck, Spike, your mouth." He leaned back in rapture, daring to thrust slowly into his new toy's mouth. He pushed a little, careful to make sure he didn't make Spike gag too much. "DAMN that's good head."

Spike might as well have been stranded in the desert for days. Victor's cock was an oasis. He couldn't help himself, forcing his mouth deeper and deeper. He tasted Victor's precum. It was sweet. Strange. It made him go harder. His thought were completely consumed. All he could think about was sucking this man off.

Victor knew what was happening, but it was hard to convey it between the waves of pleasure. "Just a heads up....my precum...it will numb you a little."

Spike looked up with innocent eyes and forced himself to pull off, but only long enough to say, with absolutely authority and desperation, "Good. I want you to fuck my throat."

Victor was right. Whatever was happening here had supressed Spike's gag reflex utterly (not that he was new to deep throating; he'd been in the Navy after all). He inhaled Victor's cock into the back of his throat.

"SPIKE..." Victor tossed back his hair, lost in the sensation. "Agh. I should let you know....if I cum in your mouth...Remember, I am a half Incubus. It might..."

Trailing a rope of saliva and precum, Spike pulled back, if only to breathe. "I don't care," he said sternly. "If I die, I die." It was like a spellbreaking match. Spike had every intention of utterly destroying his opponent. Victor's seed would be his.

Victor tried to brush it off, but he could feel himself creeping closer to the edge. "Oh...you might die a little." He'd made a monster. He knew he should have turned down his powers. Still, he had a duty of care. He had to warn Spike.

But it was too late. "Are you sure...NO, I'M SO SORRY, I'm gonna CUM."

Something warm and sweet, but with the effects of a fine wine, poured into Spike's throat. He didn't stop. He would suck down every drop. He would drain Victor completely. Nothing else mattered.

Moaning and gasping, Victor finally had to pushed Spike's face away so he could catch a breath. He heaved, coated in sweat, his hair matted against his chest. "Damn..." he sighed. "Goddess damn. That was amazing, chico." He looked down at his younger friend, eyes glossed over in a trance-like state. "You okay, boy?" He ruffled his head, playing with his hair. "You drank it all down. That...will probably cause some effects."

Victor was right. Spike stared off into space. It was like he'd just taken a hit of a potent drug. He was nearly catatonic with bless. "I....I...."

Between his legs, Spike grew raw and erect. A string of precum leaked down from his throbbing cock, right onto Victor's floor. 

Victor arched an eyebrow. "Ah. Hehe. You are love drunk. We'll have to fix that." Victor leaned over and pushed Spike onto the bed, onto his back. "You remember how I said you'd shoot hard? Well, now you've had the full dose."

Spike's soul was somewhere else, but he was aware of all that was around him. Victor, quite possibly the most muscular and beautiful man Spike had ever laid eyes on, slowly crawled on top of him, making sure to distribute his weight as not to crush his partner. Spike was overwhelmed with sweat. Victor's hair hung down into his face, brushing his cheeks as he went in for a series of slow, tender kisses.

More. Spike thought. I want more.

Victor caressed the side of Spike's face. "I'm not gonna fuck you," he whispered. "Not yet. You still need to adjust to what I can do." He lowered his head and bit Spike's neck softly, whispering, "But I am gonna make you scream."

Whatever was happening, Spike wanted to stay inside this state of mind forever. "Can't....speak..."

Victor began to brush his massive girth against Spike's cock, frotting him real slow. "If you want to stop, you can squeeze my hand." His movements were liquid, strong, sensual. "I'm just gonna ride my cock against yours. Feels good, doesn't it?"

That was putting it mildly. "Ah...ah...."

Victor increased in his thrusts, grinding his hips against Spike, dominating his cock with his own. A steady stream of precum leaked from both of them, lubricating them up. Victor increased the speed and momentum.

Spike was already in the throes of pleasure. This was something else. Every nerve was at attention, sending signals to his brain. His prostate and nuts were swollen with pleasure from both sides. He would give everything to Victor.

The master of love magick looked down into his moaning, writhing partner's distant stare and knew he was close. He tried not to let his amusement show, or make Spike feel embarrassed. Instead, he grabbed one of the silk pillows and held it to his face.

"You're gonna need to bite down on this."

Spike had just enough sense left in him to heed the command. The wave of pleasure was overwhelming. Like before, it was painful, almost like being stabbed in the g-spot and the nuts. Spike felt the orgasm come on slow and drawn out, as if something was pushing every ounce of cum out of him at once.

Oh Goddess, I'm gonna fucking die. Spike buried his face into the pillow and screamed. This was too much, ion a good way. "MMMMMMFFFFFFFF!!!!!!"

Thankfully, Spike didn't have to see what mess he made. A fountain of seminal fluid and cum shot out all over him and Victor in a steady stream, leaking onto the bed. If it wasn't so hot, it would almost be grotesque. Victor, afraid he'd just killed his friend, stopped and looked down.

The orgasm to end all orgasms stopped. Spike was distant. Gone. Endorphins played across his neurons. He tried not to faint, merely trembling and shaking in the aftermath instead.

"Happy Birthday, mi amor. Hahaha. If you pass out, it's alright."

But the Sailorboy was no bitch. And even though he didn't have ad rop of cum left in him, he would live another day. "I..." he choked on his words, trying to look up into Victor's dark eyes. "I'm...still shaking."

"Yes, I can see that." The hunky luchador kissed him on the cheek and then went up to fetch a towel. "Are you alright, beautiful?"

Spike got a good view of Victor's rock hard, muscle ass. Shit, and that was just from a bit of grinding! I can't even imagine getting my face or cock in all of that. It really would kill me!

"That...was the best orgasm I've ever had." Spike sighed, smiling, feeling as if he was glowing like a god. "A double shot."

Victor laughed softly, and handed Spike both a towel and a glass of water. "I can do this..."

"No, no, no," Spike insisted. Sex decorum 101. "Just...ah man, give me a second I can't move."

Feeling mischievous, Victor leaned in. "Now imagine if I had fucked you."

"Let's...build up to that," Spike said, legitimately terrified of this spellbreaker's power. So, love really is the strongest magick!

Spike did eventually find the stamina to wipe himself down (and there was a lot to wipe off). "I can't believe I came that much," he said, red faced. "How is that humanly possible?"

Victor laid back, lounging in his nudity, a god in repose. "I am good at what I do." He motioned for Spike to come to him.

