by Aosora Hikaru (青空ヒカル)
“Let me down!”
“Only if you ask nicely.”
“Fuck you, Tracker!” The man caught in the trap spat, spinning on the rope around his ankle. In the alley, his curses echoed betweens the buildings, the only light from a single streetlamp on the corner.
“That wasn’t very nice at all,” Tracker murmured. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched the man continue to turn. “You haven’t even introduced yourself. Obviously you know who I am.”
The man flailed his arms in an attempt to face Tracker. “Go fuck yourself. I ain’t telling you nothing.”
Tracker shrugged, the leather he wore squeaking. “Your call. You can either tell me who you are so I can cut you down and take you to the police, or you can keep cursing at me and I can leave you there for the police to find.” He glanced down at the watch on his wrist, then back up at the trapped man. “It’s only about two-thirty right now, so chances are good they won’t find you for a while.”
The man continued to thrash on the rope for a few more minutes, then scowled, the expression growing deeper each time he rotated to face Tracker again. “Bruiser. Let me down now.”
When Tracker said or did nothing, the man let out a frustrated growl. “Please.”
“That’s more like it.” Tracker stepped forward, grabbed the rope, and pulled a knife from his belt. “You might want to brace yourself.”
The man called Bruiser barely had his hands ready to catch himself by the time Tracker sawed through the rope, and Tracker had him handcuffed before he could get his bearings again.
“You know, Bruiser,” Tracker said as he hauled him down to the precinct, “theft isn’t exactly the most ideal career path.”
“Neither is whatever the fuck you’re doing.”
“I sleep well, though.” Tracker tightened the cuffs another click, wrenching a groan from Bruiser. “Can you say the same?”
The next afternoon, on the front page of the Clearwater City Gazette was a picture of Tracker in full leather from head to toe, dragging Bruiser behind him.
“How the hell…?” Brett Bainbridge blinked the sleep from his eyes and scowled at the paper, then went back to hanging up Tracker’s leather before that night’s activity. It would need the several hours he was at work to air out properly, or else it’d be hell to put on again.
He’d never had a picture of himself on the front page of the paper. Stories, sure. Lots of people had written stories. Nobody had ever gotten a picture before now, though, and Brett didn’t like it at all.
The thought weighed heavy on his mind the whole evening at work. For once, he was so absorbed with worry about the paper that he couldn’t even muster up the self-loathing for the telemarketing job he held to pay the bills.
The picture meant he could possibly be identified. For all he knew, the police could frown on his brand of vigilante justice.
“Yo, Bainbridge. You even here on this planet right now?”
Brett looked up from his lunch and blinked. “Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking.”
Tom, another telemarketer, leaned against the wall of the break room and laughed into his mug. “Wow, I didn’t know you were capable of thinking that hard about something.”
“Hey,” Brett said, poking his fork into the now-cold leftovers. “What do you think about that whole Tracker thing?”
“That douchebag? I’m just waiting to fall into one of his traps on my way to work.”
“Why? You wouldn’t do anything to make him catch you.” Brett frowned.
Tom shook his head and took a long draw from his coffee mug. “You don’t know that. He won’t talk to anyone about anything. We don’t know how responsible he is with those traps.”
Brett was finding it increasingly difficult to hide his offense at Tom’s stance. How could they not trust him? He captured criminals and gang members, and used non-lethal ways to do it. He’d never hurt a civilian, and he always made sure the traps were dismantled and hidden away by morning. “I’m sure Tracker is plenty responsible. Nobody’s gotten hurt yet.”
“Yet.” Tom held out his coffee mug as though to put an accusatory finger at Brett. “I tell you, one morning we’ll hear on the news that some kid got snared on his way to school.”
Brett pressed his lips together and stabbed his fork into the leftovers now. He just needed to calm down so he didn’t give away his secret. Wouldn’t that just be the worst way to reveal your secret identity? He could see the headline now: Telemarketer Beats Co-Worker Senseless; Admits to Moonlighting in Fetish Gear. “We’ll just have to wait and see how he does, then.”
The newspaper still taunted Brett when he got home from work, and he stared down at the byline again.
Jordan Faulkner. The photo was credited to them, as well. Where the fuck had they been hiding? There hadn’t been anyone Brett could see last night, and he was usually careful about that sort of thing.
The sense of unease ate at him as he donned the leather again. Maybe he was just worrying about this too much; maybe nobody would really try to figure out who he was. Did people really worry about the secret identities of masked individuals, or was that curiosity just a comic book thing?
Or maybe Jordan there would worry about that. Maybe he would dedicate himself to unmasking Tracker and starting a witch hunt. Brett set his jaw and took a deep breath before pulling on the mask. He didn’t have time to concern himself with this now. It was time to be Tracker, because Clearwater City needed him.
Once the mask was on, he left Brett Bainbridge and all his mundane problems behind, Jordan Faulkner included.
Things were finally looking up for Jordan. He’d managed a successful article — even gaining front-page status — and a picture of Tracker, no less. Nobody had accomplished that before.
Totally worth the black eye.
Jordan sighed, patting foundation over the bruise marring his eye socket. He was heading out again tonight, hopeful he would run into Tracker. The makeup, he felt, was a necessity. Don’t let the gangs know you’re vulnerable. He’d been jumped by the gang Tracker later disrupted and if Jordan was going to be honest with himself, he was probably the reason Tracker had found them anyway. It’s way easier to pick off a guy if his friends are busy punching the reporter in the face.
