My best friend is a Marvel nerd - Chapter 2 (Patreon)

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

Chapter 2

Gary didn’t look at me for three days.

Not in the kitchen when I poured coffee and he was already there, glasses fogged from the steam, curly hair shoved back with the same three fingers he always used. Not in the hallway when we passed each other outside the bathroom and the air still held the heat of his shower. Not when he sat on the couch with a comic open and his phone face-down like it might confess if he flipped it over. He moved through the apartment the way people move through a crime scene they’d already decided to deny. Faded Avengers shirt. Sweatpants. The nerd who’d sent me his cock for a week under a blonde name, except now the nerd had closed the portal and taped a sign over it that said this universe does not exist.

We’d been roommates since senior year. Best friends before that. Same campus, same shitty parties, same argument about which Spider-Man movie did the suit justice. He knew every line. Marvel posters on his walls. Funko Pops lined up like a shrine. He still said excelsior when he was in a good mood. I paid half the rent and kept my mouth shut about the sounds that used to come through his door when Jenna was still in the country.

I let him have the silence.

I ate cereal across from him and watched the milk go gray and said nothing. I charged my phone on the counter six inches from his elbow and said nothing. I waited. Waiting was the only power I had left, and I used it the way he used the mask — something to hide behind until the other person broke.

On the second day he almost spoke. We were both in the kitchen. He opened the fridge, stared into it like the leftovers had answers, and then said, without turning,:

“You told anyone?”

“No.”

“You going to?”

“No, I’m not the Venom of your story, dude.”

“Cool.”

He shut the fridge hard enough that the bottles rattled. That was the whole conversation. He left with a protein shake and the door to his room clicked soft, the soft of a man who was afraid of his own volume.

On the third day Jenna posted a story from a rooftop in Madrid. City lights. Wine. Her mouth open mid-laugh. Gary’s phone lit up on the coffee table. He read it. Locked the screen so hard the glass clicked. Put the phone face-down again like it could still see him.

That was when he finally spoke in full sentences.

He didn’t look up from the dark TV.

“If it happens again,” he said, “there are rules.”

I stayed where I was on the other end of the couch. Any sudden movement and he’d take it back. I could feel it.

“I’m listening.”

“The mask stays on.” His voice was flat. Rehearsed. The same voice he used when he was walking somebody through a plot hole he hated. “You’re not David. You’re the girl from the account. The one who DMed first. The one who asked for the web-shooter. You don’t say my name. You don’t say roommate, bro, dude, friend. You don’t say Gary. You don’t look at me when it’s over. I leave. We don’t talk about it in the morning. We don’t talk about it in the kitchen. We don’t talk about it at all. That’s the only way this—” He stopped. His throat moved. “That’s the only way I can do it.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I said okay.”

“You break a rule, it stops. Forever. I put the suit in a box and I never open it again for you. You understand?”

“I understand.”

“You wanted the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.” His mouth twisted. “You get him with the mask on. Nothing else. No face. No glasses. No—” He pushed the curls out of his eyes hard. “Not me.”

“I get it.”

He stood. For a second I thought he was going to say something human. Something about the motel, or the way he’d shaken when he came, or the fact that he’d driven home with the taste of me still on his cock. Instead he walked to his room and shut the door the way you shut a door when you’re afraid of what happens if it slams.

I sat there with the TV reflecting nothing and thought about the motel carpet and the weight of him on my tongue and the way he’d said sticky spider webs like a joke could save him from what he’d done.

I went to bed hard and didn’t touch myself.

I wanted him to break first.

I wanted the suit to win.

He broke at 1:17 a.m.

I know the time because my phone was face-up on the nightstand and the hallway light cut across the screen when the door opened. No knock. No warning. Just the quiet turn of the handle and the shape of him filling the frame like a panel from a comic I wasn’t supposed to read.

Mask on.

The rest of chest was bare.

That was the part that knocked the air out of me. The Spider-Man pants — red and blue, raised webbing, the fly he’d cut himself with kitchen scissors while Jenna was still in the air over the Atlantic — sat low on his hips. Everything above was skin. The chest he’d built in the campus gym after work, the one he checked in the full-length mirror when he thought I was asleep. Lines cut down his stomach. A thin trail of dark hair. Shoulders that had gotten wider in the years we’d shared a lease. Arms. The body the nerd had been hiding under faded shirts while Funko Pops stared from every shelf.

The mask made it filthy and hot. White lenses. Curly hair crushed underneath, a few strands stuck to his neck with sweat. Only his mouth showed, and his mouth was already open, breathing like he’d stood in his own room for twenty minutes arguing with every version of himself before he walked the hall.

