Wonderboy, Boy I Wonder Ch

Enjoy chapter two! If you're looking for the sex scenes you can read this non-sequentially, it'll mostly make sense.

Have fun,

-Larshally

Two Months Later

Two Months Later

In the past weeks, we've all been swept up in the craze surrounding the man who can only be referred to as Cretan City's residentsuperhero,known to the public as Surge. Rumors about this exciting figure--including his recent appearance and ongoing acts of vigilante justice--are just about the only thing anyone is talking about lately, and here at Channel Six we're going to recount a few of his most recent escapades...

My small television droned on, and though I'd been positively glued to anything I could find about Ryan's activity lately, I knew the evening news wasn't going to provide me with anything substantial. Since his debut as Surge I'd been trying desperately to find Ryan again, but his movements were unpredictable. Even though I'd come close to being within earshot of him on two occasions, I don't think he noticed me either time. He was always leaving the scene of whatever heroism he'd undertaken quickly, avoiding the press and his growing fan base.

I suppose I had become one of them, although I counted myself separate from the increasingly obsessedsparkies,as they called themselves. I had met the man behind the mask, and I was hell-bent on seeing him again.

The issue was, I couldn't fully acceptwhyI was so dedicated. Sure, the nature of Parkins' operation had piqued my curiosity, particularly concerning what had sounded like a connection between the mayor and organized criminals. And yes, he'd saved my life, more or less, if it weren't for his arrival at the warehouse I would most certainly have been killed. Still, there was another layer to my attachment, and it lent my efforts a hunger that surpassed anything I had experienced before.

I've been openly gay for a long time, coming out of the closet in my mid-teens, albeit only to myself and my parents at the time. Between working to support my household and finishing school--something I'd never been very good at--I'd never had much room for relationships. There had been flings here and there, and once I was of age I made regular appearances at one of the local gay bars in my area, occasionally hooking up with guys I met there. I didn't have any issues with attracting partners.

All in all, though, I was relatively inexperienced. I watched enough porn to know my way around those few hookups in the past, so sex was no mystery. Still, my life as a gay man had lacked a certain pull that I'd always secretly craved. Thatfire, the intense passion, the kind of attraction that kept you up at night, left your blood boiling.

Well, I'd finally found it in Ryan. My reasons for seeking him out were numerous on paper, but in the back of my mind I knew that it was his touch that I craved most. Remembering the way he'd lingered between my legs when we were tied up together in the warehouse, the electrifying warmth of his energy-clad hands as they freed me from my bindings, the simple heat of him as he stood near me, washing me in the mysterious power he held. Every time I remembered our chance encounter it left me flushed and horny, my cock swelling as I imagined his body underneath that tight-fitting suit he wore.

Other than whoever had been talking in his ear that day, I might have been the only person who knew his real identity. Having all of the pieces save the man himself was so frustrating!

Now, though, I had finally concocted a plan to meet him again.

Through my compulsive tracking of his activity in the past month, I triangulated the general area of Cretan City that Ryan was active in. Though there had been some outliers, he always seemed so show up to crime scenes and dangerous situations within a five-mile radius of the neighborhood we'd originally met in. The warehouse was one of several red dots on a small map I'd drawn up, and it wasn't exact by any means, but I had a pretty good idea of where he might surface.

Though I was still financially recovering from paying off Parkins and his goons, I guiltily purchased a used police scanner from a pawn shop in my area. Once I'd figured out how to use it, mostly through a series of online tutorial videos, my plan was almost complete.

All I needed was crime.

Not hard to come by, bittersweet though that might have been. My area of Cretan was hardly utopia. With my scanner in an old backpack, I showered, got dressed--with admittedly more effort than I would ever spare on a regular day--and stepped out onto the street, making way to the cafe I had selected for its central position in my target area. The walk was about a mile, and I could hardly keep myself from jogging along the sidewalk in anticipation.

I arrived, grabbed a complimentary glass of water and walked over to a corner booth where I could see a nearby outlet, ignoring the look I got from the man working the counter. I hefted out the scanner and began setting it up on the tabletop, plugging in an old pair of headphones to the worn jack on the device's backside. A painful crackle of static caused me to jump, nervous as I was, and I turned the volume down to an acceptable level. It took me a few tries to find the frequency I was looking for, but I had practiced a few times at home to make sure I wouldn't mess up.

