CW: Violence, sadism, non-consensual touching.
This story takes place a few months before Spike and Cian's first meeting at the Atlas Arena. Cian, signed recently to Firebird Pro Spellbreaking, has cut his teeth on a few matches and shows promise--but as with all newcomers, the boss wants to break him in (or just break him!). Unfortunately for Cian, there's one infamous heel for this job...or jobber, as it were!
It was a misty day in Glasgow, gray clouds hanging over tall spires of slate, and cobblestone streets still wet from morning rain. The river Clyde was high on the embankments, and an air of melancholic beauty permeated the Scottish city. Despite the somber mood, there was a strange electricity all around--not due to weather, but from the spectacle happening downtown in the football arena, which had been converted--for one night only--to a spellbreaking ring. Firebird Pro was in town for the night, and the locals were excited to see real, international talent duking it out.
Cian Enbarr, the newest recruit, stretched backstage in the locker room. Like all of Firebird's talent, he could trace his lineage to heroic or 'legendary blood', and he certainly looked it. While Cian wasn't from Glasgow (being from Ireland) he was the closest thing the city had to a local hero that night. He knew he had to live up to fan expectations. He'd certainly put in more hours at the gym as of recent for it. That much was apparent by his bulging quad muscles, which he flexed favourably in the mirror. Being of Celtic stock, Cian wasn't a tanned or bronze beefcake like most of his fellow hunks, but a pale, red-headed scrapper who freckled at the slightest touch of sunlight.
It was a bit narcissistic, getting any eyeful of himself, but Cian was starting to enjoy Firebird's brutal regiments and their...less publicly acceptable methods. Practices the International Spellbreaking Commission were not quite privy to just yet. Though Cian would never admit it, a fair dosage of alchemically-enhanced injections had turned him from a wiry, country boy into a beefcake within a few months. The downside, of course, was the effects to the moral functions of his brain, as any of the more sadistic team members of Firebird could tell you. In time, he would likely join their heelish ranks.
Still, a small sacrifice to pay for power. Bulky, compact, and looking like a house made of solid stucco, Cian still fancied himself a tough face more than a straight up heel anyway. Years of fighting on the streets and protecting his little brother, as well as a fair amount of combat training from hardy Travellers, had earned him a sharp edge. He was a born fighter, and the blood of the Celtic heroes of yore quite literally ran through his veins.
He admired himself in the mirror, taking in the results of Firebird's villainous work. Arms and biceps swollen, his body bulging (and in more than one place), and neck thick. His new, plain black singlet flattered him nicely where it counted. He was sure to turn a heard or two that night, least of all the head of whatever sucker they'd put up against him. Cian hoped it was a real villain, because it was always a fun time beating down the bad guys and winning the audience's hearts. Cian already considered himself a natural born hero, of course, he'd fought to protect the innocent and vulnerable for most of his life. It's what had put him on the path to power at all cost. But, he also didn't suffer fools or miscreants, punishing them harshly with his brutal leg-based submissions.
Getting heated up, Cian bounced up and down on his brand new wrestling shoes, watching proudly as his chest (and other assets) bounced with him. "Loving these new muscles, bad lad," he said to himself. Shit, he was gonna turn himself on if he kept this up! "Sure, I'll autograph that for ya." He'd even considered coming out in his tacky "Kiss Me, I'm Irish!" shirt that one of his Boston buddies had sent him as a joke. But that would be far too hammy for his persona.
Cian had been so caught up in his own image that he hadn't noticed the dark, shadowy presence sneaking up behind him. The gaunt, bearded man with the creepy, unsettling large eyes was--for better or worse--Cian's boss. The company president, Simeon Grigorivich.
The man in the greasy, black pintail nodded to his young ward, even as Cian tried to hide the fact that his boss' aura made his blood run cold. "Good evening, Mr. Enbarr." The president ran a hand across the back of Cian's neck. "I see the lab's efforts have paid off...you are becoming quite the young stud. You remind me of a white stallion my family kept in our barn." He laughed, hollowly, under his breath. "We would sometimes loan him out...when the purpose suited us."
