Work Text:
Happy fucking Halloween, you think to yourself, tossing your phone with its last-minute-cancellation texts aside. At least my movies won’t flake on me. It’s too bad Adrian already told you he planned to “patrol” tonight.
“Do you even know the crime rate on Halloween? I need to protect the city’s helpless grandmas,” he’d insisted. “And god forbid I catch anyone TPing the courthouse again, I’ll have no choice but to kill them!”
You change out of your costume, cursing at yourself. You’d bought a shark tooth necklace for this, and now what? When could you wear any of this out of the house? Shaking your head, you pull your softest, comfiest hoodie on. The lining is freshly-washed fleece, so at least you won’t have any unpleasant sensory disruptions for the rest of the night. You grab a beer on the way to your TV, musing about which movie to watch. You’ve already watched Halloween (1978) the night before, and the sequel, and you had just finished a Friday the 13th binge with your friends this month, so that leaves either Nightmare on Elm Street or Texas Chainsaw…
You set your beer on a coaster and flop on the couch, weighing the options in your mind. Weird rapey killer, or masked, chainsaw wielding killer. The choice is easy. You put on Texas Chainsaw and get comfortable on the couch, settling in for a Halloween night spent alone.
–
You think you should probably be a little ashamed at how you twitch in your underwear at the chainsaw-revving sound, but after two beers, you simply can’t bring yourself to care. Idly, you press your hand to your clothed cunt, pushing your hips up to chase the dull ache. You wonder whether Adrian has caught anyone tonight. The mental picture of blood splattering the teal of his stupid Vigilante suit has your breath hitching.
Your brain catches on the thought of him holding a gun to someone’s forehead, smiling behind his mask, and you slip your hand under the waistband of your sensible briefs, fingers homing directly on your clit. You’ve been half-turned on for like forty-five minutes by now, and you’re wet enough to prove it, your fingers gliding smoothly over the nerves.
Would he hurt me, if I did something to make him think I deserve it? You whimper at the thought, dipping your fingers into your hole, gathering the slickness there. Sweeping your fingers back up to your clit, you let the fantasy drive itself, ignoring the movie still playing.
You think you can almost feel the muzzle of his modest Sig pushing into your temple, and sigh, rucking the hoodie up your torso to expose your stomach, running your hand down your own hip to squeeze the softness there, imagining it’s Adrian’s hand. God, does he get off on killing? If he blew your brains out, would he jerk off about it afterward?
The mental image of his bloodstained gloves pressing into his clothed erection makes you moan aloud, and the volume of the sound makes you come to your senses.
Having caught yourself mid-freaking, you stop your hand and take a deep breath. “Okay, yeah, no, that makes sense,” you say aloud, “why would I expect to be normal about it? My friend slash crush slash sometimes-fuckbuddy kills people. I get off on horror movies. This is fine, definitely not something I should unpack with a licensed professional.”
You reach for the remote, intending to pause the movie and maybe get your shit together, when you hear a clatter from near your bedroom and freeze.
Your heart picks up the pace again but for a different reason– is someone breaking in? Now, of all times? Today, of all days? You stand slowly, adjusting your clothes and grimacing slightly at the wetness in your underwear before wiping your hand on your leg. If you’re about to be the victim of a breaking-and-entering, who cares if you have some precum on your leg, whatever.
Creeping toward the hall, ears straining, you kick yourself for tossing your phone on your bed, leaving yourself unable to call for help. You’d bought a baseball bat for emergencies, and you’re quietly turning the knob for the hall closet to grab it, when you hear another clatter and a quiet “Fuck! Shit! Sorry,” in a familiar voice.
“Adrian?” You call, abandoning the closet door.
He turns the corner, then, saying, “Yeah, hey! Sorry, I think I knocked some stuff over in your room. Why do you keep so many Legos on your windowsill? I’m just gonna knock them down every time I come over.”
“Are you scolding me for not accommodating your terrible manners? There’s a front door for you to come through,” you reply, hands on your hips. He’s ridiculous.
Pushing past you, then, he makes for your fridge, yapping as he goes. “Uh, I can’t use the front door while I’m in the suit, what if someone sees me and connects us? I can’t have anyone attacking you to get to me. I would have to kill you to keep my secret identity safe, duh?”
Your face heats rapidly at the reminder of your fantasizing just minutes earlier, and try to subtly smell yourself, checking whether it’ll be obvious that you had been touching yourself when he’d broken in.