Spike bit his lip. The man's touch alone sent his senses on fire. Good thing he probably wouldn't be able to cum again for some time now. Spike fell down and back into Victor's arms. The man held him close, kissing the back of his neck. It was intimate. Sweet. Spike didn't want him to let go.

"Speaking of which," Victor said, nibbling Spike's ear. "I might need you to come over and service this cock again sometime. That mouth and throat of yours is something else." He paused. "Stay the night with me. Please."

"As if I wouldn't," Spike said, assumingly. He craned his head back and gave Victor another kiss. "Thank you. This was a great birthday."

"Happy to hear it," Victor said. "Dream well. You're in my arms tonight."

But sleep had already taken Spike, satisfied beyond measure, nestled up against the muscular man's chest. Pure bliss. Happy birthday indeed.

Chapter 12: The Platinum Champion of the GSA

Dressed in all black, with a barrel chest and a long ponytail, the guard looked to Spike like a gorilla turned into a human and got a night job. The guard huffed at him as he tossed open the double doors of the arena, gear bag slack across his broad shoulders, and made a bee line for the terrace.

"If you leave, kid, you ain't getting in unless you're Colt the Bolt!"

Spike was not in the mood. He turned around and glared cold steel into the guard's eyes. The size difference between them was laughable, but even the giant man flinched at Sailorboy's New York patented stare of doom.

"I'm talent," Spike spat.

The guard shrugged. "Sorry, bud. It's a security issue."

"Harumph! Well, I don't even want to get back in, anyway! Need take my mind off this shit night! I'm going to go do something irresponsible..."

The man in the ponytail scratched his head. "Uh...like...what?

Spike was apoplectic, a tiny volcano! "Oh brother, it's Vegas, I dunno! Hookers? Cocaine? Gambling? I'LL FIGURE IT OUT WHEN I GET THERE."

The Sailorboy, still raw over his failed match, stormed down the halogen lit hallway to the double doors leading out onto the terrace, in turn leading to a skyway footpath that branched back onto the strip.  

I'm gonna go that strip club Marcy was talking about, get wasted, and wake up in the arms of two giant stallions. Or...I'll just go to Victor's hotel room, seduce him, and sleep with him to get back Iggy. No. He'd actually kill me, then. Damn it...

Spike kicked open the door onto the cool, Las Vegas night air. Over the balcony, it looked like the city was made of starlight. But Spike was sick of stars; trying two win them, or being smacked in the face with them repeatedly. At least he was alone.

No, apparently not.

Spike sniffed the air. Deodorant and testosterone. There is a jock nearby. To his left, a young, stocky man, took a long drag on a cigarette. Spike almost didn't recognize him. But then again, know they enemy...

Cian Enbarr, in one of his dumb band T-shirts (he thought he was so damn cool) and his shorts. Always the shorts! Fucking hell. The last person I wanted to see...

The Faeblood Brawler laid eyes on him before Spike could even open his mouth and lob a half-hearted insult his way. "Not in the mood, boyo," he said in a small, tired voice.

Spike blinked, taken aback. He calmly closed the door behind him, leaving them both to each other's cold company. "Hey, why are you so upset anyway? At least you won your match. I mean, you also turned Usagi into Jello, but--"

"What about 'not in the mood' are you not able to get through your pretty head?" Cian snapped. Well, it wasn't really a 'snap'. He sounded like he was on the ropes. Defeated. It almost made Spike feel bad for him.

 "...Pretty?" Spike beamed. It was the first time he'd been complimented by him! Wait, no, that's not a compliment...

Cian let out a trail of nicotine, and tossed his cigarette over the railing. The wind caught it. "I've been penalized. I'll have to sit out the next few matches. All because of that stupid shit Usagi said to me...."

This was weird. Cian was being...conversational. Vulnerable. 

Blindsided, Spike tried to say something nice to him for once. "Er...you just need to get better control of your powers. It'll happen eventually." 

"I don't need YOU telling me how to be a spellbreaker, sissy!

Spike's first instinct was to turn around and deck Cian right in the mouth. The last thing either of them needed, however, was more fighting. A cooler head prevailing, Spike crossed over to the railing and placed his hands on the cold metal. The desert sky opened before him, and green lights illuminated the nuclear heart of the city at its core. With his head still rattled from Iggy's assault, Spike felt a tinge of vertigo, and drew back.

Spike took a deep breath, opting for light-hearted sass instead of a left hook to the jaw. "Okay, first of all, I find the word 'sissy' hilarious...not offensive." He glared down at the pack of Lucky Strikes in Cian's hand. "Second, give me those." He yanked them away before Cian could do anything about it, and took one out for himself.

Cian balked. "Oy! That's my last cigarette!"

Spike placed the cigarette to his lips, not caring that he didn't even own a lighter. He walked triumphantly towards the opposite side of the terrace.

"Not smart to turn your back on a trickster, boyo."

Suddenly, Cian was standing in front of him, blocking his path!

"Mine."

Spike blinked, putting two and two together. He could even see through the slightly transparent hunk standing in front of him. "Puhlease. You're just...a mirage."

Then, the real Cian behind him: "But I'm not."

A pair of extremely muscular arms wrapped themselves around Spike's midsection, squeezing him like an orange for juicing. He lifted him off the ground. Spike dropped the pack of cigarettes but kept the loose one fastened between his teeth.

"UGH! A reverse bearhug. Oh my goodness, yours is worse than Kengo's! My ribs are already sensitive! Here. Take your stupid cigarette!" There was only one left in the pack anyway.

Cian dropped Spike and picked up the Lucky Strikes. He put them up his sleeve instead, and generously offered Spike his a lighter.

Spike shielded Cian's hands and his flame. It was shockingly intimate and considerate of him, and had Spike's thoughts not been preoccupied with feelings of utter failure, he might have mistaken the gesture for flirtation.

Spike took a long drag, enjoying the taste of tobacco, but knowing it was probably best not to pick up a filthy habit. "When did you start smoking, anyway, C?"

"Since exactly ten minutes ago. I bought the last three in that pack off a stage hand back there for a few bucks."

Blowing smoke, Spike took the butt out of his mouth and stared at Cian, annoyed. He jabbed the cigarette in his peer's face like a threatening dagger. "This is dumb, Cian! And look who that's coming from. We're magi; we already have slightly shorter lifespans than non-glyph users. Don't go ruining your career by getting lung cancer or em...emaceema!"