Minutes passed as I listened in on casual police chatter, most of which consisted of calls to report in from local patrols. My pulse quickened when the first dispatch occurred, but it was only for a house-call on some domestic dispute. I felt how tense my shoulders had become and relaxed some, tapping my feet as I continued to listen. My glass of water was untouched. There was another dispatch to an attempted mugging, but I discounted this as too small to merit Ryan's attention.

Then, perhaps thirty minutes after I had turned the scanner on, I hit gold.

All units report, all units, we have a reported bomb threat at 1643 Nellow Concourse, I repeat...

I felt a pang of absurd joy mixed with guilt as I realized how a potential bombing had caused me to pump my arm in victory. I glanced around, catching the eye of an elderly woman who was staring at me from two tables over, wide-eyed. I offered her a short smile before standing, almost ripping the scanner off the table before remembering that the headphones I was wearing were still attached. I stepped over the outstretched cord and began hustling towards the door, leaving my things behind without so much as a second look.

"Hey!" I heard the man behind the counter yell, "you forgot-"

As soon as I made it outside, I began to jog, then run. 16thand Nellow was less than two blocks from my current position, if I hurried I could make it before anyone else arrived on the scene. I picked up speed, narrowly avoiding a young couple on the sidewalk before crossing the street through a red light. I was running full-tilt towards a bomb site with my mind onpotentiallymeeting Ryan there. One might say I was dedicated to my appetites.

After avoiding a speeding sedan and a strange, bulky van with a satellite dish attached to its roof, I rounded the corner onto Nellow Concourse. The building in question appeared intact, and there was a growing crowd of people standing across the street and down a ways, apparently having evacuated the premises.

I zipped across the street and headed for the alley behind the building, counting the entrances of until I arrived at the one that should have been 1643. It was an office park, I could now see, and the door had a pad for remote entry. Sirens began wailing in the distance, I couldn't judge how long it would be until the police arrived. As I stepped forward to try the door, it burst open from the inside, ejecting a frightened-looking man in a business suit.

"Go, go," he panted, pushing past me and beginning to run towards the alley-mouth, "there's some maniac with a bomb, says he got canned last week and he's going to blow the place up!"

I hardly even looked at him, focused as I was on catching the door before it shut.

I stepped inside, ignoring the fading sounds of alarm coming from the man behind me, finding myself in a well-lit stairwell. I climbed the first flight, finding the glass door at the top locked, but the space beyond was dark, so it must have been vacant anyways. On the next landing I found the door ajar and the glass shattered, a fire extinguisher lying on the ground nearby. I cautiously stepped inside, trying to avoid crunching the broken glass underfoot as I tread into the hallway beyond.

After several paces I began to hear the sound of footsteps in the main office space ahead, and I dipped into the first doorway on my left. The ridiculousness of my situation washed over me in a moment of realization, and it crossed my mind that I had no idea whether Ryan would show up, or if he did,when. I might just get blown to smithereens instead. I looked around the small office in search of some kind of weapon, but of course there was nothing of real use. I hefted a shiny red stapler, testing its weight in my hand, ignoring how stupid I was beginning to feel.

The sound of police sirens grew louder outside, and I heard the pacing at the end of the hall come to a stop. I sidled up to the edge of the doorway, peeking my head around the corner towards the noise to see if I could catch a glimpse of the assailant. As I leaned over, my knee brushed up against a small wastepaper basket, knocking it over. The small sound it created as it struck the carpeted floor was practically deafening. There was a moment of prolonged silence, the police sirens outside wailing in the background, and then I heard footsteps coming my way.

Shit,I mouthed, looking down at my stapler. It just stared back at me.

"Who's there?" I heard a man's voice call, his voice almost frantic. "Who the fuck is there?"

As good as caught, I elected to show myself, hoping I could talk him into letting me leave, planning to pretend to be one of the office workers. I stood up, sidling out of the doorway into the hall, my hands held up at my sides.

