by Amber Jayne
Finally he opened his eyes.
Bare beams above, sloping walls. Blankets enveloped him. This didn’t match at all his last wisp of memory, of being in that laboratory. Things had gotten very hazy well before that, though. He recalled leaving behind the stolen vehicle, then following a road on foot. How exhausting it had been. He had stumbled through the night. Then—the town! Yes, barely smeared with the coming of sunrise, its streets deserted. Somehow he had found the lab. And he’d gotten in, couldn’t quite remember how…
Urna shifted in what he realized was a bed. The frame creaked. He felt thirst in his throat. He loosed a hand from the covers and rubbed at his eyes. He felt better than he had. How long had he slept? And where the hell was he?
Had Rune caught him? Was he back at the Citadel?
Those last thoughts, urgent and alarming, caused him to sit up sharply in the bed. It wasn’t too smart a move. His head whirled and every ache in his body came suddenly alive. He felt the strain in his legs from all the walking. Bruises smarted here and there. He didn’t remember getting into a fight. He might’ve merely fallen down or injured himself getting inside the lab.
That vent. High up on the wall. Almost spent, he had leaped for it, he now recalled. It had been a massive effort on his part, but his need had driven him relentlessly. Vague memories of wriggling into the duct, pulling the grate closed behind him, bumping around inside, dropping down into the uninhabited but cluttered workspace. There—yes, yes—he had found the substances his body cried out for.
The twirling whiteness in his head slowly cleared. After he’d blinked his blue eyes for several moments he saw that he was in a loft of some sort. And that he wasn’t alone any longer.
Urna started, realizing as he did that his clothes had been removed. He was naked under these blankets. That didn’t much concern him. Of more immediate worry was the figure at the top of the ladder nearby the bed. The man with the blond hair was gazing at him with arresting green eyes, a look of amazement on his rather handsome features.
“I’ve got water,” the man said, “and I’ve got food. Which do you want first?” And indeed he held a glass in one hand, a small cardboard package in the other.
Urna studied his face a moment then said, “Water.” Whatever was happening here, he would go along with it long enough to quench his parched throat.
The man came the rest of the way up the ladder, balancing nimbly, and handed Urna the glass. The water was cool and instantly refreshing. His head cleared further.
“Let me tell you a few things that might put you at ease,” said the blond-haired male, smiling, though the wonder hadn’t left his eyes. “We know you’re Urna, the Weapon. We know you’ve fled the Citadel, and that the Guard are looking for you. We—”
“We?” Urna asked, his voice stronger now.
“Me. My name’s Bongo. And Virge. This is her house. She also runs the laboratory where we found you.”
Urna didn’t recognize this man, nor did the name Virge tug any part of his memory. They must have discovered him unconscious after he’d gobbled down the drugs he had found. Probably lucky for him he hadn’t overdosed.
“Where is this Virge?”
“Still at her lab,” Bongo said. “She’ll be back later. She asked me to…keep an eye on you.”
He was doing that at least, Urna noted. Still gazing with a strange kind of rapture at him. But was Bongo also his captor? Certainly he didn’t look like Lux.
“You hungry?” Bongo rattled the cardboard container he held as Urna drained the glass of water. “Protein rations. I’d cook up some hot food but there’s nothing to cook.”
Urna sat up straighter in the bed. The covers fell down around his waist, baring his lean but finely molded torso. He reached out for the package. “Yeah, I could eat.” Opening the flap after Bongo handed it over, he found rectangles of some semi-gelatinous matter, coated in a sort of breading. They tasted bland but not disagreeable and he chewed and swallowed several.
Looking up at Bongo when he’d had his fill, he judged that he could handle this individual, even if the man were concealing a weapon somewhere on him.
“Thank you for the water and food,” Urna said.
It brightened his well-modeled face. “You’re wel—” he started to say.
Before he could finish, Urna had bounded up from the bed, whipping one of the blankets over Bongo’s head, pivoting tightly, using his knee to take the man’s legs out from under him, then dumping him summarily onto the mattress. Urna ended by pouncing atop him, his strong legs clamping Bongo’s arms, choking the blanket firmly around his skull.