Cian snorted. "...You're trying to say emphysema, aren't you?"

"Fuck off," Spike said, but he couldn't hide the amused smile. He looked down at the stick in his hands, thought about it for a moment, and dropped it to the ground. "Ugh, why does smoking look so cool but has to be so bad for you?" He ground it with the worn heel of his high tops. "You know, I don't get you, C. You're an amazing fighter. You have a killer body. People think you're awesome. Why you gotta' be so cold and distant always?"

Cian crossed his arms and looked away, maintaining his distance. "Gee. Ever thought I just like to be alone?

"Hey, man, that's on you. But I don't get it.

Cian scowled at him. "Well, it must be exhausting trying to get everyone to like you all the time..."

Up until this point, Spike had tried to be patient with his rival, but even he had his limits. Still, he was too emotionally spent to be angry. The floodgates were open, but what poured out was much for inwardly directed. 

"Look, I don't need EVERYbody to like me, Faeblood. Just...a few people to like me a lot. And life isn't all gumdrops and lollipops for me right now, okay? I lost my match. I haven't gotten laid in MONTHS. I'm actually lonely as SHIT. I feel completely incapable of my abilities, and I'm considering quitting the GSA after tonight. It sucks. I suck." He stared out into the night, feeling empty and embarrassed, mostly that he'd just poured his guts out to the last person he expected to give a shit.

"And you're right. I do care, Cian. If I actually had a handle on things, I wouldn't have just poured my feelings out you. But you happened to be here. So, just forget I said anything and—" 

"I'm sorry that's all happening to you."

Spike looked over at Cian. He was staring down at the ground, not able to make eye contact. "What?

Cian looked up. He considered the cigarette in his hands and dropped the butt to the ground, crushing it with his shoe. "I said, I'm sorry that's happening to you, boyo. But honestly, I think you're being a bit dramatic."

"I'M BEING DRAMATIC!?"

Cian smirked. But his eyes smiled. "Yes. You went up against one of the strongest and meanest spellbreakers in our fed. I thought it'd be an easy squash. It wasn't. You gave 'em hell, boyo. I saw."

Spike looked around, confused. Was this another one of Cian's pranks? "You...watched my match?"

"Hey, don't get any funny ideas, now. But you did well. So stop beating yourself up, idiot!"

"Well, er...same to you, idiot!

"FINE!"

"FINE!"

The two fighters looked at each other, both of them breathing heavily, shoulders raised. And after a few seconds, they both burst out into laughter. This was dumb. They were being dumb.

But it felt good.

Cian nodded to the door behind them. "You better get inside. You don't want to miss the champion take on the local villain."

Spike sensed this was just Cian's way of politely telling him to get lost, which he actually did appreciate—it was a refreshing change from Cian's usual rudeness. But then, the subtext hit Spike like a brick up the side of his head.

He gasped, suddenly overwhelmed with excitement. "Wait, like, the GSA champion?"

"Yeah? Who else?"

Spike threw out his hands and gripped down on Cian's shoulders. "Cian, we gotta' get in there!"

Cian turned a bright shade of red. He pulled back. "Hey, watch the merchandise, boyo."

Spike ignored him, lost in his own schemes. "Ugh, but that grunt at the door locked me out. How am I gonna get in? I could bribe him. No, I could seduce him! Ugh, but I'm too tired. I don't have the mojo right now—"

"I'll handle it," Cian said, opening the door before Spike could protest. "Just follow my lead. And don't say anything!" He glared at his companion to drive the point home.

Spike screwed his face up in confusion, but did as directed, stepping back into the sterile, halogen soaked hallway. He wasn't sure he could trust Cian as far as he could throw him (without power magick, that is). He turned to ask Cian a follow up, but he froze in his tracks before he could get the words out. Because Cian was gone.

Colt, tall and strong, looked back at him. "Hm?"

Spike blinked. "C-c-colt! When did you get here?" He whipped his head back whence he came, and then towards the branch at the end of the hallway. "And where's Cian?"

The cowboy, dressed in his fancy button up and bolo, crossed his arms and gave Spike a long, hard look. "Take your time with it...boyo."

The wheels turn. Spiked gave it a moment, before his slack jaw reeled up inside his head. "Holy...shit."

Cian, or Colt (or Cian as Colt) pointed to the turn up ahead. "What did I tell you, boyo...I mean...pardner?"

Still caught up in disbelief, Spike looked up at the transfigured fighter. He'd never seen a Mind Glyph user pull off a glamour like this before! He snickered mischievously. "I'm getting so many ideas right now..."

"Me too," Cian sniffed, in his own voice. "Like piledriving your sorry ass into the pavement!"

"Okay, COLT. Ha! Piledrivers aren't your style anyway. Thank Goddess, I can only imagine how much it would suck to have my face pressed up against your massive, musky bulge as you jumped up into the air SLAMMED my neck between your enormous thighs and completely broke my pathetic--"

"SPIKE."

"Shutting up now!"

Spike and 'Colt' approached the corridor leading back into the colosseum. It had been intermission when Spike had ducked out in disgrace. He'd forced himself to stay put and support Kengo during his match with Silverback (a spellbreaker who could transform himself into gorilla) and even felt a second-handed victory at Kengo's triumph. Still, it was short lived, spoiled instead by thoughts of inadequacy and comparing himself to his talented, handsome, and beefy roommate. 

The black shirted grunt with the barrel chest and the action-movie ponytail was still standing sentinel at the door. Spike tried not to blow cover. For once, he let someone else do the talking.

The grunt's eyes lit up at the sight of the tall, statuesque cowboy coming toward him. "Oh! C-colt."

Cian looked him up and doubt. "Er...howdy!"

Spike did everything within his power to suppress a laugh. 

The grunt, who obviously did not express a glyph of his own (otherwise, he might have detected magickal trickery) nodded and opened the door for the fake GSA president. "Right this way, sir."

Colt and Spike stepped through. Once they were sure the door was shut tight behind them, they both collapsed against opposite sides of the hallway, and exhaled.

Spike shot Cian a smug look. "...Howdy?"

'Colt' melted into streams of green light, somewhere between shards of glass and melting ice, that evaporated around the 'core' that was Cian. Though he tried not to show it on his face, his sweaty skin and ruddy face suggested that shapeshifting took a toll.

"Kiss my ass," Cian replied. But there was a touch more light heartedness in his cutting jibes tonight.