The would-be bomber was a middle-aged man with thinning gray hair, wearing a bedraggled business suit. He held a pistol, which was leveled at my head.

"Don't shoot me, please," I said, trying to sound calm. I dropped the stapler.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He cried, his hands shaking on the pistol's grip.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told y-"

The sound of shattering glass somewhere behind me interrupted my sentence, and I was amazed that the older man didn't shoot me in surprise. His eyes slid past me back into the hallway I'd come from, and I chanced a look over one shoulder.

There stood Ryan, a low red glow encapsulating his body, his upper face obscured by a simple black mask. He looked at the bomber, then at me, almost glancing away before his eyes widened in shock.

"Ian?!"

"Oh," I called back, trying to sound casual and failing, "hey."

Then the old guy shot me.

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I couldn't say what came next, me hitting the doorframe or the blast of bright red energy lifting the bomber from his feet, sending him flying into the room behind him. I heard the crash of his collision with the nearest cubicle wall, and saw Ryan rushing down the hall in pursuit. I inspected the hole in my arm with a dreamlike wonder, watching the blood begin to flow out, staining the nice shirt I had picked from my closet less than an hour before.

I heard a crackling burst, accompanied by that crazed red glow, and several seconds later Ryan's footfalls rang out as he rushed back to my side. I was sitting against the office door when he found me, trying not to show how squeamish my own blood made me.

"Ryan," I said meekly, "it's Ryan, right?"

He frowned at me, his lips pursed as he studied the growing stain in my baseball tee.

"I can't believe it," he breathed, bending down to lift me, grabbing my good arm and wrapping it around his neck as he rose, "how did you end up in this situation?"

I began to reply, but when he jerked me around towards the stairwell the only sound I could produce was a grunt of pain. The energy surrounding him had singed my exposed skin, and when he felt me tense, it cooled considerably until it was just a warm tingle against me.

"Never mind, actually," he continued, "I've been hoping to run into you, obviously not in these circumstances though."

"You have?" I said, walking with him towards the stairs in an awkward half-step caused by our small difference in height.

I thought he was leading me to the stairs, but when we got to the end of the hall he turned towards a broken window, presumably where he entered from.

"Umm," I went on, "this is the third floor, isn't it? Also, isn't there a bomb?"

We stepped up to the large window frame, and as I peered out into the open air he gripped me tighter, sliding his other arm around my waist.

"Hold on," he said, "we're going across."

Across?Fifteen feet away was the roof of an apartment complex on the other side of the alley. Maybe it was the blood loss, but I said nothing, stepping onto the frame in tandem with him. The next thing I knew we were airborne, lifted out from the force of his jump and aided by a jolt of energy emanating from his feet. The red electricity snaked out and connected with the apartment's roof before we landed, and while it was rough, I was surprised at how controlled the whole process felt.

What I was not ready for was the short jog to the roof's other side, followed by an immediate jump downwards. This time a much larger blast of energy cushioned our fall, loudly crackling as we smacked down on the pavement below. Directly in front of us was the strange van that had almost hit me earlier, its side door opening even as we approached. A woman in a tan sweater and white slacks was already stepping into the front seat from the hold as Ryan led me inside, easing me down on the carpeted floor before slamming the door behind us. The energy around his body had already winked out at this point.

"The bomb was fake," said Ryan as he peeled the mask off, his hair tumbling loose and sweaty around his head, "I just knocked the guy out and left him."

"Who's your friend?" The woman in the driver's seat asked as we sped away, her reckless speed causing Ryan and I to sway from side to side in the back.

"He's the guy from the warehouse, the one I told you about," Ryan answered, rummaging in a nearby box.

"Ohh," said the woman, flicking her head around the seat to look at me again before returning her focus to the road, "thatguy, okay. Small world."

I hardly noticed what she was doing, focused as I was on Ryan. He finished going through the box and produced a roll of medical tape, moving towards me. Only then did I realize my arm was quite soaked in blood, although less than I would have expected. He rolled up my sleeve, giving me an apologetic look when I winced as the cuff went over the bullet wound.