Once he felt the injury was sufficiently disguised and he had thanked every deity he could think of that he knew how makeup worked, he slung his camera over his shoulder again and headed out into the night. Even if he didn’t find Tracker, he’d probably find crime of some sort to report on. He really couldn’t care if he ended up painting Tracker in a positive or negative light; each piece he got into the newspaper paid him a little more money and kept a roof over his head for a little longer.
He wandered the streets outside his apartment for hours and eventually decided to head home again after finding nothing, not even a jackass running a red light. Not two blocks from Jordan’s apartment, however, he was frozen dead in his tracks by an ear-splitting scream. He took a minute to gain his bearings, then turned on his heel and sprinted off toward the noise. What would he find when he got there? A carjacking? A holdup?
Jordan clutched his camera tight as he ran faster. He needed to get there before Tracker, so he could take the best array of pictures.
Jordan faltered, then looked behind him.
“I mean it.”
The voice was coming from an alley, but when he took a step toward it, the man spoke again. “Don’t you dare. I don’t need you taking any more pictures of me.”
“Tracker.” Jordan did as asked and remained where he stood, though he itched to go do his job and find the victim — or get another picture of Tracker. It’d make for an amazing article.
“Jordan Faulkner, right? I’m not kidding. No more pictures, or I’ll make sure you can’t find me.”
“Wait, what are you–”
The sound of pebbles against pavement stopped him, and Jordan took a cautious step forward, then another. He peeked into the alley, camera at the ready, in time to see a rope snaking up the side of the wall. It appeared Tracker had scaled the wall and taken his leave over the rooftops before Jordan could get any more ammunition for the paper. Jordan considered finding a way to the roof himself before the woman screamed again and he bolted.
Tracker hadn’t said anything about taking pictures of — or writing stories about — the crime scene, after all, and sometimes those stories were much better.
It was a simple matter of setting the traps once Tracker had observed from the rooftop for a few minutes. It was just a mugging, and the guy had this woman’s purse. He was sure he knew what way the guy was going, and had set a few rope traps to catch him.
After he set the traps up, Tracker found a good spot in the shadows. The last thing he wanted was for an innocent person to find themselves in the trap. All it would do was prove Tom — and God knew who else — right.
Footsteps approached and Tracker worked his way forward as silently as he could. He was sure he was about to snare his guy, and then, the footsteps stopped.
Followed by a camera shutter click.
“Oh, for the love of God. Didn’t I tell you to knock it off?” Tracker hissed. He had half a mind to let Jordan walk right into the damn trap — it would certainly take him out of commission — but decided against it.
Jordan, standing out in the middle of the sidewalk, froze. He glanced around a few times before looking into the alley, though Tracker knew he was far enough back to be obscured.
A shame Jordan was irritating him so damn much. He had a really cute face, though it would be really hard to find an excuse to ask him out as Brett since Jordan only knew him as Tracker. Jordan didn’t even give off the “straight” vibe, and it was obvious he’d say yes to a date without a second thought. Truly, too bad about his stubborn streak.
Dragging himself back to reality with a fair bit of effort, Tracker continued, “Yeah, I saw you. The fuck are you doing?”
“My job,” Jordan said. He had visibly bristled and was not the least bit pleased by what Tracker was doing. “I’m a freelance writer and photographer. This is literally all that’s keeping a roof over my head right now.”
“Find a new subject,” said Tracker. “I am not your meal ticket. Plenty of other shit to write about.”
Jordan clutched his camera a little tighter, obviously unnerved by speaking to a seemingly-empty shadow. “Nobody cares about the ‘other shit.’ You’re what they want to know about.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Stop, or I will make you. I mean it.”
They stood in silence, seconds dragging into eternity, before Jordan turned on his heel and headed back the way he came. Tracker barely had time to retreat back into the alley again before frenzied footsteps approached and the snare caught its target.
A picture of a rope loop on the sidewalk.
That was literally all Jordan had, aside from Tracker’s thinly veiled threats. He didn’t even have a photograph of Tracker blending into the shadows.
He let himself think back to the night before, standing there on the sidewalk and seeing the lamplight shining off that damned leather Tracker wore. If he focused on that thought too long, his mind wandered to terrible and amazing places, mostly involving Tracker wearing that leather and him wearing … Well, nothing.
Usually those fantasies also involved Tracker proving to Jordan just how good he was with those ropes of his.
“My editor is going to kill me.” Jordan groaned, burying his face in his hands. His only options were to run the story truthfully (Self-Proclaimed Superhero Not So Super After All, Actually Kind of a Dick) or try to come up with some new material now. Either way, he was going to lose his front-page spot and the income that came with it.
Maybe he could keep trying to lay low, sneak some pictures of Tracker from a distance — he’d need a new lens for that, not that he’d complain about the better pictures of that leather-clad body — and attempt to persuade his editor to give him a little more time. Besides, wouldn’t it make the readership want the Tracker update more if a day or two went by without word?
He did get the information of the mugging victim last night. If anything else, she could be a good source for more Tracker gossip if nothing else panned out. ‘Tracker Saved Me,’ Mugged Woman Claims. It was a weak headline; it would need revising.
Maybe what Jordan needed wasn’t to stay a step ahead of Tracker. Maybe what he needed was to stay a step behind. Wouldn’t it be more exciting to photograph the aftermath anyway?