Don't tempt me with a good time, Spike thought hungrily. There is a lot of ass to be had... He nodded to the lobby, rife with the scents of artificial popcorn butter and cheap beer. It was an odd sensation, being back in a type of space he'd been familiar with as a spellbreaking fan—the outside looking in. He had seen quite a few locker rooms in the last few months, not so many lobbies. It was a nice reminder of why he liked the sport, back before everything had become stressful and about winning, getting 'over' with the fans.

His eyes fell on an explosive marquee poster of two ridiculously muscular men in skimpy stringer shirts fleeing an array of helicopters and missiles. "Oh wow!" Spike said, pointing to the advert. "I forgot the new Himbo Patrol was coming out. I gotta' see it!"

Cian raised an eyebrow. "What the hell is that?"

"CIAN!" Spike gasped. "You mean you've never seen Himbo Patrol!? It's about these two buff friends (who are definitely, secretly lovers) who always accidentally get involved saving the city. My favortie part is when a firey explosion rips their stringers off. You should see it sometime; Zeek—the one with the long, dark hair—kills the bad guy by smothering him with his pecs!" Spike sighed. "Lucky dude..."

Cian rolled his eyes, but Spike's earnestness was admittedly infectious. "Alright, Himbo Patrol, let's hurry before we miss the show. Ah, but first thing's first..." He pointed to the concession booth. "You're buying us a round of beer. You still owe me for those cigarettes, lad."

The atmosphere inside the colosseum was electric, and not just because of Colt's presence. It had already been one hell of a night, with Iggy and Spike's outrageous match still fresh on the memory of most fans. Spike, who felt completely naked, had switched into a more subtle, black 'GSA' shirt to blend in with the crowd. Even so, as he and Cian wove in to their designated area, fans noticed them and stopped to give them words of encouragement.

Both fighters looked at each other, equally confused. The praised was a shock to either of them, who both felt sore about their matches in different ways—though none more sore than Spike, whose ribs and torso still ached from Iggy's finisher, soma aside. Both trained sportsman as they were, Cian and Spike smiled graciously, but steered their fans' attention back towards the incoming match, as Colt would have wanted them to.

Y'all can be dicks inside the ring, but once you're out of it, you still humble even in character!

Spike found his seat and handed Cian his beer, content to play food and drink caddy for the moment. "Good thing you got us back in. Kengo told me that Colt was gonna announce something big at the end of this last match."

"Oh yeah," Cian said. "I'm surprised he managed not to spoil it. You know how he is."

Spike laughed. Cian really was tolerable when he wasn't frustrating. He was also frustratingly handsome, too, but Spike knew better than to chase that dragon. Besides, he was more invested in taking his mind of his losses and finding out the identity of the GSA champ. With that in mind, Spike scanned the crowd and found Colt's VIP box. There the old tomcat was, chatting to both of his female companions, like a king situated between two queens.

"You think Colt'll let us into his VIP box?" Spike casually asked.

Cian lowered his plastic cup of beer from his lips. "Not a chance, lad. Plus, you see those two babes he's with?"

"Deadass!" Spike declared in quintessential New York agreement. "I know Marcy on the left; she's the dancer that Gio, Victor, and I ran into the other night. She's super nice. Don't know the other chick though."

"I can't believe our boss telling us to be on our best behavior, while he goes around like a tom cat. A woman on both arm! Wonder if we should tell Buck..." 

"Ugh, right? Not only is he straight, but he's like GOOD at it too." A thought occurred to him just then. Spike gave Cian a quick look over. "By the way, I never asked you, are you..."

"Whatever you are about to ask me, here's a word of advice: don't." The hard look Cian gave Spike spoke for him. "I'm trying very hard to enjoy your company."

"...Well....is it working?"

Cian ignored the question. "You give much thought to who's gonna mentor you when we get back?"

"No," Spike said, ashamed. He knew it wouldn't be wise to bring up that he was questioning whether or not to quit the GSA entirely after tonight. Besides, he had no idea what Silver or Gold Star class man he'd pick to coach him. "I guess I sorta' like everybody."

This answer didn't appear to satisfy the hard-edge spellbreaker. "You're...not going to base it on who you have a crush on, are ye?"

Ough. "I have a crush on everyone, Cian, so that's not like...OH SHIT IT'S STARTING!"

Dimmed lights and hard rock music sent the already excited audience into a spiral of cheers. All eyes fell upon the entrance at the helm of the aisle, awash in a 'radioactive' green light. Smoke, flashing lights, and an air raid siren heralded the challenger to the GSA championship.

Boomer Harlow, wearing a flashy, tiger-striped shirt now, raised his voice over the din. "Ladies and gentleman! Coming from the nuclear wastelands, it's the menacing mutant himself. The radioactive avenger...Fallout!"

Fallout, the radioactive warrior, was nearly seven feet tall and looked like he had a steady diet of steroids for breakfast each day. His oiled muscles protruded out of his bright, green-and-black tight-singlet combo, with his pecs threatening to snap the straps right off. An appropriately themed nuclear hazard symbol stood out at the center point of his gear, just over his abdomen. With long, greasy, black hair and a bit of stubble to boot, he was terrifying to behold, but handsome in a greasy, leather-daddy way, Spike thought.

Like everyone else in the audience, Spike drew back in horror and disgust, though he admittedly loved Fallout's accessorizing of his gas mask and goggles. "Points for entrance gear," Spike whispered to Cian. "He's scary."

Cian shrugged. "Most of these guys are all talk. You just watch."

Fallout, the mutated hulk, stomped his thick boots down in the ring, and even shook the ropes like a wild animal to show off how scary and crazy he was. The audience jeered him, but it only served to bolster his rowdy persona. Even the ref, saddled with radioactive resistant lead apron and gloves, shrunk back from him, not even wanting to get close enough to pat him down! A rare wielder of the Atomos Glyph, it was said that the mysterious Fallout exuded a deadly aura, and that even getting close to him was enough to be knocked back with a hefty dosage of rads.

The radioactive heel ripped off his gas mask and tossed it to the corner. "Time to blow this place UP!" he growled, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Caught up in the excitement of the fight, Cian leaned into Spike to give him the juicy background info. Though Cian was 'too-cool' most of the time, Spike had heard his penchant for gossip, and the wily Faeblood had a penchant for collecting rumors. "I heard Atom and Eve doesn't like him because he's a bad representative of atomic safety."

Spike cocked his head to the side, smugly. "Well, duh! He's a bad guy. You're not supposed to like the bad guy, Cian."