A cold chill rain up Cian's spine, as he imagined the implications. Mr. Grigorivich's methods were...unorthodox. "Thanks, sir. I am going to go out there and make you proud, I swear."
"Good," Grigorivich said. "I will accept nothing less. You do have much to prove, my handsome one. And you do want to prove yourself, don't you, mighty descendent of warriors?"
Cian tried putting on a brave face, even as doubt crept in. He turned to the mirror and flexed with confidence. "Nobody's gonna beat the Faeblood Brawler! I'll crush whatever clown you send my way. I don't care if you're making it a surprise opponent. He's good as pinned!" He jammed a thumb into his chest for emphasis.
"My, so cocky! Well, it shall certainly be a trial by...fire." Grigorivich grinned wickedly, looking at his reflection in the mirror (Cian was surprised the vampiric-looking man had a reflection at all). He handed Cian his cup of soma, making sure to put to his employee's lips. Cian moved his hands to take it, but Grigorivich wouldn't deprive himself of this simple, odd pleasure.
"Drink. Let me watch."
It was another unsettling habit of his, personally 'feeding' the milky white, iridescent fluid to his wards. He even made them keep eye contact the whole time. A dribble of soma fell from Cian's lips. Grigorivich made sure to wipe it away with his finger and place it into his own mouth, sucking it down to the hilt with relish.
I'm gonna be sick, Cian thought, trying to not look it.
Then, making sure no other competitors were present, Grigorivich removed the syringe from his lapel--the injector filled with strange, red fluid. It was yet another dubious product from Firebird's dubious arrangement with the alchemists.
Cian swallowed, nervously. "Again? Sir, don't you think that's too much this week? You know that stuff gives me...bad thoughts."
Grigorivich clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, chiding him. "Do not resist, my handsome one. I am only trying to make you bigger. Badder."
Grigorivich slid his index finger across Cian's round, protruding shoulder. When he was satisfied with the spot, he stuck the syringe in, watching the needle go in slow, enjoying as Cian made a small, pained sound.
"Does it make you feel stronger, my handsome?" He removed the needle.
Both Cian's head and body pulsed. He felt a hunger growing inside him, as his muscled throbbed, and his inhibitions momentarily vanished. He thought briefly of grabbing Grigorivich by the throat and smashing his face into the mirror.
But no. His senses came back to him, though the sensation inside his head remained.
"Yes sir. It's...a rush!"
"Does it give you a stirring?" Grigorivich said, too close for comfort.
Cian shook his head. It was time to fight anyway--a good excuse to remove himself from his boss's advances. "I...I should go out there now, sir." He grabbed his towel and made his way to the backstage, eager to get this show on the road and get that much closer to the win.
Grigorivich watched him leave. "Go kill for me, my beautiful, Celtic bull." Once he was out of his sights, however, he turned his head to the massive figure watching him from the nearest locker, the ominous presence that had been standing there the whole time. He had remained out of sight, just as told.
The watcher emerged. A hulking (and achingly handsome) South Asian man in a white, theatrical robe that concealed his body. He had long, raven-dark hair and intense eyes, and his appearance suggested a strange contradiction of aloof coldness and inner heat.
Vahni Rage, Firebird's champion, licked his lips as he set eyes on his new prey.
Grigorivich held up his hand. "Do not break him tonight. Not completely. He is...useful to us."
Rage snorted. "Aw, come on! Let me have my fun."
But Grigorivich was serious--he had lost prospective newcomers to Rage's unbridled, underhanded fighting style before. "No permanent damage," he said, as if admonishing an unruly hound. "And no branding." He tapped his forehead for emphasis.
Rage growled, and then went for the lunge. He grabbed his boss' shirt, bringing him close.
Grigorivich didn't flinch. He was the only one who never did. "Then you owe me a new chewtoy, boss."
"Come with me to New York," Grigorivich said, gently removing Rage's hand from his lapel. "I hear Ms. Montez is debuting some beautiful boys. If the other heels don't crush them first, then perhaps I will let you pick out a new plaything."