It was too late now, the sun was starting to peek over the horizon and Tracker would already be back in his — his what? His secret lair? His hideout? His garbage can?
Jordan made a mental note to try to figure that out, too.
Exhausted, he climbed into bed with all his clothes on and drew the blankets up over his head. No use worrying about it now; he needed sleep to function and he was short enough on it as it was with all his wandering about in the middle of the night.
When his phone rang not three hours later he bolted upright in bed and stared at the clock in disappointment before answering the call. “Chief, what’s up?”
“I need to know what you found out about Tracker last night. Am I going to be making room for another front page special, Faulkner?”
Jordan cleared his throat, tossing aside the covers and climbing out of bed. “Well… No. I didn’t get much of anything last night. A woman got mugged–”
“What?!” Jordan pulled the phone away from his ear as his editor shrieked. “A woman got mugged and you didn’t even get a picture? What am I paying you for, Faulkner?”
“Well, a woman got mugged but Tracker refused to let me take any–”
“I don’t care what Tracker did! You go out there right now and get me a story! I expect it by five!”
Jordan’s phone chimed and he sighed as he pocketed it. Guess he was talking to the victim today. Coffee would be necessary.
“Hello, is this residence of–” Jordan paused to look at the name and address written on the scrap of paper in his hand, then continued, “Mrs. Annette Miller?”
The older woman standing at the door nodded. “Yes, this is. May I ask who you are?”
“Jordan Faulkner, Clearwater City Gazette. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about what happened this morning?”
She eyed him suspiciously for a few moments, then apparently decided she was satisfied by his identification badge and camera and allowed him in. Together they sat in her small living room and Jordan asked her about the event.
“Are you sure that’s what happened, Mrs. Miller?” Jordan asked after she was finished, then fiddled with the settings on his camera and tried to ignore the way his hands trembled from too much caffeine.
“I’m positive. The hooligan took my purse and ran. I never saw more of him than the back of him. I screamed for help and about half an hour later, a young man in leather, of all things, handed me my purse and left without a word.”
Jordan canted his head to the side. “And you’re absolutely certain that was Tracker?”
Mrs. Miller nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes. There wasn’t anyone else it could have been. The police didn’t even show up until ten minutes after that, and I had to tell them it was already taken care of!”
“One last thing, Mrs. Miller… What on Earth were you doing out at five in the morning?”
She smiled and settled back in her chair, her hands folded delicately on her lap. “You can’t fault an old lady for wanting to get her morning cup of coffee before all the pushy businesspeople get to the diner. I like to take my time and enjoy without some young man glued to his phone yelling at me to hurry up.”
“That’s fair, I suppose,” Jordan murmured as he picked up the camera. It wasn’t much of a story, and his editor was still going to kill him, but at least he had a nice photograph of Mrs. Miller for the story which would signal the beginning of the end of his career.
It had been a few days since Brett had seen any mention of his alter ego in the newspaper, and he had decided to allow himself to relax and stop worrying about it. Work dragged on same as always and without the articles to fuel the gossip machine he didn’t even have to worry about accidentally outing himself as Tracker. This all combined to make him feel more relaxed than he’d felt in what seemed an eternity.
On a blissful Thursday afternoon (blissful because he didn’t have to work his Godawful telemarketer job and thus got to sleep in as late as he wanted) he opened the newspaper to find a story buried at the bottom of page six.
“‘TRACKER SAVED ME,’ Says Local Woman.” An article accompanied by a portrait, penned by one Jordan Faulkner.
“Motherfucker,” Brett said, then allowed himself a moment of gritting his teeth before he went on to read the article. It may as well have not mentioned him at all, for all the press he got in the story; it was more a detail of a little old lady who got mugged on her way to get coffee at some unearthly hour and had her purse returned by someone she was sure was Tracker. Jordan, for his part, at least did his best to cast possible doubt over Brett’s involvement, for which Brett was grateful.
Hopefully this would be the last he’d see from Jordan Faulkner, at least in the vein of some guy runs around Clearwater City at night in leather and I want to know who he is!
Brett tossed the paper into the recycling bin and set about preparing for that night’s endeavors. He had heard rumors about a big robbery tonight, and he wanted to make absolutely sure he’d be prepared in the event the whispers were right. It was still early, only about five o’clock by then, and he had plenty of time to make sure everything was perfect.
He was simultaneously annoyed, disappointed, and yet unsurprised when another picture appeared in the newspaper the next day.
To his credit, Jordan’s picture of bound-up bank robbers outside the police precinct only captured the aftermath, and the newspaper article mentioned Tracker only in passing and only as a question of whether or not he was involved.
Brett was loath to admit it, but Jordan was neatly skirting around the rules he had attempted to set. There was no way for him to be angry with Jordan, as he hadn’t actually photographed Tracker, and he technically wasn’t writing about Tracker, only the events.
The worst part, Brett decided later, was that it got the rumor mill churning at work again. He spent the evening idly chatting with his co-workers about the latest event and whether or not he believed Tracker was involved.
It felt like forever until he was home again and pulling on Tracker’s leather, which was the only way he felt like himself anymore. More and more it felt as though Brett Bainbridge had a gaping hole in his life, and more and more it felt like being Tracker was the only way to ignore that rift in his soul.
After that huge bust last night, he expected tonight to be quiet, and it was for the first few hours. Tracker paced the rooftops in the most troubled areas and heard nothing until about four in the morning, when a scuffle broke out on the streets below him.