“Hey, what happened to the Sunny-D? All you have in here is IPAs and pepperoni,” he whines, bent over, digging through the fridge. God, he’s got such an ass.
“You finished it, remember? And you know I refuse to buy that shit, it’s not even real juice.”
He straightens and wanders into your living room where the movie is still playing. “Oh, yeah. Ooh, is this Texas Chainsaw?” He jumps onto your couch, right where you had just been knuckle-deep inside yourself.
You close the fridge door– he’d left it open, the son of a bitch– and follow him. “Uh, yeah, it was just on in the background.”
“In the background of what?” He asks, turning to look at you. “Hey, are you getting sick or something? You’re super red. Or wait, are you scared of the movie? It’s hard to tell by your face.”
You shake your head, trying to feign nonchalance, and plop down on the couch next to him. “I think I’m just still recovering from you breaking into my bedroom,” you accuse, “and it was on in the background while I was like, meditating or whatever. I don’t know, why do you need to know? God.” You’re too defensive with that, and Adrian knows it.
Behind the visor– he still has his mask on, Jesus Christ– he squints at you. “What, were you jerking off or something?” He laughs, too loudly, and you chuckle nervously.
“Ha, no, I wasn’t.” Not your most convincing lie.
He crows, “Oh my god, you totally were! Holy shit, that’s awesome!”
You splutter, and open your mouth to deny it again, when he says, “Can I watch?”
Now, you’ve fooled around together before. He knows you get really stressed and found that you’re much more relaxed when you’re well-fucked. But it’s been a while, and it’s never been anything so… kinky. Which you suppose should be more of a surprise, given his line of work and your fucked-up sex drive.
Your blush deepens, and he leans forward, wrapping his hand around your leg and squeezing. Jesus, his hand is so big it spans the whole width of your thigh. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Like a double feature! You can watch the movie, and I can watch you and the movie at the same time!”
It has been a while, you think, and you really are pretty turned-on. Plus, you kind of have a thing for being watched. “Okay, yeah,” you say, and Adrian bounces in his seat a little.
“Sweet! Let me just get comfortable,” he says, and you expect this to mean he’ll take off the suit, but no– he just wiggles back until he’s half-facing the TV and half-facing you.
“Are you- are you keeping all that on?”
“Uh, yeah? What if something happens and I need to go stop some crime?” He replies, the “duh” implied in his tone.
You shiver, your hole clenching around nothing at the thought of him watching you fuck yourself, stepping out to kill someone, and coming right back, like some kind of really fucked-up guard dog. “Okay, okay, yeah, okay.”
You shift, mirroring his position. When you push your hand under your waistband, you hear him kiss his teeth, and you look up at the sound.
“I can’t even see anything with your clothes still on,” he whines. “Take them off?”
At your slightly-incredulous look, he gestures, like he’s saying “go on.” You curse quietly to yourself and stand, ignoring the tremor in your legs. This is really getting to you.
Once you’ve stepped out of your underwear and kicked all your clothes aside, he says, “There, that’s better, right? Easier access, too.”
Deliriously, you think the blush on your face might actually cause a medical problem. You sit back down gingerly, very aware that come can indeed stain the upholstery. When you bring up one leg and stretch the other out, spreading your legs, you hiss at the cold air on your sensitive cunt and throb. He must notice the movement, because he groans and cups himself with a gloved hand, egging you on.
You drag one hand down your front toward the hair between your legs, and stroke your inner thigh with the other, watching goosebumps spread across your skin. When your fingers reach your cunt, you hiss, fluttering your eyes closed at the feeling. It’s somehow so much more intense knowing he’s watching, and in the suit at that. You try to meet his gaze, but the mask makes it hard. His head is tilted towards you, but you can’t make out much past that.
Your fingers dip down into yourself while you stare into the mask, and your mouth opens on a gasp at the intrusion. His hand clenches in his lap, and you smirk at the evidence of his matching arousal. You want a double feature? I’ll give you a show, you think, and with fingers buried inside yourself, bring your other hand to fumble at your clit, moaning exaggeratedly.
He takes a heaving breath, grinding his palm into his erection again. “Fuck, you have such a nice pussy. Bush rights forever. Not the President one, though, fuck that guy, he did 9/11. How deep can you get your fingers?”
You huff out a laugh and shift around for a good angle, and get your fingers as far into yourself as you can, and curl them, hiccuping a cry at the sensation. It’s frustrating that you’re so close to that spot, but can’t quite reach it– your fingers aren’t long enough to get there.