For both of their sakes, Rage relented. "Heheheh. The prettier the better."
"That being said, dearest Vahhni, my ember, please give Mr. Enbarr the standard Firebird introduction." He leaned in closer, and smiled. "Make him fear for his life."
A bloodlust appeared behind Rage's eyes, and the ambient temperature around the two men rose drastically. "Even better. I will make him fear for his soul."
A rare treat for the Glaswegians, none other than celebrated loud mouth, Boomer Harlow, was providing commentary tonight. In his signature Hawaiian shirt, pink face, and stylish pompadour, the former cars salesman turned ringside commentator normally affiliated himself with the Global Spellbreaking Alliance. Yet, he had accepted Firebird's recent series, mostly because it provided him a free trip to Europe, but secretly because he was providing recon to Colt the Bolt, who had grown suspicious of Firebird's shady dealings and practices.
Production staff handed Harlow the mic as the pot-bellied and jovial commentator sat down at his desk. The man made a face at the mic placed in front of him, and turned to the bearded Scotsman.
Harlow's normal, barely audible speaking voice was drowned out by the blood-thirsty crowd. "No need for that, son."
The poor attendant blinked. "Eh? Cannae hear ya!"
"I said there's no need for that." With that out of the way, Harlow turned to face the TV cameras and activated his glyph of Air (specifically, sound). "OKAY FOLKS, GET READY TO RUMBBBBLE!"
The poor attendant was thrown off their feet by the sound burst and tossed into the roaring crowd, who proceeded to dunk beer over the poor fellow in raucous celebration.
Without need of a mic, Boomer's voice carried across the auditorium and was even pitch perfect over the broadcast. "This is an 18+ match, folks, so prepare for carnage. Prepare for gore! Prepare for pain!" He cupped his hand to his cheek. "And prepare for some saucy moments, if we're lucky. This match, scheduled for one fall, is between a young, promising upstart and a mystery opponent!"
Cian stepped out behind the curtain, raising his beefy arms to the sky and motioning for his crowd to get off their feet and stand in his presence. "Come on!" he roared. "Stand for your hero!"
"All the way from County Meath, at 5'11" and weighing 228 Lbs of Irish, Corn Beef, it's Ciaaaaaaaan Enbarr, the Faeeeeeblooood BrAAAWWWLERRR!!!!!"
Cian strutted confidently down the ramp, beaming and taking in the adoration of the excited crowd. He gladly made the time to dole out handshakes and high fives from admiring men and women alike.
"Cian, I love you!" A young girl squeaked, holding up a hand-painted sign depicting Cian's Celtic knot logo.
"Wow!" Cian marvelled, raising an eyebrow. He pointed her out of the crowd. "Lass, that's amazing work!" It was sincere too. Cian wasn't the type to spare comments just to please people; only when credit was due.
"You're amazing," the redheaded girl said, nearly swooning. Her skinny boyfriend looked on disapprovingly.
Cian hopped into the ring, bouncing up and down like a prize-fighter ready to beat down the most brazen contender. The dutiful ref checked him out for any concealed weaponry. Of course, he went straight for Cian's the most...prominent aspect, besides his legs.
Cian blushed, and on his milky complexion, it stood out. "Er..."
The ref's eyes widened as he cupped Cian's crotch. "D-damn, those things natural?"
Cian coughed, trying to ignore the attention paid to his testicular endowment. Instead, he picked up the mic and held up his free hand to the crow. "Alright, folks! Who's the chump steppin' up to the Faeblood Brawler tonight?"
The audience popped, much to Cian's surprise and delight. He couldn't help but smile. So, this was what it was like to feel a hero, huh? Damn, it was addicting!
Cian grinned, feeling for the first time like he'd finally made it in life. He was happy to give the audience all the love back. "I just want to thank the good people of Glasgow. I may not be from here, but we share a common bond, us. I'm gonna fight like hell for ye! You ready to watch a real Celtic god show--"
He was abruptly cut off by loud, heavy metal music with a melodic sitar backing instrumental. Boomer Harlow piped up, just as shocked as everyone else.