Usually he didn’t interfere in street fights — they generally involved rival gangs and weak gangs were easier for him to weed out — but something about this one made him step in. He didn’t think before he did it, and part of him regretted it immediately, as half the scuffle was none other than Jordan Faulkner.
He wasn’t very skilled in hand-to-hand combat, but Tracker had the element of surprise on his side and he managed to fight off the delinquents. It took him a moment to realize Jordan had been standing off to the side, a hand to his nose, the entire time.
Drawing a deep breath, Tracker took a moment to consider the fact that Jordan had been trying to back off recently and probably deserved to not have his head bitten off for being out this late.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Jordan winced and still kept a firm grip on his nose. “I think they broke it,” he said, the words coming out in a thick, nasally tone. “It won’t stop bleeding.” He tilted his head back, then promptly coughed and spluttered.
“No, no, lean forward when you do that.” Tracker stepped forward and pushed gently on the back of Jordan’s head to tilt it down again. “When you do that the blood all runs down your throat and doesn’t clot where it needs to.”
Jordan cast a glance over at Tracker, his eyes narrowing. “Why are you helping me?”
Tracker shrugged, raising his hands as he did. “It’s my job? Come on, let’s get you home so we can get you cleaned up and find out what happened to your nose.”
“Shouldn’t we just go to the hospital?”
Fighting back the urge to laugh at Jordan’s predicament severely impeding his ability to pronounce the word “hospital,” Tracker shook his head and took Jordan’s upper arm. “Probably not, honestly. Not with that camera on you, anyway; bringing it with you is likely the fast track to funding someone’s crack habit.”
Jordan’s eyes widened and he let go of his nose for a moment to pick up and inspect his camera. “Oh God, my new lens–!” He pinched his nose again, then groaned at the crack marring the glass. “I just bought this!”
“Well, you bled on it, too, so there’s really no exchanging it, either.” Tracker stopped and looked around them. “I guess you’re going to have to tell me where ‘home’ is so we can get you there.”
“Can’t we just go back to your place? Is it closer?”
Jordan, bless his heart, looked like he hadn’t considered what he just said before it came out of his mouth. With a hint of amusement, Tracker shook his head and said, “Nope. Masked hero, secret identities… Like I’d show the guy who has a bad habit of taking pictures of me where I live.”
Jordan flushed, then turned and started leading them down a quiet street. “That’s a good point.”
They didn’t have far to go but Tracker still kept his hand on Jordan’s upper arm, guiding him around large cracks in the sidewalk and other trip hazards. He wouldn’t admit it, but helping Jordan felt… nice. Better than dragging big, burly guys to police stations. He wondered why he’d ever been so rude to Jordan at all.
“So, uh, this is it.” Jordan turned to Tracker, then snuffled his feet a bit. “Guess you should get back to it.”
To his surprise, Tracker didn’t want to leave Jordan alone, either. He rationalized it by assuring himself he only wanted to make sure Jordan wasn’t really hurt. He didn’t want to follow him in to get to know him better or anything. “Nah, let’s get you inside and check out that nose of yours.”
As Jordan opened the front door to his apartment, he only really had two thoughts.
First, he was glad he’d cleaned the apartment earlier that day.
Second, he was glad he didn’t have any roommates. This would have been awkward to explain to anyone. How does one explain bringing a ‘superhero’ of sorts to his apartment?
He hoped there weren’t any other photographers following Tracker around. That was the last thing he needed, gossip about him and Tracker.
“Hey, let me get a look at that nose.” Tracker stepped closer, close enough now Jordan could tell what color his eyes were, though their dark amber was obscured by the shadow of the mask he wore.
A few seconds later Tracker cleared his throat and reached out to move Jordan’s hand, and Jordan realized he’d been staring. Nice. He let go of his nose, and realized it had stopped bleeding.
Tracker let out a hum of approval and gently turned Jordan’s head to inspect his nose from all angles. “It looks all right to me. Not obviously crooked, and it’s stopped bleeding at least. How does it feel?”
“Like I got punched in the face,” Jordan muttered.
“Obviously.” Tracker stepped back again and crossed his arms over his chest. “What were you doing in that fight, anyway?”
“Looking for you. Well, not really looking for you, more looking for the things you would do, because I’d rather photograph those and make everyone happy.” Jordan sighed as he took his camera off and set it aside. That new lens had been a waste of good money, and now he’d have to start over fresh to save up for another one.
Tracker furrowed his brow. “What do you mean, make everyone happy?”
Jordan sank down onto his couch and tried to sniff a few times. “Well, you don’t want me taking pictures of you anymore, which is fair, but my editor is still hungry for pictures and stories about you. So… I try to dodge the rules in a way. No pictures of you directly, but still stories about the shenanigans you pull.”
“Shenanigans, huh?” Tracker shook his head, but he at least looked amused. “I don’t know I’d call the things I do for Clearwater City ‘shenanigans,’ Jordan.”
“Some people would.”
“Yes, I know. I work with some of them.”
Jordan laughed, then grinned at Tracker. “Co-workers? I thought you worked alone.”
Tracker shook his head. “This doesn’t pay the bills. I — as someone else — have a day job.” When Jordan opened his mouth, Tracker lifted a hand to cut him off. “No. I don’t tell you about him. You know, or think you know, Tracker. That’s all I’ll allow you to know.”