He didn’t say hello.

He stepped in and closed the door with his heel.

“Rules,” he said, muffled by the fabric. “You remember the rules.”

“I remember.”

“You’re not him. You’re the girl. You asked for the web-shooter. You asked me to cover your slutty face. Say it.”

“I asked for the web-shooter. I asked you to cover my slutty face.”

“You’re not David.”

“I’m not David.”

He stood at the foot of my bed like he was waiting for the page to turn. The bulge in the red fabric was already thick, obvious, the same shape from the bathroom photos, the same one he’d angled for the flash while biting his lip like a man concentrating on a screenshot. I sat up. The sheet fell. I was in boxers and nothing else. The mask looked at that. His hands flexed at his sides the way they had in the motel when he didn’t know whether to run or finish what the suit had started.

“On your knees,” he said.

Not loud. Not cruel. Just the instruction. The same tone he used when he told me which MCU movie I was wrong about.

I got off the bed.

The carpet was better than the motel’s. That was the only upgrade. I went down in front of him and the heat off his bare stomach hit first — soap, skin, the nerves he’d tried to shower off. He smelled like he’d scrubbed himself clean and then put the mask on in the dark and lost.

I reached for the fly.

His hand caught my wrist.

Same as the motel. Same grip. The lenses stared down. His chest moved. The muscle under the skin jumped when my fingers brushed the webbing on his hip.

“Don’t say my name.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t say roommate. Don’t say friend.”

“I won’t.”

“You’re the girl from @marvelgurl2002. You wanted to see if the pictures were real. They were real. Now open it.”

His grip loosened.

I opened the fly.

His cock pushed out into the cool air of the room like it had been waiting in the wings. Hard. Heavy. The head already wet, shiny. I wrapped my hand around it and Gary’s whole torso went tight, abs standing out in the shadow of the mask, a breath punching out of him that the fabric couldn’t fully hide.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Okay. Okay. Web-shooter’s armed. Peter’s Parker is ready.”

The nerd voice. Cracked down the middle.

I leaned in and licked the underside, base to tip, slow, the way the fake blonde would have if she’d been real and starving. He made a sound that didn’t belong to Spider-Man or to the guy who said excelsiorwhen the new issue dropped. His hand found my hair. Not shoving yet. Holding. Anchoring himself to the only rule he had left.

“You wanted the suit,” he said, rough. “You got the suit. Mask stays on. Great power. Great responsibility. Your responsibility is to keep your mouth busy and your eyes down.”

I took him into my mouth.

Gary’s head tipped back. The mask pointed at my ceiling. Both hands landed in my hair like the web-line had yanked them there. I went down as far as I could on the first stroke and he swore, low and broken, the word stretched until it wasn’t a word anymore.

“That’s — shit — that’s loaded. That’s a full clip. Easy. Easy—”

I didn’t do easy.

I sucked him the way I’d been thinking about sucking him since the hallway, since the phone flash, since the first DM where he’d typed for eleven minutes and then sent the bathroom shot with the mask on and the bulge screaming. Wet. Deep. No mercy for the nerd. He was already leaking on my tongue, salt and heat, and his hips stuttered forward before he caught himself and tried to stand still like a man who still believed in self-control.

“Don’t look up,” he muttered. “You’re the girl. 

The girl doesn’t get to see under the mask. She just gets the sticky webs when he’s done. Keep going. Suck it like you typed it.”

I hollowed my cheeks and took him deeper. The head pushed into my throat and he groaned through his teeth, the sound muffled, his fingers tightening in my hair until the burn was perfect. Good. The kind that meant the argument inside him was losing panel by panel.

“Christ. Your mouth. The girl in the DMs wasn’t supposed to be this — this filthy. You’re — fuck — you’re better than the fantasy. Jenna can’t do this… fuckkkk!”

I pulled off just enough to breathe and stroked him with my hand, spit running down to the red fabric, looking at the way the suit framed him. Webbing. The cut fly. His bare stomach flexing. The trail of hair. The gym body he’d built while I was on the other side of a thin wall wanting him in ways the comics never covered.

“Mask stays on,” he reminded me. Or himself. “You’re not David. David doesn’t exist in this issue. You’re marvelgurl. You’re the one who said you were hungry for it.”

I put my mouth back on him and full sentences left him.

He started fucking my face.

Not all at once. First the testing pushes, the careful nerd still in there somewhere. Then longer. Then his hands locked my head where he wanted it and his hips took over. The wet sounds filled my room — filthy, steady, the soundtrack of a man breaking his own rules one thrust at a time. My eyes watered. I let them. I kept my hands on his thighs, solid and shaking, and let my roommate use my throat the way he’d wanted to use a stranger in a blonde wig in a motel off the interstate.