"Uh oh, folks! Looks like Cian's mystery opponent didn't want to wait. Who is--" He gasped. "Oh no. OH NO IT COULDN'T BE! That evil sunnavabitch Grigorivich couldn't have possibly sent out the Wrathful God of Flames, now, could he?"
At once, Cian's confidence drained from him, and his eyes widened in fear. "N-no..." he whispered, hoping the camera hadn't caught this moment of weakness (it had).
Vahni Rage, Firebird Pro's champion (and a heel to the core) took his sweet time strutting out from behind the curtain, making sure the camera zoomed in tight on his dark glare and ornamental robe. He spread his arms for the audience and turned around, forcing them to bask in his complete glory. Then, he glared straight ahead at Cian--all the way from across the arena. The poor kid felt the predator's fiery stare.
Luckily, the audience was on Cian's side, booing his appearance. But the jeers only seemed to drive him even further. Rage sneered at Cian and made a slow, throat slitting motion across his neck. As he did, a wall of flame appeared in front of him, tongues of firing licking the sky.
Boomer was just as taken aback as he was in total awe. "BY GAWDESS! DO WE EVEN HAVE THE INSURANCE FOR THESE KINDS OF PYROTECHNICS!?"
Rage, with every footfall deliberate and certain, walked through the wall of flame. As he did, his highly flammable robes (treated with nitric acid) caught on fire, burning so bright that the audience on either side of him had to shield their eyes. The fire blew away, revealing Rage's oil covered body--abdominals wrought out of steel, and muscles looking like polished copper. Rage flexed his bulging biceps for the crowd and roared, another plume of fire rising behind him to illuminate every inch of glorious muscles. He looked every bit the wrathful god he claimed to be.
And now Cian was really, really afraid.
Rage sneered, laughing at the audience's raised fists and the curses thrown in his direction. He adored being hated--it fuelled his ego. For who were these worthless weaklings, who dared toss scorn his way? He eyeballed the red-headed girl, Cian's fan, and her sign.
"Hey, cool sign," Rage said, sidling over to Cian's loyal fangirl, who reared back in fear and revulsion. Her pipsqueak boyfriend recoiled with her. Rage grinned and stuck his finger out, just a few inches in front of the delicately painted sign. It immediately combusted into flames and ash, falling on the poor fan's head. She burst into tears, and her shocked boyfriend could do nothing but help his girlfriend shake the ash out of her her pretty hair.
"What's your useless boyfriend gonna do about it!" Rage snarled, before turning back to his intended target--Cian, standing and shaking in the ring.
Cian steeled himself, forcing himself not to look away submissively. He'd trained with Rage before. He'd also seen what the man was capable of. He was a sly sadist of the highest order, and got off to making other men suffer. He wasn't a noble warrior but a trained killer who relished in his work, made an art of it.
The meek ref drew closer to Rage, but the beast of a man only had to look in his direction before he backed off, stammering, "Yeah, you know what, nah..."
"I don't need weapons in order to bring pain, ref" Rage sneered, looking in Cian's direction.
Cian swallowed and, in a gesture of fair sportsmanship, handed Rage the mic. He took it, and immediately tossed it over his shoulder, earning a smattering of boos and cheers from the crowd.
"And I don't need a microphone to make my point. It will be left on this mat-...stained in the blood of Cian Enbarr!"
Cian readied his magick. He'd activate a blood frenzy and then this six-foot-seven fire user would be nothing but dulled embers before long.
"I didn't think I was gonna be fighting you," Cian said, already suspecting that Grigorivich had set this fight up intentionally. Firebird's president was ever-so-fond of 'teaching' his spellbreakers 'lessons'. Especially the new ones. It was a way to pre-emptively keep them under his control. But Cian refused to be controlled, and he would put down the champion if need be.
The bell rang, but Rage did not move forward or go for a shoot. Instead, he cordially placed one hand behind his back and offered the other to Cian in a gesture of comradery.