Jordan pressed his lips together and nodded. Tracker had a fair point; he hadn’t really proven himself trustworthy enough to learn more intimate details. Truthfully, if the roles were reversed, he’d keep the secrets too.
But right now he had a gorgeous man in leather in his living room, and it was getting harder to focus on anything for how hard his dick was. Utterly ridiculous that he’d be this turned on this fast. For fuck’s sake, he was covered in blood still, and for that matter it probably was frowned upon to come on to a guy you’d been trying to find out a little too much information about lately.
Tracker still wasn’t making any moves to leave, though.
“So, uh. I was wondering if maybe you… Do you have something you have to do, or can you…?”
Jordan looked rather sad there on the sofa, with his bloodstained t-shirt and deep flush spreading over his pale cheeks. Tracker cast a glance over to the window, then back to Jordan when he realized the sky was growing pink. “Well, I can’t go back out there, unless it’s to go home. Sun’s coming up.”
Really, this felt just a bit awkward. Jordan had propositioned him, but he really didn’t want to say no. For one thing, it’d been way too fucking long since he’d gotten laid, and Jordan was cute. Jordan had also backed off recently, and that did give him bonus points.
Was it bad form to fuck a guy you just saved? For that matter, was it bad form to fuck a guy you threatened not even a week ago?
Jordan nodded slowly, his brow furrowed as though he were trying to piece together exactly what Tracker had just said. At length, he ventured to say, “So does that mean you–”
Tracker stepped forward and pressed his lips to Jordan’s hard. A stupid move, but when had he truly made a good decision since the first time he pulled on this damn leather? Maybe Jordan was the only good thing he’d had happen to him for a while. It certainly had snapped him out of… Whatever this heroism thing had become for him.
He still was in costume, but had to admit that he didn’t feel much like Tracker at all right now.
Under his kiss, Jordan softened, a soft moan slipping out between the kisses. Jordan brought up a hand and tentatively rested it against his cheek, then moved a couple fingertips under the edges of the mask as though he needed to feel more skin.
It felt good to have human contact again, outside of handshakes and other inconsequential touches at work. Jordan’s red hair was short-cropped but soft and felt amazing under his fingers, and the noises Jordan made with the fingers on his scalp elicited quite the impressive reaction from Tracker’s dick.
“Fuck, I need this,” Jordan panted, his fingers wandering to tug at Tracker’s clothing.
Tracker stiffened, then straightened. “Not here. Look… I want it too, but…”
Jordan’s brow furrowed again, and he looked up at Tracker with a look of concern touched with disappointment. “But?”
“It needs to be dark.” Tracker shuffled his feet. “So you can’t, uh, see me. Just… Don’t make me give that up. Not yet.”
It was an odd thing to request, and Tracker was sure Jordan would throw him out for it; however, after a few moments Jordan nodded and pushed himself up from the sofa. “Fair enough, I suppose. Bedroom, then?” He started down the hall and muttered under his breath, “Thank God for blackout curtains.”
Once they had made their way back to Jordan’s bedroom it was an awkward shuffle of deciding if they were going to undress themselves or each other. Jordan had pressed Tracker up against the wall, hands prying at the waist of Tracker’s leather getup, and cursing under his breath as he failed to gain access to any skin whatsoever. Tracker tried to press a kiss to his lips as he reached for Jordan’s hands, but Jordan had moved and damn near got another bloody nose when Tracker head-butted him instead.
“Look,” Tracker murmured when his eyes had adjusted enough to see Jordan cup his hands to his nose again. “Maybe you should just let it be, you know? I know what I’m doing.” Jordan had experienced a rough enough night, Tracker figured. He deserved to enjoy himself first.
He could hear Jordan sniff a few times, then felt Jordan’s body against him. “Yeah, okay.”
At least Jordan was still hard, even with the head-butt he’d taken. Turning them was easy, and it was just so damn good to grind his hips against Jordan’s, to feel their cocks slide against each other through all those layers of clothing. To hear Jordan’s breathing pick up, punctuated by breathy moans.
It was a little harder not to laugh when Jordan got tangled up in his shirt. They were both a little too eager, he supposed. After he was freed from the cotton prison, Tracker got to marvel at how soft Jordan’s skin was under his lips. Jordan had a sensitive neck, and it was particularly enjoyable to bring out goosebumps and shivers with just a line of gentle kisses. Judging by the insistent clawing against his back, Tracker figured Jordan was growing less and less patient. He grinned against Jordan’s neck, continuing the slow torture.
He was going to die, Jordan was sure of it, and it was going to be a spectacular death caused by an explosion of built-up sexual frustration. He pressed back against Tracker, biting back a whine before saying, “God, please. Stop teasing.”
Again he felt Tracker smile against his throat. “You sound desperate.”
“I am. Fuck, what are you even doing to me?”
It was a reasonable question in Jordan’s opinion. Not even a week ago Tracker was threatening his well-being, and now he was grinding his hard dick against Jordan’s. Quite a change, but not necessarily one Jordan was opposed to. In fact, if things could continue along this line, Jordan would be perfectly fine with it.
Tracker’s grin grew wider. “I believe the term people use for what I’m doing to you is ‘dry humping.’ It can be whatever you want to call it, though.”
Jordan shoved his hands down between them, reaching for his belt. “For fuck’s sake. Stop dragging it out.”