Cian took in a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I need more beer..."

In the ring, Fallout stanched the mic out of the poor ref's hands. The man retreated, terrified to enter Fallout's 'contamination zone'. It was a miracle the mic didn't melt in the fiend's hands (fortunately, he had been forced to wear gloves). "Hey, all you pipsqueaks out there gambling your fortunes away. Take a look at me! This is all mutant muscle!" He flexed his rippling arms for the audience, who replied with a tidal wave of boos and rude gestures.

Except for Spike. "Mmmm. I just love bad boys."

Cian blushed. "You're not supposed to like him just because he's beefy and bad!"

In a certain mood already, Spike shot a knowing look at his companion. "I said what I said."

"Ingrates!" Fallout roared back at the critics. "I'm gonna blow this place sky high and send it crashing to the Earth! Las Vegas ain't nothing but a shit hole, using atomic energy to make you all fat and greedy and complacent. If this were the wasteland, I'd hunt down every last single one of you and eat you alive!"

Spike growled back. "Fallout, baby, I'm gonna eat you."

Cian took Spike's beer out of his hands. "That's it. No more for you. Do you watch this sport to horny, or to be entertained?"

"Two things can be true, Cian."

In the twilit arena, Fallout gave off a subtle, ominous glow. He was a juggernaut of magick and muscle; not even Spike could think of anybody he knew among the GSA roster who could stand a chance against him! 

Even Boomer Harlow despaired. "Oh no! Who will save us from the nuclear apocalypse!" Or did he? His eyes betrayed a knowing glint. "Wait a dang minute, folks...did it just get colder in here or what?"

Spike whipped his head to the entrance arch. "Hey, it's snowing!"

Sure enough, soft flakes descended from the rafters. Beams of white light highlighted the aisle. Less sinister, but equally badass, rock music filled the speakers anew, reinvigorating the crowd. This was it! The champion. Spike wondered who they could be. Was it going to be a last minute twist, and Colt would appear? Was it going to be John Henry, in his full-metal getup? Or had Spike overlooked some other hunk or hunkette capable of going toe-to-toe with the muscle freak, Fallout?

A strong, tall shadow emerged from backstage, the GSA championship belt slung proudly over their shoulders. While not as huge as Fallout, their musculature was simply extraordinary, every abdomen, bicep, and quad carved and chiselled out of marble. Their outfit was unique, black tights cut out strategically to reveal their massive thighs and slender waistline, with a white tiger-stripe speedo concealed underneath a red, traditional Chinese loincloth, complete gold embroidered lettering and red rope tie. Their wrist wraps alternated between black and white, and their hair was likewise a gradient of black with frosted, white tips. They looked like a superhero who had made the jump from the page to reality.

Spike's eyed widened with recognition. "No...way!"

The fighter hopped up and down and shadow boxed with a furious dazzle of punches, faster than the eye could follow. They let Boomer do the talking for them. "Coming to the ring, the original Singapore Slinger! The warrior of wind and water and the yin and yang king of the GSA. Yes, folks, bow down, bow down before The Platinum Champion. The White TIGER!"

"WHAT!" Spike shouted, glad Cian had taken his beer from him now—he would have spat it out otherwise. Spike turned to his pal. "Joseph is the champion!?"

Cian laughed. "Took you long enough!"

"Wait, so is Fallout challenging him for the GSA championship belt? But Fallout isn't even in the same fed. How does that even work?"

"Don't worry too much about it, boyo, just watch the show."

Joseph, or White Tiger, carried himself with a heroic dignity that nevertheless suggested he was not to be challenged. There was no doubt he was magnanimous. He took his time shaking hands, doling out high fives and fist bumps, all with his sharp, staccato, and graceful movements. This was a man who knew how to use his body with precision. Spike had gotten a taste of his powerful presence several times, but that was nothing compared to energy exuded by White Tiger.

Once upon a time, a younger Spike had laid eyes on Colt the Bolt and knew that mortal men could be as a gods. Older Spike, who hadn't felt excitement for this sport since becoming a player himself, suddenly remembered what it was like to stand in awe of a hero.

"Oh my Goddess..." Spike said. "He's...so...HOT!"

"Yeah," Cian said, without thinking. He flinched. "I mean, he's not a bad looking guy, no."  

White Tiger wiped his feet on the ring apron (babyface 101, of course) and stepped inside. He nodded politely to the ref, handed him the belt for safe keeping, and then locked Fallout in his predatory stare. Even Spike, yards away, felt a chill run up his spine. He'd been wowed by El Amante's charisma and sex appeal, been intimidated by Gio "The Titan's" godly strength, and had long worshipped Colt's electrifying power. But White Tiger was something else. Even without seeing him perform, Spike knew why he was the Platinum Champion of the GSA. 

Apparently, Fallout hadn't gotten the memo. The muscular brute pointed and laughed at the intimidating warrior that loomed before him, unafraid. "Ha! What a prettyboy. Nice loincloth you got there, princess."

Joseph undid the ceremonial breechcloth, unthreading the red rope and tossing the piece of entrance gear to his post. "Thank you for the compliment, Fallout. But I'm afraid your reign of terror ends here."

He released the rope, which shot straight up and narrow, suspended in the air like a cobra ready to strike. The movement was so quick that the audience reacted likewise with awe and applause, much to Fallout's displeasure. 

Joseph's shone radiant silver, in the dark. "It ends with me, and my red rope of fate."

Spike looked to Cian for clarity. "Sorry, rope?"

"Yeah. White Tiger is really good at manipulating wind and water."

"What! He's a dual glyph user?" Now, it made sense why he was so formidable. Dual glyph wielders were a rare breed, and carried extraordinary power. Gio was one of them, being a master of the earth and vegetation.

Cian explained further. "Yeah, Joe's thing is that he leaves his opponents tied up and bound. He takes the gear of those he deems dishonourable."

Spike blushed. "You gotta be fuckin' with me, Cian. He STRIPS and then HOGTIES his opponents?"

"Well, not always in that order." Cian shrugged. "And only if they're bad guys."

"Wow, that's so weird, Cian I think I just had a heel turn..." Spike jabbed a thumb in his chest. "I'm a bad guy now!"

Cian's response was to punch Spike, painfully, in the shoulder. Enough of that.