When he was absolutely certain he had the male secured, Urna said, “Okay. You’re not Guard. But for all I know you’ve got Guard downstairs or surrounding this place, wherever it is. Who the fuck are you? Why’re you helping me?”
Bongo was still spluttering. After a few seconds, though, he ceased to struggle, probably realizing how hopeless it was. He drew several breaths. Even so, his voice shook a little under the muffling cover as he said, “I’m a civilian. So is Virge. We’re not Lux, not Guard, not military. We know you because you’re famous. You…you kind of fell into our laps. We figured, Virge and me both, that you needed help. She gave you something to stabilize you back at the lab. I loaded your dead ass into my car and drove you here, to say nothing of hauling you up that ladder and tucking you into bed. You don’t want to be grateful—that’s fine. But you’ve got no call to be treating me like this!”
It put an involuntary smile on Urna’s face. Apparently this man had some guts. Still straddling his body and pinning his arms, Urna pulled the blanket off his head. His blond hair was in disarray.
“My name’s Urna. I’ve run away. I don’t want to serve the Lux anymore.” He paused, sensing how crucial this moment was, then went on, “I want to know things about myself. I’m seeking knowledge.” He heard the plaintive note that sounded in his words. He was more than just physically exposed to this Bongo now.
Sympathy showed in the green eyes. “Maybe we can help. I hate the Lux.” When he made to move his right arm, Urna tightened, then relaxed his taut bare thigh and let the man’s hand slip free. Bongo lifted it and traced his fingertips along Urna’s jawline. “You’re so fucking gorgeous in person it’s unreal.”
Urna was surprised. Both by this man’s bold overtures, and by his own response—which was a mix of reciprocal desire for Bongo (after all, he was quite handsome) and a vague dawning realization that this might be what it was like being famous. That was, if you could get out among the people who admired you for your feats. Urna supposed his exploits were, in fact, admirable. He was the best of the Weapons. He’d killed more Passengers than any five other teams put together.
There was the rub, though. He was part of a team. No way he’d have survived, much less accumulated so amazing a body count, without Rune acting as his spotter, telling him where every enemy was coming from.
But that didn’t matter for shit at the moment, he decided, tossing aside the blanket he’d had Bongo wrapped in. Naked, still atop, Urna felt himself growing hard as the blond male’s fingers raked a way into his long silver hair. Those fingers tightened tentatively at the base of his skull and Urna gave in to the slight pressure, leaning forward, bringing himself face to face with this man who claimed—a claim Urna believed—to have essentially rescued him and delivered him to safety. However long the safety of this place would last.
Long enough for some fun, Urna hoped with sudden wickedness, very glad now that the water and food had so revived him. In a way it was like they were still struggling, Urna still seeking to dominate the other.
He laid his lips on Bongo’s, surprised to find the man’s mouth primly closed, the kiss he returned almost chaste. Blinking, Urna backed off a few inches. He softly growled, “Kiss me like a man would, motherfucker.” Then he set his mouth after Bongo’s again, finding Bongo’s parting lips, his quivering, eager tongue. Their mouths devoured each other.
&
nbsp; Urna was starting to grind slowly atop a body that felt firm with muscle. He wanted to see it, all of it.
Pushing off Bongo, he said, “Get your clothes off.”
The heat had risen in Bongo’s eyes. His wet mouth was open, panting. He held still a moment, eyes sliding down Urna’s hairless shape until they froze on his cantilevered cock, which was waiting and yearning for this new lover’s touch.
All at once, almost comically fast, Bongo was shedding garments. They went flying in all directions. As Urna watched a pair of undyed briefs go flinging into a corner, he saw his own clothes neatly piled. Was the gun still among them? What about the ancient photograph he’d had in his boot?
He would find out later.
Now, both men bare, they fell upon one another. Urna felt Bongo’s strength, which seemed considerable. Even so, in a fight the Weapon was still wholly confident of a victory. He had reflexes this civilian could only dream of.