Tracker grasped Jordan’s wrists, bringing them up and pinning them to the wall on either side of his head. “Oh, no. You’re not doing anything. Keep your hands to yourself. I have this.”
Jordan groaned in frustration, but did as Tracker requested. After a few moments of Jordan’s compliance, Tracker released Jordan and moved his hands down to unbuckle Jordan’s belt. His breath hitched as the buckle clicked, and again when he heard a thicker fabric rustling. He was trying to figure out what it could have been, then Tracker’s bare fingertips pressed against his stomach. Quickly they released the button of his jeans, then separated the zipper. When Jordan felt that warm grip around his dick, he let out a low moan, grasping the sides of Tracker’s head and pulling him in for another desperate, hungry kiss.
He loved the way Tracker met Jordan’s probing tongue with his own, the way Tracker stroked his hand along Jordan’s dick with purposeful yet gentle pulls. He ached to feel Tracker’s skin, as well, to taste him, to know the way his body felt without the leather in the way.
The most he could do right now, though, was surrender to the onslaught of pleasure. Tracker was patient, far more than he, and it was the most exquisite torture. With each stroke, Jordan pressed his hips forward to meet Tracker’s fist, and each movement increased the sensation.
Tracker pushed forward, taking control of the kiss as he slid his hand down into the back of Jordan’s pants, groping and squeezing at Jordan’s ass. Jordan, in response, moved his hands to push his jeans down, wiggling as best as he could to get them as far off as he could without breaking the kiss.
He could feel Tracker smile against his lips. “Impatient,” Tracker murmured. “I like it.”
Before Jordan could respond, Tracker grasped his upper arms and turned him again, steering them toward the bed. Jordan struggled not to trip with his pants around his ankles, but was thrown off balance when Tracker pushed him backward. When Jordan landed, he immediately kicked his pants off, then reached up for Tracker. “I’ll show you impatient.”
Tracker chuckled, but ignored Jordan’s hands and kneeled beside the bed, between Jordan’s legs. The first drag of his tongue up Jordan’s cock felt amazing, igniting all the nerves in his body all over again, and then when Tracker took the full length into his mouth, Jordan gave himself over to the pleasure.
Jordan’s response was exquisite, and Tracker immediately decided that this had, in fact, been a very good decision. It wasn’t difficult to draw the most wonderful moans and gasps from Jordan, and Tracker was glad for it. With that worry gone, it was easy to dedicate brainspace elsewhere.
Like to how he was going to get out of this leather. Why hadn’t he taken it off earlier, again?
Well, at least the shirt fastened in the front. Wouldn’t be the first time in his life he’d stripped a shirt off with a guy’s junk in his mouth. The mask wouldn’t be impossible either — after all, it was more like a hood which fastened under his chin.
The pants were the issue.
Even while he stripped off the shirt, Jordan gasped and writhed beneath him. He swirled his tongue against the underside of the head, and Jordan let loose the most amazing string of curses. It was enough to get him to repeat the action after he’d removed the hood, which earned him a fist in his hair yanking him up off Jordan’s cock.
“Keep that up and I’ll blow my load,” Jordan panted.
Tracker — now Brett, he supposed, since he wasn’t wearing the important parts of the costume anymore — raised an eyebrow and asked, “And that’s a problem how?”
Jordan shifted, then mumbled, “I was hoping you’d fuck me.”
“Ah, I see.” Brett stood, biting back a groan as his knees protested, then set about slowly peeling off the leather pants. “You want to go while I’m inside you, then?” Once the pants and underwear underneath had been kicked aside, Brett crawled up onto the bed, laying over Jordan. “Better hope you’ve got a condom.”
When Brett stroked his bare cock along Jordan’s, he was rewarded with a whining groan from Jordan as his back arched. “Yeah, I’ve — oh, fuck — bedside table drawer.”
With one last thrust against Jordan, Brett rolled off and opened the drawer. It was crammed full — how did Jordan find anything in here? — But after a few minutes of dedicated digging, Brett produced a strip of condoms and a small bottle of lube. He tore a condom off, stuck the corner of the wrapper in his mouth while he tossed the bottle onto the bed, and crawled back over on top of Jordan.
Jordan reached up to pluck the condom from between Brett’s lips, and ripped it open after a couple seconds of struggle. He reached down to stroke his hand along Brett’s cock, wrenching a few pleasured groans from Brett before he rolled down the condom. When he picked up the bottle of lube, he grinned up at Brett. “You might want to move.”
Brett settled back onto his knees, stroking his cock with slow, lazy slides of his hand. It was hard to see Jordan there in the dark, though he was fairly sure Jordan’s cheeks were flushed with anticipation and pleasure. “You gonna put on a show for me?”
“Sure, if you’re not gonna tie me up or anything.”
“Did you want me to?”
The way Jordan froze was obvious, even in the dark. The room was silent for the space of a few heartbeats, then Jordan asked quietly, “Would you?”
Interesting. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d ever used his knowledge of ropes and knots in the bedroom, but it was definitely the earliest he ever had employed it in an encounter with a new lover. “Yeah, if you want me to.”
Jordan was silent again for a few moments, then swallowed audibly and said, “Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.”
“Are you nervous?”
Jordan let out a soft laugh. “I just asked someone to tie me up before having sex with me. I think nervousness is a suitable emotion.”
“Well, do you trust me?”
“Yeah, I do. Now either get on with tying me up, or get on with fucking me.”