"Do not be so afraid," he said, waving him closer. "Come on, look at me. Would your fellow spellbreaker really hurt you?" He smiled warmly at Cian. "Come on, shake my hand."
Cian suspected treachery, which was ironic, as he was the one who preferred to employ tricks in-ring. "O-okay," he stuttered, taking it.
Rage's grip was tight. He smiled and and shook Cian's hand enthusiastically. But when Cian tried to let go, he found that his opponent's grip had tightened! Not only that, but it had gotten hotter too. Cian had to be imagining things; the fear getting to him, but no. It felt like he'd just stuck his hand into a pressure cooker, the temperature rising and threatening to burn his hand!
Wicked Rage smiled down at him with pure evil intent, taking in the sight of Cian wincing and struggling in futility to pull back. Rage's muscles hardly tensed at this worm's struggle. He was so much stronger.
"S-stop," Cian said, annoyed at how pathetic he sounded. "I thought you said you were gonna play fair."
"Just kidding, fairyboy," Rage said, as he bent Cian's arm to the side, stepping through and putting him into a painful armbar. "Because I am. I am really...REALLY gonna hurt you."
Before Cian could react to his burning hand, or his bent arm, Rage used the leverage and brought Cian down to the floor, smashing his face right into the mat.
Harlow: "Oh no folks--we knew this was going to happen! Grigorivich has really led this poor little sheep straight into the wolf's den, and that Rage looks mighty hungry!"
Cian immediately tried to push up the mat, knowing he had only seconds to spare before Rage put him in one of the nastier holds he'd employed on his victims--and he wasn't one to let go at the first tap or submission either! But the next thing Cian felt was an impact to the back of his head, rattling his skull.
Rage stomped Cian's head and neck, repeatedly, much to the hapless ref's chagrin. Each brutal stomp was punctuated by another snarled word. "You. Will. Learn. To. Respect. Your. SUPERIOR!"
Harlow: "Come on, ref, do something!"
But Rage just tossed the ref aside as if he was a small dog, and even used the momentum to throw himself into the ropes, picking up speed from the bounce-back, jumping in the air to bring his elbow down on poor Cian's neck!
"Raaaagh!" Rage snarled.
BAM!
The audience gasped, drawing back in shock and horror at the sickening sound of all that weight colliding with the mat (and Cian's vertebrae!). Cian bounced up in pain, gripping the back of his neck, his mouth open in agony.
But the worst was yet to come. Rage, leaning in to grin down at his prey, took in the delicious sight of his pain, giving Cian another 'come on' gesture with his hand. "Get up, fairy boy. Get up and FACE ME!"
Cian didn't have much of a choice in the matter. Rage grabbed him by the beck, burying his fingers into Cian's reddening face. He yanked Cian up off the mat and brought him back down by his head, slamming him into the canvas.
Harlow: "Folks, I don't know how Cian is gonna get up from that. Rage is absolutely rattling him! Damn it, there he goes again! And again! You can hear the sound of Cian's skull smashing into the canvas. By golly, does the kid even know where he is anymore? This is an utter disgrace...but great spellbreaking! Wait a minute folks, it looks like the assault might be over. Rage is leaving Cian. Poor kid doesn't seem to be moving that much though. The ref is checking up on our Irish stud, and Rage seems to be..hey, wait, he's coming this way! OH SHIT!"
Rage, gritting his teeth and embodying his vicious namesake, made a claw with his right hand, willing a fiery sphere into existence. He slammed it down on the table, forcing Harlow to abandon his post. Specifically, his chair. The crowd around Rage booed him, giving him 'thumbs downs' (as well as far ruder gestures).
The beloved announcer fell to his knees, folding his hands in prayer. "Please sir, I got a family!"
But it wasn't Harlow that Rage was interested in. He took the commentator's metal folding chair, holding it aloft, looking at it lovingly as if it were a beloved weapon. At an audience's rude remark, he turned and growled, proceeding to slide his long tongue up the chair's siding, which was enough to freak anybody out!
Meanwhile, the ref went to Cian's side, offering him a chance to yield the match and escape his fate. "Come on, lad. You got a future ahead of you!"