But this wasn’t a fight, though it was something of a delicious struggle. The lovers he’d received in his quarters back at the military base on the Citadel’s grounds had always been women. Urna felt he must’ve had other male lovers in his lifetime. It was like his flesh had some nebulous but undeniable memory of other men he’d fucked around with. But no clear memories came to mind, nothing with tactile recollections, with mental images. No other male but Rune. Rune, who’d been such a sweet fuck.
Hands grappled. Skin shivered upon skin. Bongo’s tongue was slavering a way down Urna’s throat. His fingers were plucking at one of the Weapon’s nipples. Urna reached between them, gathering up a doubly full fistful, squeezing their cocks as one. He felt Bongo’s flesh throbbing against his own.
He had to taste this man.
He shoved the blond male onto his back. Bongo gave a little cry of surprise, but it turned swiftly to a melting moan as Urna dove between his thighs, seizing the waiting rigid cock first in his hand, then gripping it with his hungry mouth.
“Oh, fuck yeah—”
Urna held Bongo’s balls, dusted with blond curls. His lips cinched the thick cock head, tongue flicking over the slit, catching the salty dewdrop there. He dropped the moist circle of his mouth down the vein-lined shaft. The flesh pulsed, a rapid throb of life and lust. Urna sucked him all the way down to where the edge of his hand held the man’s testicles.
Bongo’s legs clamped Urna’s shoulders. He started lifting his ass from the bed with every downward plunge of Urna’s mouth. Urna took the full length of the cock each time, without hesitation, without trepidation. The fat crown of that shaft found his throat but his gag reflex didn’t engage. He’d trained it well.
He savored the sumptuous flavor. Having this male’s cock in his mouth lent him a sure—though temporary—sense of absolute ownership over Bongo. He had him. Bongo was babbling more obscenities, thrusting upward. The legs hard against Urna’s shoulders were trembling.
Suddenly Bongo was pushing him with those strong thighs. Urna happily went with the encouraging motion, rolling over onto a hip, letting Bongo spear his mouth even deeper with his cock. Fingers grabbed his silver hair. The pornographic jabbering became incoherent, just animal braying now. Bongo fucked Urna’s mouth. Urna felt the male’s balls tighten.
The thick jets were loosed. The first blasts Urna caught wholly in his mouth. The taste of the semen was like bliss, a more startling, though less bitter, flavor than Rune’s. Eagerly he swallowed. But Bongo’s thrusts were out of control and his spending cock wrenched loose from Urna’s mouth and sprayed several more surges of cum over his throat and chest. The warm spatter felt delicious on his flesh.
After a time, Bongo ceased quivering and murmured, “That was so fucking good.”
With the taste of that seed on his tongue, Urna rose onto his knees and snarled, “It ain’t over yet.”
Heat still flickered in Bongo’s sparkling eyes. He fixed Urna with them and said, “Damn right it isn’t. How would you like to fuck me?” Not waiting on an answer, he pushed himself over onto hands and knees, thrusting out his lusciously sculpted ass.
A fearsome grin split Urna’s narrow, fey face. He swiped two fingers across his slick chest then smeared the digits over Bongo’s waiting hole. He probed Bongo with his fingers for several seconds, gently at first, then more urgently, until the natural tightness eased a little. Getting into position, Urna set his cock head to the glistening pucker. He gripped the man’s hipbones and started sliding his inches inside.
Bongo grasped him nicely. Urna probed deeper, until the blond male suddenly bucked back against him, taking the full length of his needy cock. Urna gasped. Heat held his meat. The pressure was exquisite, as was the sense of connectivity, of renewed ownership of this man.
I had his cock. Now I own his ass.
The grin wound several degrees tighter on his features, pulling the flesh into a mask. Bongo had his hands braced on a beam above the bed. He continued to thrust back against Urna as the Weapon lunged into him. Urna’s cock speared the beautiful male ass. It was a wonder to look down and see himself disappear into that willing hole, feeling his lover writhe about with his every plunge.
His grip tightened on Bongo’s hips. His thrusts increased in speed and violence.