The ropes were still secured to his belt on his pants, which were bunched up off to the side. Brett climbed down from the bed and stroked his cock a few more times. “Have you ever done this before?”
“No,” Jordan breathed. “But I’ve always wanted to.”
It was difficult to find his pants in the dark, but Brett managed it, and it was simple enough to gather his ropes and straighten up again. “I think that we should start… more simply, then. Just your hands. I’ll have to blindfold you, I’ll need the lights to see and I can’t risk you seeing my face. Is that okay?”
Brett supposed he should get over that soon. How could he justify fucking someone he wouldn’t even let see his face?
“Yes,” Jordan said without hesitation. “That’s perfectly fine. I actually like being blindfolded. There’s one in the drawer, too.”
“Jesus, Jordan, I don’t know how the hell you find anything in that drawer.”
Brett heard a soft laugh, then the slide of the drawer opening and a few seconds of rustling. “I’ve got it, if you want to come get it from me.”
Tracker had the softest footfalls even in bare feet, and Jordan had hardly heard him coming before the blindfold was out of his hands and laid over his eyes.
“Lean up a little,” Tracker said, and Jordan complied. Tracker was even courteous of the fact that Jordan’s nose was still sore from its introduction to some douchebag’s fist earlier in the evening, and so the blindfold was secure, but not so tight to be painful.
His world went from pitch black to the dull glow of light filtering through fabric, and then he felt rope around his wrists. It wasn’t rough, rather soft, almost like silk. Tracker wrapped his wrists together with the rope then tied them to the headboard. Jordan wasn’t sure of the exact arrangement of the ropes, only that it wasn’t uncomfortable, and so he didn’t concern himself with it.
“Does that feel all right?” Tracker asked, his voice much softer now. “Does it hurt?”
“No, not at all,” Jordan said. “It feels fine.”
He felt Tracker squeeze a few of his fingertips, then make a small noise of approval. “You tell me immediately if it starts to hurt or if your hands start to feel numb, do you understand me?”
Jordan nodded. “I understand.”
“I’ll be leaving the lights on so I can see them. Is this all right?”
“So I’ll still be blindfolded, then? That’s okay.” Jordan rolled his hips a small amount. The knowledge of his restraint and the blindfold, added to the fact that this was Tracker fucking him made him so much harder.
“Listen… If you need me to stop, just tell me so. That’ll be how the safe words work, okay? Just tell me to stop, or slow down, and I will.” Tracker was far more concerned than Jordan had expected him, or any other lover, to be, and it was a welcome change of pace from those other guys he’d fucked who cared about getting off and little else.
“I understand. Can we… Please, I really want you to just… Please, fuck me.” Jordan shifted, his dick growing more uncomfortably hard.
Tracker let out a soft laugh, then pushed Jordan’s knees up toward his chest. With the blindfold on everything was intensified, and even those first nudges of Tracker’s fingers against his hole felt electric. Jordan drew a deep breath, exhaling in a low moan as Tracker pushed inside.
It was agony, in the most delicious way, laying there bound while Tracker worked him open. His muscles screamed with the strain of holding his legs up, but even that discomfort added to the thrill.
“You feel amazing,” Tracker said, his voice soft.
Jordan couldn’t summon up more of a response than a groan, even as he tried to pull his knees up closer to his chest to open himself up for Tracker more. All he really wanted was to have Tracker inside of him — all of this tension had built up to this moment, with him blindfolded and restrained on his bed.
Not that he had any complaints about his current predicament.
“Are you still all right?” Tracker asked, louder this time.
Jordan nodded, flexing his fingers above his bound wrists. “God, yes, I am. Now… Please, please just fuck me. God, I need that.”
Tracker laughed again, then Jordan felt considerably emptier as he withdrew his fingers. Once again Tracker checked Jordan’s fingertips, then the bed shifted and Jordan felt the nudging of Tracker’s cock against his ass.
With a low moan, Jordan tried to raise his hips up to meet the motion. There was nothing more he wanted right now than to feel Tracker inside him, filling him up with each movement. Slowly, so slowly, Tracker pushed inside, and Jordan found himself holding his breath to focus more on the feeling. With his hands tied and his sight taken away, removing the distraction of breath magnified things all the more.
One final push seated Tracker completely within him, Tracker’s hips pressed up against his ass, and Jordan felt the bed shift and Tracker’s lips brush his ear. “Breathe, Jordan.”
He let out his breath in a rush and wrapped his legs around Tracker’s waist as though to try to pull him closer, though it was impossible. “Please, please move, please…”
Tracker stayed there, not moving as Jordan gulped down deep breaths to make up for the lack of it. Once Jordan’s breathing was more regulated — at least, as much as it could be in this situation — Tracker started to move. Slow, deep thrusts were the beginning, and Jordan rode the sensation. It didn’t take long before Jordan was trying to use his legs to urge Tracker to move faster. While the slow and sensual start had been nice, what he’d really wanted this whole time was a good hard fuck.
Tracker let out another soft laugh, then reached up again to check Jordan’s fingers. “I get the feeling that you’re not entirely satisfied.”
“For the love of God, Tracker, just fuck me already.”
“Greedy little thing, aren’t we?” Tracker murmured.
Another low moan built in his throat, and Jordan let his head fall back. “Fuck yes, I am.”
Tracker started to move faster, though he still kept his strokes deep. “You like it when people call you names, Jordan?”