But Cian was far too concussed to form a coherant thought. "I...what?" He winced, trying to remember where he was. "No...I gotta do this. I can't let everybody down. I need to prove--"
But he stopped short, eyes widening, as Rage slid beneath the ropes with all the grace and viciousness of a big cat stalking its meal. Cian was only able to get on one knee before he saw the fiery heel take the chair in both arms and swing it like a baseball bat--
SMASH!
The mics picked up the sound of metal chair colliding with skull, and it was enough to make even Boomer Harlow wretch. "Mother of Mercy, folks," he said, hoisting himself back onto the (now fully singed) card table. "You heard the sound of disaster just now--Cian has fallen onto the mat, and I do not think he will be getting up any time soon. Ref, get in there, don't be a coward! Look at that folks, Rage is pulling Cian's head into the space between the seat and the back and--OH NO!"
With a peel of cruel, cunning laughter, Rage brought his leg up into the air and paused. He looked out into the audience, tossing back his tangled, black hair. "Should I do it? Should I do it?"
The audience resounded with a firm roar of boos, save the few loud sickos who screamed. "Break his neck, Rage! Send him back to the County Meath in a brace!"
Rage loved the sickos. In fact, that's all he heard. Standing like a war god, and dripping a mixture of sweat and oil, Vahni Ragi fluttered his eyes almost girlishly, gave a demure shrug, and then SLAMMED his thick boot onto the chair's back.
The pain was enough to bring Cian back into the waking world, a world of total misery. "AGGGGHHHH!" he cried out, his face contorting into a rictus of misery as he grabbed at his poor aching neck. He couldn't hold back the tears.
"Awww, poor little lamb." Rage laughed, making sure the camera zoomed in on this pathetic jobber and his suffering.
If only that's where Rage's sadism ended! The bigger spellbreaker fell to his knees, wiped some sweat from his nose, and smiled down and the contorted Cian, who hadn't even managed to remove his poor head from out between the chair yet.
"Here, buddy, let me help you with that," Rage cooed, almost sensitively. He pulled Cian's head up, making sure to turn it to face him.
Tears and sweat streamed down Cian's red face. "P...please, Rage..."
"Please?" Rage mocked him back. "Do you mean, please hurt you more? I got you covered, buddy. Looks like that neck of yours is pretty sore now, huh? I got something for that."
Cian couldn't move even if he wanted to. He watched in horror as Rage placed the palm of his hand on top of the chair's back. The metal smoked and seared, turning from dull black to hot, burning orange. Cian could smell the chemicals and metal burning....
"No--no--no..."
"Just a little?" Rage asked. He didn't wait for a response, he shoved Cian's face against the burning metal, singing the side of his cheek.
The sound of Cian's shriek filled the auditorium, and Harlow did his best to drown it out with his commentary. "This is an absolute disgrace! The absolute brutality, folks! He's just burnt Cian's poor face against that superhot chair! Ref, this is illegal. Call the match! Ring the bell! Somebody, do something!"
Thank goodness for the soma coursing through Cian's veins. As he fell back, eyes rolling into the back of his head in agony, his charred, peeling flesh already began healing itself, mending the burned and broken fighter.
Now, Rage just looked bored. He smiled to the audience, who had jumped onto their feet, fists shaking at the villain. He outstretched his arms, embracing their hatred, letting it feed his flames. Even security had to hold back a few drunk, bigger guys trying to burst through the barriers in an attempt to rescue Cian. Rage knew, of course, that show staff weren't doing it for his safety, but theirs.
"Grigorivich said not to hurt you too badly," Rage laughed, getting onto his feet again and surveying his work. "I won't break you, Cian. But you'll wish I had."
The nasty heel reached down and pulled Cian off the ground, gripping his chin and making him look him directly in the eyes.
"Are you afraid?" Rage asked.
Cian could hardly meet his stare, even if he wanted to. The soma inside him fought to keep up with each cruel assault, and even if he did escape uninjured, the pain was almost unbearable.
"Y...es," Cian was able to spit out.