"Looks like it went right through you," he muttered, beginning to wrap my arm tightly, "you're lucky."

I felt incredibly lucky, right then. Bleeding in the back of a stranger's van, being attended to by a superhero who I'd been longing to bed since I met him. I couldn't help but notice how close he was to me, the sheen of sweat on his brow all-too-visible. I swallowed, looking away, feeling a familiar stir in my jeans.

"Take us to my place, doc," he said, "I need to talk to Ian about the whole situation."

"What am I, your cabbie?" She replied, taking a sudden turn that caused Ryan and I to bump into one another as he continued to wrap my arm.

"That's exactly it," he said, smiling. I hadn't seen him do that, it was intoxicating.

Trying my best to avoid staring at his body in the tight black suit, I focused on slowing my breathing. I'd been so caught up in the moment that I didn't realize how fast my heart was beating. Soon the van came to a stop, and Ryan hurriedly pulled a black track suit lifted from another box over his Surge suit.

We got out, and I hardly had time to thank the doctor before she sped off, giving me a passing wink. Ryan led me inside a standard-looking apartment complex, neither of us talking as we took the stairs to the fourth floor. I followed him down a green-carpeted hallway to his door, waiting patiently with my wound clamped underneath my free hand. When he led me inside, I braced myself for a revelation of superhero technology, perhaps a wall of computer monitors and a large mannequin for his suit.

It was just an apartment. A sparsely furnished one, at that, although as I glanced around at his living room and attached kitchen I saw small spots of decoration, minimal personal affects to show that someone lived there. Truth be told, I wasn't paying much attention to my surroundings, but rather watching the outline of Ryan's shapely ass shift as he walked in front of me, flipping the light-switch on a nearby wall.

"Sit down on the couch," he eventually said, looking back at me, "I'll get your arm patched up."

"What, again?" I said, and I heard him chuckle from the other room he'd disappeared into.

"That was just to keep you from bleeding everywhere," he called, "we've got to clean it. Let me get out of this suit first, though, this thing sucks to wear for long."

I nearly fell off the couch trying to crane my neck and see into the other room, but the door was half-closed, yellow light spilling out. After several minutes in which I tracked the dull, painful pulses of pain radiating through my right arm, he came back. Ryan was wearing a stylish, low-necked white tee and a pair of comfortable-looking linen shorts, a plastic tray balanced in his hands. Outside of the suit, I could see that his muscles were just as they had appeared to be. The suit itself probably protected him minimally or not at all, I thought. I struggled not to let my eyes linger on the bulge in his shorts, focusing on the medical supplies he was holding.

"You'll have to take your shirt off," he said, nodding at me, "I can give you a spare once it's cleaned and wrapped."

I obliged him. It might have been a hopeful mind on my part, but I thought his eyes lingered on my abs and chest for a moment longer than normal before flicking up to meet my gaze. I began peeling at the tape, momentarily ruffled as I shifted around, trying not to bleed on his couch when the pressure was released. Ryan handed me a thick, clean rag from the tray and began readying some cotton balls and iodine.

I winced as the orange-brown liquid contacted my open wound, but the pain wasn't as bad as I expected. Ryan noticed me pointedly looking away while he swabbed at the small hole in my arm, holding my wrist from underneath in his free palm.

"Not into blood?" He asked, and I could hear the smile in his voice. The feeling of his ministrations was unexpectedly tender, his hands deft and gentle.

"Not when it's mine." I replied, and he chuckled again.

As he continued dabbing at my arm, I remembered the wealth of questions that I'd stored up in the previous weeks for exactly this occasion. About Parkins, about the mayor, about how he'd known to be at that warehouse two months prior. In the end, though, all I could think to ask him was,

"So, how does a guy like you end up a superhero?" When he didn't immediately reply, I continued. "I mean, were you born with that...ability? Or did you-"

"I wasn't born with it," he said, apologizing quietly as he pressed tufts of cotton against the holes in my arm, beginning to wrap it with gauze from the tray, "and I didn't choose it, either. It was an accident. Well, sort of an accident. It happened when I was at work, with the doc- the woman from the van. She's my boss."