Jordan’s breath caught in his throat. When would he ever get a chance to do this again? If he’d never get to fuck another superhero, he’d may as well go for broke and try out all his kinks at once.
When the only response he could give was a groan of satisfaction, Tracker thrusted again hard, his hips slapping against Jordan’s ass. “Tell me, Jordan. You like it when someone calls you names?”
Jordan nodded, a frantic motion of his head. “Fuck yes.”
“Names like what? Greedy? Needy?”
Jordan bit his lip and nodded again.
“You like filthier names, too?”
Tracker was pounding into him, and it was getting harder to think with all the stimulation. This was something Jordan had kept buried, something he’d always wanted but had never been able to ask for. He whimpered, and nodded again.
“Tell me what names you like, Jordan. I wanna hear them come out of that filthy mouth of yours first.”
Jordan grimaced, then forced his voice to work. “Whore.”
“Oh, you like to go there, huh?”
Jordan nodded once more, then moaned again with a well-aimed thrust. “I like– I like to be called a…” He trailed off, suddenly ashamed of his desire.
Tracker’s weight shifted, and Jordan felt his breath against his ear again. “A what?”
After a few moments of silence, Tracker pinched one of his nipples, wrenching a cry from Jordan’s lips. “A what, Jordan?”
“… S-slut,” Jordan whispered.
Tracker didn’t stop his movements, fucking Jordan as hard and fast as ever, but he didn’t say anything for a few moments. The span of time was just long enough for Jordan to start to panic, but then Tracker took a handful of the hair above the blindfold and held it firm in place. “So you like it when people call it like it is? You begged me to fuck you.”
Jordan gasped, his hands frantically clenching and loosening above the ropes. “God, yes… I needed you to.”
“I know you did, you fucking whore,” Tracker murmured, his lips again brushing Jordan’s ear as he drew back almost all the way.
Jordan whimpered again with the sensation of just the head of Tracker’s dick sitting inside him, and he tried to raise his hips again to draw more of it inside him again.
Tracker’s response was to laugh and draw out entirely, then sit up, pulling his weight off Jordan as he released the grip on his hair. “Proving it already. Damn if you weren’t telling the truth about what a slut you are.”
Jordan could feel his cheeks flush, and he shifted on the bed under the feeling of shame, but at the same time it was as though his dick grew harder yet. “Please… Please just fuck me…”
“Oh, I’ll fuck you, Jordan. I’ll fuck you hard just like you want, like the fucking slut you are.”
Jordan moaned again as Tracker grabbed his thighs and pushed back into him, and then the sound of skin on skin echoed through Jordan’s bedroom as Tracker kept his word. The movements were so hard, so fast, Jordan lost himself in them, and he wasn’t even aware of the words coming out of his mouth anymore. He begged for more, he knew, and thanked Tracker for giving it, but the rest of it seemed to be an incoherent rush.
He could hear Tracker’s breathing growing harder and his grip on Jordan’s thighs growing tighter until they gripped with crushing force and Tracker let out a cry. He kept himself buried inside Jordan as he grabbed Jordan’s dick, bringing him to his own peak with a few practiced tugs.
As Jordan lay there in the aftermath, dazed and overwhelmed, he had the vaguest sensation of Tracker checking his fingertips again and undoing the knots. Tracker murmured something, pressed a kiss to Jordan’s palms, then wiped off Jordan’s stomach with something rough — probably one of the tissues out of the box on the nightstand.
“Are you gonna stay?” Jordan slurred, too exhausted to enunciate further.
“I can’t,” Tracker said. “If you need me to stay for some aftercare I can for a little bit, but I can’t stay any longer than that.”
“Just until I fall asleep. Please.”
The bed shifted again and Tracker drew him into his arms. “I can do that for you. You did well, Jordan.”
Jordan tried to speak but his words only came out as a jumble of consonants. He reached for the blindfold but Tracker caught his wrist, pushing his arms down gently. “Not yet.”
That’s right. The blindfold was necessary right now. Jordan attempted to mumble an apology, and Tracker laughed softly. “Just rest, Jordan. You need it after what’s happened to you tonight.”
It had been an eventful evening. Jordan really wanted to ask more questions, like if he would see Tracker again and if he’d ever get to see what was under that mask, but he was sinking into sleep too fast.
When he woke up later that afternoon he was initially confused by the darkness, but quickly remembered the blindfold. He yanked it off, had to stop for a moment to cup his hands to his nose as the motion reminded him of the fist to his face yesterday, and looked around to find his bedroom empty. Tracker was gone, as was his gear.
As was a set of Jordan’s clothes.
Jordan found a note on the nightstand as he surveyed the room.
Sorry about borrowing your stuff. Tracker can’t be seen in daylight. Had to be the other guy. I’ll return it, I promise.
I think we should see each other again. I hope you don’t mind but I took your number out of your cell phone. I know that’s really damn creepy and I’m sorry for that, but I really don’t know of any other way around it while still protecting who I am. I’ll text you when I’m ready.
I had a really great time. I hope you did, too.
Jordan grinned at the note. The last 24 hours had been more exciting than any other day in his life. A headline came to mind: Hometown Superhero Not Such A Dick After All, Actually Really Damn Sexy. Another one popped up after that: Small-Town Hero Fucks Local Reporter’s Brains Out; “Best Night Ever,” Reporter Claims.
It was going to be so hard to write an article about tonight.
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