While Spike was summarily impressed, the bestial Fallout was far from it. He loomed closer to his opponent, who was not afraid of his radius of radioactivity. "I'm going to melt that flesh right off your bones, Tiger! You won't be so pretty when your skin is sloughing off, your pretty face covered in boils, and your mind warped to my liking! You'll be my mutant slave."

Spike felt like a little kid again, watching these two titans of good and evil try and intimidate the other. Shit, this is good. This is why I love spellbreaking!

"Hm." Joseph suddenly back flipped into the air, landing on his feet with feline grace. The audience. Gasped. "I am Joseph Haw, the White Tiger." He shot his left and right hands. A swirl of white snow spiralled around one, and an inky black stream of untethered water orbited the other. "Your fate is already known to me. And the only destiny I see for you...IS DEFEAT." His eyes intensified with the silver light, which enveloped him in a white aura rivalling Fallout's unearthly green glow.

Spike's jaw dropped. Then, the bell rang, and the fight began.

To describe the match between White Tiger and Fallout would not do it justice. Spike himself would tell you that 'you'd have to have fuckin' been there, deadass', in order to have really experienced the intensity and spectacle of it all. Suffice to say, it was a contest between two spellbreakers in their prime, and equal bout between magick and brute strength. The atomic juggernaut was a master of grappling and body blows, but each time he tossed White Tiger, the King of all Babyfaces landed on his feet, without so much as a strength. His movement was like that of a gymnast, warrior, and dancer, all in one. Befitting his dualistic powers and aesthetics, there was a feminine grace to his executions, combined with a masculine aggression. The Tiger was pretty too look at, but just as vicious.

In other words, Spike was smitten.

But the Pinup Prince had also come a long way from merely drooling over dangerous dudes. He'd picked up a fighter's studiousness as well, and White Tiger's moveset was a thril. He seemed to switch between styles and stances. He used his wind to enhanced his high flying techniques, his hammers and flips from the ropes, propelled by his aerodynamic flow. It reminded Spike a lot of the wuxia and kung fu films he'd caught late night at the orphanage growing up. Nobody could be faulted for thinking White Tiger was connected to wires, with the way he sailed through the air, delivering spin kicks and elbow jabs to his larger opponent, wearing him down.

And if wind was White Tiger's offense, water was the defense. The dastardly Fallout was big, but was quick too, and he had a habit of trying to pull or latch onto the quick moving Tiger as he danced around the ring. Seeing as Fallout's touch alone was dangerous, vis-a-vis his atomic touch, White Tiger couldn't afford to get caught in his grip. That didn't seem to be much of a concern, however. His parries and counters were like water, using Fallout's own momentum against him. Each counter-move was punctuated with a blast to the face or body with the high pressure, inky 'black water' that Tiger summoned out of the air. In one particularly crowd popping moment, White Tiger struck Fallout on one side of the face with a solid 'fist' of water, only to follow it up with a white hook of snow-driven wind.

Even Cian wasn't immune from totally marking out over the champ's techniques. "This is awesome!" he squeaked, fists punching the air. "Go White Tiger! Sink those claws into that bloody bastard!"

Spike was totally caught up in the energy too. "All my life I've strived to be that pretty and that powerful. What a hero hunk!"

The match wasn't exactly a stalemate, but both fighters had worn each other down significantly. While White Tiger had danced circles around Fallout, the mutant menace had likewise gotten in a few atomically charged blows, draining Tiger's stamina. Both men were bloodied, bruised, and saturated with sweat. Circling around each other like beasts ready to sink their teeth in for the finish, they huffed and dripped bodily fluids onto the canvas.

Fallout was the first to glow in intensity. His green, radioactive aura burned brighter. He went for a takedown from the bottom. White Tiger responded in turn by driving his foot back, ready to clamp his arms down around Fallout's neck and drive him back, or towards the mat. But it had been a fakeout! Instead, Fallout snapped up and drove his knee right into White Tiger's chin, with a sickening crack.

Cian and Spike's dual reactions were visceral, with either spellbreaker wrapping their arms around the other for comfort. "This isn't good!" Spike said, before realizing what he was doing and breaking free of his hold on sweaty Cian. "Come on Tiger!"

White Tiger's eyes rolled up into the back of their head, their body limping. Fallout wouldn't allow it to hit the canvas. Instead, he shoved White Tiger's head between his giant, smelly, radioactive thighs, pumping White Tiger full of rads.

"GOT YOU!" Fallout roared. "Succumb to my atomic piledriver!"

Spike's eyed suddenly bugged out. "Wait a minute! He doesn't see..."

The giant, arm-shaped water construct snuck up behind Fallout, unaware. Though the blow to Tiger had indeed been devastating, he had been playing possum. With his hand limp at his side, he'd subtly conjured his watery assault from behind his opponent, none the wiser.

The punch struck the back of Fallout's head with the force of a tsunami, forcing the dazed giant forward, like Goliath struck by David's sling. Tiger pivoted around and made a sweeping, graceful gesture with his hands. The ring shook, and from the center, a double helix of wind and water shot up in a geyser of the elements, lifting Fallout into the air, holding him aloft.

"Wow!" Boomer said. "Hope y'all got your ponchos ready, folks! White Tiger has a habit of getting the audience wet. And I don't just mean from his water magick, either."

White Tiger jumped, or rather, flew to the top rope, landing with expert poise. He pointed to his captured opponent, trapped within a prison of undulating water and icy wind. "Your fate is crystal clear. Face the Retribution of the Four Guardians!" 

Spike had learned enough about spellbreaking by now that their were limits to physical moves, which were often enhanced by magick, and usually reserved for finishers and special attacks. Rarely, did the two combine so dynamically. Right in front of Spike's eyes, White Tiger redefined the boundaries of magick and fighting. He jumped off the rope, suspended in air by his wind, and launched a fury of kicks and punches, faster than the eye could track. This brutal attack was combined by three other phantom 'White Tigers' joining in on the beatdown, all of them materially composed of seperate elements: his black hued water, snow-swept wind, and a White Tiger made from solid ice. The four pronged attacked was, perhaps, the most devastating finishing move Spike had ever witnessed. Fallout's body contorted and twisted with each strike, like a rubbery cartoon character.

And when White Tiger was at last satisfied, his three 'doubles' and the conjured geyser evaporating into a crystalline snow, the 'real' Tiger wrapped his muscular legs around Fallout's neck, inverted him with momentum and strength, and rode his body down to the canvas, head first.

WHAM!!!! 