"Yes, what?"
"Y...yes, sir. I am afraid. Please...stop."
Rage leaned in, stroking the side of Cian's face. He surveyed his cheek, disappointed that the burn had already vanished. It wasn't any fun when there wasn't any permanent damage.
"Sweet boy," Rage whispered, kissing Cian on the forehead. "Sweet, sweet, boy."
Thank goodness Cian was able to force his eyes to the ref. He looked pleadingly at him. The ref nodded.
"That's enough!" the ref said, signalling to the staff ringside to the ring the bell. They did as told.
Harlow: "Folks, the ref has just made the wise call to end this match. What an absolute shame. Now we know why this was an 18+. The violence perpetuated against Cian Enb--OH WAIT, FOLKS! Nooo! Rage isn't done yet! Oh, the humanity! This is an absolute horror show!"
The ref pleaded desperately with Rage, who had pulled Cian off the ground and hoisted him horizontally across his shoulders, his head lolling back off the side.
"Not. YET!" Rage roared to the audience. "Not until I am DONE WITH HIM. Do you want to see what a god does to those who defy him? Do you want to see what I'd do to each and EVERY one of you pathetic worms?"
On Rage's muscular shoulders, Cian--barely conscious--accepted his fate.
Rage roared, sending energy from his body into Cian's trembling frame, igniting his mitochondrial network and forcing the organelles to explode with energy, an internal combustion. However, for all of his brutality, Rage was remarkably precise. He wouldn't burn Cian alive--not like the others. As much as he loathed to admit it, the reality was that Grigorivich was still the only soul on this planet that Rage remotely feared. He would not defy his master.
Not until the time was right anyway...
But he wouldn't waste his villainous plans on pathetic jobbers like Cian Enbarr. He had been asked to send the kid a message, and that is what he would do. "This is what happens when you defy Firebird. You get thrown onto the pyre!"
Cian's singlet, his new, favorite black gear, began smoking. Little tendrils of flame sprouted off the material. And then, more tongues of flame, even on Cian's legs! He smoked, and smelled cooking meat--his own charring flesh.
Cian screamed out in terror and in pain. "No! No, put me out, put me out!" He of course meant for Rage to cease the fire.
But the heel took the message in an entirely different direction. The audience could see the glint off his villainous grin, as the villain turned specifically to face the main camera, making sure the pay-per-view audience at home got a good look at what he was about to do.
"Oh, I'll put you out alright," Rage laughed. He began to bend Cian, real slow, savouring the moment, his frightened, helpless shuttering to escape his fate. "The human body can only stand so much pain before slipping into unconsciousness. Here, let me give you a demonstration, you WORTHLESS jobber!"
With that, Rage jumped into the air, using the force of his landing and the position to put a wedge between his shoulders and Cian's spine. The landing shook the canvas.
CRACK!
A plume of spittle and blood escaped Cian's mouth. His body limped back, his head and arms dangling. A trickle of blood escaped his lips, and his eyes rolled back deep into his skull. He was out. The audience fell silent.
"Hahahahahaha!" Rage's evil laughter filled the auditorium, and even Boomer Harlow was at a loss for words as Rage callously dumped Cian's body to the mat. He loomed over his victim, kneeling down to plant a boot on Cian's crooked neck. Again, he stretched his arms out, letting the audience get a look at his superior form, sweat dripping onto the motionless (but not dead) weakling beneath him.
Rage whipped his head towards the terrified ref. "Count. Him. Out."
"B-b-but the match is--"
"Now." One look was all it took. The ref gulped, and fell to the mat, even as the sound of the medical magi's alarm went off the backstage. Rage's theme music came in over the loud speakers, signalling his total victory.
"One. Two. Three!"
Rage leered at the man, refusing to get off his opponent's neck. "Now raise my arm. I am the victorious one. Are you a ref, or a complete moron?"
The ref did as told, scared as hell to even touch Rage. But the heel pulled back, spitting on the mat (dangerously close to Cian's face). "Never mind, I don't want your grubby paws staining me. You mortals are all pathetic."