“Take it,” he breathed. “Take the web-shooter. That’s it. Deeper. You asked to choke on it. You’re choking on it. Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop. Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man’s got something for you.”

The mask made every word anonymous and intimate at the same time. I couldn’t see his eyes. I couldn’t see the glasses or the curls or the face that quoted Stan Lee. I only had his mouth, open, ruined, and the bare chest above me going rigid every time I swallowed around him.

He pulled out sudden, gasping, spit connecting my lip to his cock for a second before it broke. He held himself at the base, squeezing hard, head down, white lenses pointed at the floor like he could still lose the load if he stared it into submission.

“Not yet,” he said. “I didn’t put the mask on to last thirty seconds. I put it on to do this right. Stay.”

I stayed on my knees.

He looked at me through the lenses for a long second. Then he grabbed my hair again and guided me back onto him, slower, deeper, holding me there until my nose pressed into the red fabric and my throat opened around him. He stayed buried and breathed, counting under his breath, fighting the edge like it was a boss fight he refused to cheese.

“Okay. Okay. Good host. You’re a good host for the suit. You’re so fucking good at this. How is the girl this good?”

He started moving again, shorter strokes, the head dragging over my tongue, one hand braced on the wall above me. His bare chest was right there. Sweat beading between his pecs. If I lifted my hand I could have touched him. I didn’t. Rules. I kept my hands on his thighs and let the suit take what it came for.

“Jenna can’t ever —” His voice broke. He thrust harder, punishing himself for the name. “She can’t know. This is the suit. The suit does this. With great power comes — fuck — comes the need to dump a load in a warm mouth. It’s not me. It’s the mask. It’s the spider-senses. It’s not Gary.”

He was lying.

I sucked him like I knew he was lying.

His rhythm went messy. The careful nerd fell out of the panel. What was left was a twenty-six-year-old in a Spider-Man mask with his roommate’s mouth and no save point. He fucked my throat in earnest — hips snapping, suit creaking, free hand fisting my hair hard enough that my scalp sang. Spit ran down my chin onto my chest. I gagged and he groaned like the sound was the only web-line keeping him standing.

“Fuck — fuck — webs are coming. Sticky webs. Don’t you dare pull off. You wanted them on your face in the DMs. You’re getting them. You’re getting every drop, marvelgurl. Take it. Take your friendly neighborhood load.”

I didn’t pull off.

I took him to the root and held on.

Gary came like the suit had detonated. A broken noise behind the mask, hips locked, cock pulsing hard on my tongue, flooding my mouth in thick ropes he couldn’t aim or stop. I swallowed what I could. The rest spilled out the corner of my lips and down my jaw, dripping onto my chest. He kept me there through every pulse, shaking, abs jumping under bare skin, until there was nothing left and the room was just the two of us trying to remember how to breathe.

He stayed in my mouth a second too long.

Then he pulled out.

I kept my eyes down. Rules. I heard him tuck himself back into the suit. The wet sound of the fabric. The one step back.

Then the mask came off.

I looked up because I couldn’t not.

Gary’s face. Curly hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Glasses gone. Eyes wide and dark and wrecked. Mouth red and open. He looked at me — David, roommate, the friend who still stole his comics and argued about the MCU — and for one second there was no suit and no rule and no @marvelgurl2002. Just him. Seeing me. Seeing the mess on my face. Seeing what he’d done with the mask off in every way that counted.

Something moved through his expression. Panic. Want. Desire. Shame. The thing he was going to bury under Funko Pops and Avengers shirts in the morning.

He put the mask back on.

The white lenses erased him.

He didn’t say goodnight. He didn’t say sorry. He didn’t say this never happened, because the silence had already printed it in bold. He opened my door, stepped into the hall, and closed it soft behind him, the soft of a man exiting a universe he wasn’t ready to name.

I stayed on my knees.

His cum was drying on my chin. My throat was raw. The apartment was quiet the way shared places get when everybody in them is lying to stay alive.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and sat back on my heels and stared at the door.

He was going to come back.

The mask was going to come back.

And the next time the rules were going to crack wider, because I’d seen his eyes, and he’d seen me, and there was no multiverse where that panel got redrawn.

I got into bed with the taste of him still thick in my mouth and the shape of his bare chest burned behind my eyelids, and I already knew what I was going to type to him in the morning from an account that didn’t exist anymore.

Same time tonight, Peter Parker.

Mask on.

Web-shooter loaded. I need your sticky powerful inside my slutty holes.