A massive tidal wave of water splashed out from the ring, cascading over the apron, and splashing the stunned and excited audience. Boomer Harlow, at his mic table, was already prepared with a flowery, Hawaiin printed umbrella. Thankfully, White Tiger's magick evaporated the overspill almost instantly, much to the relief of temporarily soaked audience members. Not as if most of them cared. They would have gladly thrown themselves into the drink twice over just to re-witness the absolutely transcended match all over again.

It had been a long minute since Spike had seen a whole stadium get to its feet in rapturous enthusiasm (certainly not for one of his recent matches). Spike joined them in the cheer. "Holy shit, Cian, he smoked him!" So this is White Tiger's power? No wonder he's the champion of the GSA. Colt must be so proud.

Fallout, stunned and broken on the canvas, curled up like a dead spider. He wasn't going anywhere. White Tiger rolled him up for the pin, a clean count out. The bell rang. The ref raised his arms. And White Tiger stood over all like a godly hero, head raised eye and eyes shining in the dark. Spike had seen only one other spellbreaker look this great in victory; and that was Colt the Bolt. He realized then, as White Tiger put his hands together and bowed to the audience, mouthing 'Thank you', that the Tiger was likely to the new generation of spellbreaking fans as Colt was to Spike, growing up.

While the audience was still on its feet, foaming at the mouth, and White Tiger's anthem blaring loud, the feng-shui spellbreaker motioned for his red rope, piled in the corner. It snaked through the air, a dutiful servant. Yet, it did not go towards its master, but his master's defeated opponent instead, the completely neutered Fallout laying at his feet. White Tiger made a graceful, twisting motion. The rope wrapped and tied itself around Fallout as if guided by invisible hands, snaking along his arms and feet, intertwining with the rune-laden ringside ropes as well. Fallout, already delirious, couldn't do more but grunt and wriggle, a fly caught in a spider's web...or a tiger's trap.

Spike blushed and opened his mouth. "Don't say a word," Cian warned him.

Boomer Harlow was in hysterics, his voice several octaves higher than usual. "LOOKS LIKE THIS ATOM BOMB HAS BEEN DISARMED! Tiger's wrapped him up like a Yuletide ham!" 

A lock of sweaty hair fell over Fallout's grizzled, stubbly face. "You rat bastard," the atomic maniac spat.

White Tiger leered down at him and placed his gas mask over his face, effectively muzzling him. "Watch your language, you radioactive freak." He looked down at the heel's eye-punching green attire, in disgust. "You are not worthy of a warrior's armor." 

The Tiger reached down and grabbed a fistful of Fallout's gear, even as the malcontent shifted and raged, grunting furiously. Tiger ripped it off in one go, like peeling a band aid off a particularly festering scab.

Cian had to support Spike from falling over. "NO WAY!" Spike sputtered. "This is gonna awaken something in me, I just know it."

"At this point, what's even left to be woken up in you?" red-faced Cian challenged.

Fallout's muscular body, full exposed, was indeed intimidating. However, what wasn't intimidating was his skimpy black thong with the a yellow smiley face tactfully placed over his crotch. He wriggled around, like a pathetic worm, while the audience pointed and laughed.

White Tiger held the gear up like a freshly skinned pelt from a legendary beast, a Nemean Lion. "This is my trophy. When others ask who humbled you, Fallout, tell them you fell at the hands of the White Tiger..."

With another whip-crack flick of his wrists, Tiger retracted the rope, which unfurled itself and coiled around its master's muscular forearm, dropping the humiliated Fallout to the cold, ring floor below. The cameras made sure to zoom in on that.

Whit Tiger looked on, cocky and proud. "Hmph." He would be sure to mount this humbled villain's gear on his wall later, as he did with all the other bastards he'd bested (he was starting to run out of room). He politely accepted his championship belt back from the ref. He held it up high, with both hands, and let out a frightening roar.

"TRY TO TAKE IT, PUNKS!" Tiger shouted, while a jet stream of wind and water wove around his body for dramatic effect. He was satisfied with the reaction from the crowd. He'd done good tonight. But, just as Joseph "The White Tiger" went to leave the ring, a familiar face stepped in on the opposite side, mic in hand.

"Hey there, Joseph, not so fast!"

White Tiger glared over his shoulder, but his expression changed immediately. "Hey there, boss. Fancy running into you here."

Spike and Cian both lit up. "Colt 'The Bolt'!"

Sure enough, the cowboy king (wearing his white, cowboy hat, naturally) stood tall and proud, waving to the adoring old guard in the audience. His blue button up shirt threatened to rip off him (Spike had heard from Buck that Colt deliberately wore a size down to show off his muscles).

Colt grinned, and now Spike understood the stark contrast between the GSA champs, former and current. Colt was all razzle dazzle, a powerhouse. White Tiger, on the other hand, was a brutally quick warrior with a cold stare, and a dignified, heroic aura. 

"Hehe." Colt looked to the ground, watching the medical staff wheel away Fallout, his bare ass exposed on the gurney. "Let that sorry bastard get his ass out of your ring first." He handed the mic to White Tiger.

Now, Spike understood that White Tiger had the charisma as well. Joseph was a cool-toned gentleman. The smoothest of the smooth. That carried over in ring as well.

"Well, I don't rarely share a ring, but I think I can make an exception for a true hero. Ladies and gentleman, give it up for Colt The Bolt, president of the GSA and a true champion of my heart." He gestured to the cowboy king.

Colt genuinely looked surprised, and a bit caught off guard, but he accepted the jubilation and chants of his name from the crowd all the same. "Thank you," he said, waiting for the crowd to die down. Spike and Cian knew he was lapping it up like a kitten to a bowl of milk, no matter how 'humble' he put on.

"Aw, shucks, kid..." Colt scratched his hair beneath his cowboy hat. "You'll make me blush."

"Ha! Kid?" Tiger's bashful reaction was remarkably endearing, and a stark contrast to the warrior that had essentially mangled a full grown man only minutes ago.

"Y'all young guns are kids to me!" Colt continued. The air around him crackled with excited electricity, barely contained. "Now, listen up folks. I'm a man of few words, nut I wanted to thank you for coming to our summer series. What a finish! But this ain't the end of the line, y'all. Because I'm hear to announce the new big thing in Spellbreaking. Something that hasn't been done for quite some time."

In the audience, Spike turned to Cian for explanation. But the Faeblood brawler cocked his head to the side. He knew just as much as his 'friend' did.