Rage took in the sight of his long hair dripping sweat onto Cian's unconscious face, before he pulled it back. The audience found their courage and began to boo him again.
"Ah, the sweetest sound," Rage said, indulging in the derision. He looked down at Cian, watching the blood river from his lip trickle down onto the mat. The soma had spared him, thankfully. His spine, Rage knew, had already reset thanks to the blessing of its magick. He hadn't broken this toy.
Dismantling opponents came with so many varied pleasures, but by far was Rage's almost psychotic joy at watching an unconsciousness jobber splayed out beneath him, completely helpless.
"So...beautiful," Rage said. He knew nobody was going to come rescue Cian while Rage still stood inside his ring. He could take his time. He could do whatever he wanted.
He slid his fingers across Cian's heaving, white chest, making sure to get a good feel of his splendid pectorals. Then further down. Those big, strong thighs. Unblemished. How Rage would have loved to put his permanent mark of humility on them. He kissed them, sneering at the sounds of disgust from the crowd. He even put his mouth on Cian's ample bulge, taking in the fear-soaked scent of perspiration and musk, as he placed his own pelvis on Cian's face, thrusting himself wildly against his down opponent, enjoying the sensation it brought him.
"Young, white bull," Rage whispered lustfully, feeling Cian's trembling body, and giving it soft kisses wherever he pleased. This was as far as he could go, of course, even though he was as hard as rock. Villain as he was, consent was king, and sex an involatile act that even heels like him held sacred.
Bored of victim, Rage got up and exited the ring, giving the medical magi a fake-out scare as they squeaked past with the stretcher in tow. Rage trained his eyes on one person in the crowd. Like a carnivore sniffing out meat, he found her--the pretty red-head, now crying into her equally scared boyfriend's chest. His eyes grew larger as he realized Rage was coming nearer to them. The audience around them drew back, hoping to distance themselves from Rage's newest victims.
But Rage smiled, looking the boyfriend up and down lustfully. He really was doe-like. Slim. With a cut off t-shirt. Maybe a college boy from the university. Rage leaned in, hands on the barrier.
He wiped back his sweaty hair. "I am your favorite, now, little one," he said to the girl. He flexed his bicep for her, watching the oil drip off. But it was her boy that twitched more at his posing. Rage knew that look well.
"It's not fun for me unless I take something. But I don't want you, pathetic, girl." He motioned for her boyfriend to come closer. "Don't worry. I won't do what I did to Cian."
The boyfriend bit his lip, but the hungry look in his eyes was unmistakable. A fly willingly letting itself into the spider's web.
"Have you ever laid eyes on a god before?" Rage said, lowering his voice. He flexed his chest out for the boy. "Go ahead. Touch. Behold." He licked his lips, like a serpent ready to devour a mouse.
Shivering with desire, the local boy did so, touching Vahni's shining, sweat-soaked chest as if it were a scared object. He placed his hand, and the other one.
"Wow..." His lip trembled, and Rage could see newformed thoughts well up in his eyes. New sensations. New desires. Uncontrollable lust. "Can I...slide them sir."
"Yes," Rage said. "Feel me."
"So...so muscular," the boy said, totally gone. Muscle drunk.
"That's right, boy. You want to worship me. So, what do you say? How about you come back to my dressing room and lick the sweat off my pecs?" Rage said, making sure to lock eyes with the lad's girlfriend, still crying. "You can come too, girly. You can watch as I use your boyfriend's mouth right in front of you. Because he's mine now! Heh, maybe if you're a good girl, I'll use your pretty mouth too."
Harlow had seen enough. He folded his arms across his chest and glared daggers at Vahni Rage, the most despicable heel he had ever laid eyes on in all his illustrious career. Then, he looked back to Cian, being loaded onto the gurney. Thank goodness Rage was now...distracted, his tongue down some poor lad's throat while his girlfriend pleaded and pounded on her (now hopeless) boy's back.
"I gotta' tell Colt to save that kid," Harlow said under his breath, yet crystal clear. "Enough is enough."