Noticing your brows furrowing in frustration, he says, “Shit, you can’t reach it, can you? Do you need help?”
You whimper, nodding and making your best puppy-eyes. “Yes– shit, please? I’m cold, too, come warm me up?”
He swears and reaches for you, maneuvering you both around. He places you in his lap with your back to his chest and your knees splayed around his broad thighs, his arms reaching around your middle, chin hooked over your shoulder. You can feel him breathing on your neck, even through the mask, and shiver again.
“Okay, fuck this, let me help,” is all the warning you get before he drags his gloved fingertips along your clit, the textured grip pads making you cry out.
You swear you can hear him grin. “Hey, it’s cool if these stay on, right? They’re connected to the rest of the suit, and remember I can’t take the suit off. It’s sexy too, isn’t it? You’re totally naked and I still have all my clothes on. I’m gonna jerk off about this so much later.”
At your weak nod, he says “Sweet,” seemingly to himself, and plunges a thick finger into you.
“Fuck!” you cry, jerking your hips up out of his grip.
He adjusts, anchoring his free arm around your hips and dragging you back into his lap, and you think you can feel his erection against your ass. “Hold still,” he grits out, and grinds his hips against you.
He sets a leisurely pace, easing his finger in and out just slowly enough that you feel every bump and groove of the glove. The heel of his hand grinds against your clit with every motion, but his firm grip keeps you from wriggling away from the sensation, and you’re quickly breathless and desperate, making pathetic little noises. Your arms reach back and grip his covered head, and you wish you could thread your fingers through his soft brown curls. Some other time, you think distantly.
“You’re so cute, trying to get away,” he says, “I’ve got you, though. I work out like, all the time, there’s no way you’re stronger than me. Hey, I don’t even have to tie you up, do I? You can’t go anywhere if I’m holding you. Oh, you really like that– I felt you squeeze around me. Here, take another, you can handle it–” he says, and works a second finger into you, resuming his crooking motions and finally reaching that spot that makes you cry out, loudly, and buck hard against his grip.
As promised, he holds you down, and your body goes hot all over at the solidness of his grip. He really is strong enough to just keep you there and do whatever he wants, and the knowledge turns you on even more. He brings his fingers out of you for a moment, and you whine at the loss, until he starts working your clit in earnest.
It feels so blindingly good, all of it– the hard armor of his suit under your legs, his erection firm against the meat of your ass, his iron hold around your middle, and of course his impossibly-skilled fingers working you towards a rapid orgasm. You feel something deep inside yourself growing tighter and know you’re close, and you want to tell him to keep it up, but you can’t seem to get the words out, instead making little “oh-oh-oh” sounds, and you realize that he’s been talking this whole time.
“Hey, I was just thinking about you earlier. Some guy was trying to rob the 7-Eleven a few blocks from here and once I left his body in the dumpster outside I remembered that time we got Corn Nuts there and you made me listen to that song from Heathers. That guy is kind of hot but super toxic, right? Like come on, dude, leave Veronica alone. I’m glad you don’t mind that I kill people sometimes, I really appreciate that you support my passions. If you ever wanted to come with me on a patrol, I would totally let you pull the trigger, it would be fun.”
You can’t believe he’s talking about this while you’re this close, but even worse, you can’t believe it’s about to make you come against his hand.
“We could get you a mask, and we could match! Or you could wear mine– wait, we should totally fuck while you wear my mask, it would be so hot–”
You come with a cry, and he quickens his fingers against your clit, working you through it. “Yeah, we’ll totally do that, fuck you’re so hot,” he says, pulling you hard against his dick, and you feel him making shallow little movements against you.
Once your clit is oversensitive and you’re squirming away from his hand, he withdraws, and sets both hands on your hips to grind against you in earnest, breathing heavily in your ear, your head barely balancing on his chest behind you.
With the consciousness you have left in your head after that brain-melting orgasm, you push back against him in time with his rhythm, and after a moment, he stills, coming in his suit with a groan.
“Shit, I’m so glad I didn’t wear a cup today,” he says. “I can’t believe the movie hasn’t ended, either, what the fuck? How long is it?”
You laugh and slide off his lap, shivering a little at the leftover sensitivity. Clicking up on the TV shows that the second one started a while ago, not that either of you noticed. “Hey, wanna stay and finish this one?” you start asking, when he pushes you gently back into the couch, crawling up to loom over you.
“Nah, let’s go again.”