“Yeah, fuck, yeah—” Bongo was off on a new obscenity-rife diatribe. His head turned. One eye peered over a shoulder. He said, “I can’t believe Urna is fucking me in my ass!” He sounded astounded, proud.
This, then, was indeed fame, Urna decided as his hairless balls slapped Bongo’s ass at a frantic rhythm, as his orgasm gathered over his body and started to rush groin-ward. This was, apparently, more than just a simple man-to-man fuck to this Bongo character. This was a prize of some kind. He was having sex with a celebrity. He knew of Urna. Of course he did. Probably everybody in the Safe knew his name. That was a staggering notion, really, but it was one he’d never fully contemplated. After all, he had spent virtually all of his time either in his room at the base, doing drills, or going on missions with Rune into the Unsafe. Never before in his life had he been out among the common people. At least, he couldn’t remember any such occasions.
But the immediacy of the carnal moment returned to Urna in walloping fashion. Bongo was shrieking more vulgar gibberish. Urna was slamming his ass in a frenzy. At last his orgasm converged. The assembling pleasure poured through him, doubling and redoubling in intensity as it gushed from his cock. Hot spurts filled Bongo’s ass. He hung onto his beam and whimpered now, even as the rapture rose and crested and started its slow ebb in Urna.
His smooth pale chest rose and fell. A bead of sweat rolled into one eye. He lifted a hand to wipe at it. His cock slithered free of Bongo’s ass.
They lay together, their bodies gradually cooling. Bongo kissed Urna’s shoulder. The Weapon ruffled the man’s hair.
After a time, with a post-coital sleep just threatening to take him, Urna grew aware that Bongo was murmuring something. Opening his eyes, he saw that the man had a tiny object in his hand. An irregularly shaped crystal, with a bluish tinge. He also noticed for the first time that he had a tattoo just below his left collarbone. A corkscrewing red thing that looked vaguely familiar, though Urna couldn’t say exactly where he’d seen it before. Probably something he had come across in an old text.
“What’re you doing?”
Bongo had the small crystal pinched between thumb and forefinger. He was holding it near his right temple. He stopped his humming and said, “It’s a spell. For protection. For you.”
“A…spell?”
“Magic.”
Urna had heard the word. It was heretical. The Lux railed against magic, didn’t they? It was a part of their doctrine. Urna had never paid a whole lot of attention. He had been content to work for the bastards. Until he’d decided to run away.
He watched Bongo a moment, unable to make any sense of what the man was doing. This was magic? It looked harmless and pointless to him.
Finally Bongo set aside the crystal. He lifted himself o
nto an elbow and planted a quick kiss on Urna’s cheek. It wasn’t an overture to more sex.
“So, I’m protected now?” Urna asked.
“It’ll help.”
“Well, thanks, then.”
Bongo studied him a moment. It was quite cozy, the two of them snuggled in this bed, in this quiet loft. Bongo said, “I could tell you more about it.”
“About magic?” Urna wasn’t especially interested but supposed he would listen. He’d owed this man that much courtesy, he figured.
“About our beliefs,” said Bongo.
“Our? You mean the Virge woman you mentioned?”
Bongo laughed. “No, not her. But there are others who believe what I believe. We think magic beats technology. We think the Order of the Maji is stronger than the Order of the Lux, and that we’ll defeat them in the end. We believe in a second Safe that’s located on the other side of the world. It’s called the Farsafe. And we hope one day to go there and live free.”
* * * * *
The Shadowflash had failed him. Aphael Chav brooded on this fact, sitting on his throne-like chair beneath the skylight, feeling the warmth and power of the sun, which seemed to shine specifically for him—even though this was deep night and the sun wasn’t in the sky. White brows pulled together over a stern face.
“Damn you, Rune. Couldn’t even find your one true precious lover, could you?”
He muttered this aloud, indulging himself. He’d have done no such thing were anyone else in the long chamber. He never revealed thoughts like this to others. As Toplux, he maintained an image. He was indomitable, he didn’t allow setbacks to daunt him and he always won in the end. Always.