There was glint, a scheme, a youthful mischief in Colt's bright eyes. "See...I've been getting a bit ornery 'bout the fact that we don't have a real Global Champ no more...

"They were erased from all of time and space," Spike whispered casually to Cian.

"Yeah, Spike, everyone knows."

Colt scanned the audience for Semyon Grigorivich, his equivalent. The bastard was nowhere to be found. So be it. "Turns out, Firebird Pro Spellbreaking has been thinkin' the same thing as me..."

White Tiger led the audience in a loud 'boo'. 

Exactly as Colt wanted. "Yeah, yeah, I know. And I promise you, folks, the GSA and Firebird ain't puttin' our differences aside. But we are gonna' put on one hell of a show. And not just a show, but a whole damn world tour, to decide who will be the next global champion!"

A fresh wave of excitement washed over the crowd, while Colt and White Tiger struck heroic poses in the ring. Cian and Spike could hardly restrain themselves. 

"What?" wide-eyed Spike declared. "A global tournament!?"

Cian practically glowed. He wasn't shy about grabbing Spike's shoulder (perhaps, in his enthusiasm, a bit too forcefully)."We're in the big leagues now, boyo."

But the cowboy king hadn't made his peace just yet. He patiently waited for the crowd to settle. It was short lived, but a barely perceptible look—of uncertainty, perhaps—dawned over Colt's face. He looked to White Tiger, Joseph, his apprentice and successor. The handsome, younger man smiled back at him and nodded. You got this, chief.

Reinvigorated, Colt 'The Bolt' pointed out into the audience. "Semyon Grigorivich, I know you're watchin' this. I've just laid down the gauntlet. I ain't fond of your brand or your attitude. You made me ornery, which is why it's time I brought back the storm myself to show all you little boys how a real man handles business."

A peel of thunder crashed over the arena, along with an accompanying flash of lightning. The crowd gasped, too stunned to react to this massive drop.  

In any case, Spike was dumbstruck. "No way. He's not..."

"You heard it hear first, folks," Colt said, ambient static teasing his hair. "The cowboy king is back in the saddle again and is coming outta' retirement for this Global Showdown!" He pumped the air with his fist and slammed the mic onto the canvas. He didn't need it to get his message across. "Howdy, howdy, let's get rowdy!"

Burst of localized lightning sent down a shower of sparks onto the apoplectic audience. It wasn't so much a pop but a full on explosion. One that Cian and Spike found themselves caught between.

"I'm freaking out, Cian!" Spike said. He felt like a little kid again.

Cian shook his head in disbelief. "Yeah, and so's Buck when he hears this!"

"Huh. You think Colt didn't tell him?"

"I..." Cian started. It was hard to hear him anyway, over the din of the audience. "Knowing those two, no, he didn't. It's going to be interesting times when we get back to the ranch."

As Colt finished posing from the ropes, White Tiger strutted over smoothly, scooping the mic up from the mat. "Ahem. If I may, Colt. Not to steal your thunder, of course, but all of you wonderful audience members are truly lucky tonight. Because you're looking at the next global champion, right here." He patted his belt, slung over his shoulder. "I hear a lot of noise about this Vahni Rage. He think's he's real bad. But you know what I think?" 

Cian and Spike both leaned in. In anticipation.

White Tiger was ice cold. "I think his shiny little trunks are going to look really good over my mantel."

The audience: "ooooOOOOOOOOOH!"

"Damn," Cian muttered, duly impressed. "That's good heat."

"But Joseph doesn't even have a fireplace," Spike argued. "None of us do! Colt's too cheap..." Before Cian could sneak in a comment about Spike's intelligence, the cocky and pretty muscleboy winked at him. But his tone wasn't playful or light. In fact, Spike's voice, a few octaves lower than usual, sounded 'deadass' serious. 

"Plus, I'm gonna be the one who beats Vahni Rage."

It was as if White Tiger had heard his younger peer throw down the challenge...and maybe he had! He looked out into the audience. "And if any of my fellow spellbreakers think they'd like a shot at the championship. Then they can feel free to step into my Tiger's den. But there's nio guarantee they're coming out alive." He lowered the mic, allowing the audience to resume their ecstatic, almost Dionysian frenzy. The energy in the ring was insane, and it wasn't all just from Colt 'The Bolt'.

Nodding to each other, satisfied at their showmanship, White Tiger and Colt 'The Bolt' exited the ring together, as equals. They'd done the fed good tonight.

Meanwhile, Cian gave Spike a questioning look and a cutting grin. "You want White Tiger to break you just because you think you gotta' shot at Rage?"

Spike shrugged. "A win-win as far as I can see it."

Speaking of which, White Tiger had just walked up to their side of the barricade. The handsome champion shook hands with the fans right in the front, but he looked specifically in Spike's direction. 

Spike gulped. Shit. Maybe he had heard.

But there was only friendliness on White Tiger's face. He winked to young friend, and then held a small piece of paper, or envelop to the air. He let his wind carry it over the heads of eager audience members, all too excited to notice, right into Spike's hands.

"Huh?" Spike looked down at the small envelope. Cian glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, what's this?"

He opened it. It was a note.

To my adorable fan, Spike,

Good hustle out there tonight, kid. You gave 'em quite the show. Now, dust your shoulders off and get back in there.

Your champion,

White Tiger

AKA Joseph

P.S. Have a sticker! ^_^

Contained within the folds was a vinyl sticker stylized, black-and-white striped tiger head, Joseph's logo. Spike held it in his hands as if it was the most treasured object he'd ever touched.

"Oh, White Tiger, you're my new favorite!" But Spike's glittering eyes narrowed. "Which is why I'm gonna have to kick your ass someday. Because you're lookin' at the next GSA Champ!"

"Heh." Cian was quick to steal the wind from Spike's sails. "Good to see you got your confidence back. But let's not get hasty, boyo. World Tour? I'll see you on my home terf. We're gonna settle this rivalry once and for all!"

Spike turned and sneered at his rival. "Don't tempt me with a good time, Cian. You're on." He was ready to posture and try and goad Cian on a little more. He was feeling feisty anyway, his confidence renewed. But before he could throw out another remark, he caught sight of a flash of blue fur moving quickly down the stairs right next to their seating area. 

Marcy Diamond, pale as a ghost, looked towards Spike and Cian.

"Huh, Marcy?"

"You guys need to het backstage, right now," she said, nearly out of breath. "There's been an accident..."

To Be Continued