My best friend is a Marvel nerd - Chapter 3 (Patreon)

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

Chapter 3

He bought the black one. The dark version from the comics.

I knew because the box was in the living room when I got home from work. Cheap cardboard. A logo I’d seen on his laptop at two in the morning when he thought I was asleep. The symbiote. The one he’d asked the fake girl about in the DMs and then never mentioned again, like saying it out loud in the apartment would make the motel real.

The box was empty by midnight.

I was in bed with the lights off when the hallway creaked. No knock. Same as last time. The handle turned and the shape in the door was wrong before I understood why.

Not red. Not blue.

Black.

The suit ate the light. Raised webbing like scars. It clung to the chest he’d built in the gym and the thighs that had been under faded sweatpants for three days of silence. The mask was black too. White lenses. No curls showing. No mouth except a shadow where the fabric stretched when he breathed.

He closed the door with his heel.

“New issue,” he said. The voice came through thicker. Muffled different. “New rules are the same rules. You’re not David. You’re the girl. You asked for the other suit. This is the other suit.”

“I remember.”

“You don’t say my name.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t look for a face under this. There isn’t one. There’s the suit. That’s the point.”

He stood at the foot of the bed and the bulge in the black fabric was already a problem he wasn’t going to name. I sat up. The sheet fell. His lenses tracked that the way they had when he’d still been red and pretending the color made it a costume instead of a confession.

“On your knees.”

I went.

The carpet. The heat off him. He smelled like new synthetic Lycra and the same nerves he’d tried to shower off last time. I reached for the fly. He’d cut this one too. Same kitchen scissors. Same ugly honesty.

His hand caught my wrist.

Same grip.

“The girl wanted the symbiote, the dark version of Spidey” he said. “The girl doesn’t get Peter Parker today. She gets this. Open it.”

I opened it.

His cock pushed out of the black like it had been waiting behind a panel. Hard. Heavy. The head already wet. I wrapped my hand around it and his whole torso went tight under the suit, a breath punching out of him that the mask couldn’t swallow.

“Fuck. Okay. Venom’s cock is armed. Don’t— just don’t make it a speech. Just suck it.”

I licked him base to tip, slow, the way the blonde would have if she’d ever been real. He made a sound that didn’t belong to any comic. His hand found my hair. Holding. Not shoving yet.

“You wanted the upgrade,” he muttered. “You got the upgrade. Mask stays on. Eyes down. Mouth working. That’s the only plot tonight.”

I took him in.

The black suit made it filthier. No red to joke about. No friendly neighborhood anything. Just heat and salt and the way his hips stuttered before he remembered he was supposed to be a character. I went down as far as I could and he swore, low, the nerd cracked down the middle and the new fabric creaking at his hips.

“That’s loaded. That’s— easy. Easy—”

I didn’t do easy.

I sucked him the way I’d been thinking about sucking him since he put the first mask back on in my doorway and erased his own face. Wet. Deep. He leaked on my tongue and his fingers tightened in my hair until the burn was the only rule left that mattered.

“Don’t look up. The girl doesn’t get under the mask. She gets the dark version. She gets whatever this thing wants to dump. Keep going. Suck it like you typed it.”

I hollowed my cheeks and took him deeper. The head hit my throat and he groaned through his teeth, both hands in my hair now, the white lenses pointed at the ceiling like he could still pretend the apartment was a set.

He started moving.

Testing first. Then longer. Then his hips took over and the wet sounds filled my room the way they had when he’d still been red — except this time he didn’t say web-shooter. He didn’t say sticky webs. He just fucked my mouth like the black had given him permission the red hadn’t.

“Jenna can’t—” He thrust harder for saying it. “She can’t know about this one either. This isn’t me. This is the other guy. The one who doesn’t talk at breakfast. The one who doesn’t owe anybody an explanation.”

He was lying.

I sucked him like I knew he was lying.

His rhythm went messy. The careful roommate fell out of the page. What was left was a twenty-four-year-old nerd in a black mask with his best friend’s throat and no joke left to hide behind. He held me there until my nose pressed into the suit and my eyes streamed and spit ran down my chin onto my chest.

He pulled out sudden, gasping, fist tight around the base, lenses aimed at the floor.

“Not yet. I didn’t buy this to last thirty seconds. Stay.”

I stayed.

He looked at me through the white ovals. Then he put me back on him, slower, deeper, and kept me buried while he counted under his breath like it was still a boss fight.

“Good. You’re good at this. The girl in the DMs wasn’t supposed to be this good. You’re— fuck— you’re better and better each time Spider-Man visits you. Don’t you dare tell me that in the kitchen.”

I wouldn’t.

He started in earnest. Shorter strokes. One hand on the wall. The black suit shiny where my spit hit it. His stomach flexing under the fabric. If I put my hand on his chest I would have felt the same gym body from last time. I didn’t. Rules. Hands on his thighs. Let the suit take it.

“I’m gonna—” His voice went thin. “Don’t pull off. You wanted it on your face in the messages. You’re getting it. Take it. Take it off the Symbiote cock.”

I didn’t pull off.

I took him to the root.

He came with a broken noise the black mask almost hid, hips locked, pulsing hard on my tongue, flooding my mouth until I couldn’t keep it all. The rest spilled down my jaw. He held me through it, shaking, until there was nothing left and the room was just breathing.

He stayed in my mouth a second too long.

Then he pulled out.

I kept my eyes down.

I heard the fly. The step back.

The mask came off.

Not another mask. His face. Curly hair plastered down. No glasses. Mouth open. Eyes wrecked in the dark. He looked at me — David, the roommate, the guy who’d made the blonde account — and the black suit made the look worse, because there was nothing left to blame except him.

He didn’t put the mask back on in the room.

He held it in his hand like a severed head and walked to the door that way, face naked, cock tucked away, the new suit still clinging to everything else.

At the frame he stopped.

“This one stays in the box if you talk,” he said. His real voice. Quiet. “I mean it. I bought it please you David. Don’t make me be either of them in the morning.”

He closed the door soft.

I sat on my heels with him on my tongue and the empty cardboard in the kitchen already feeling like a promise.

He was going to come back.

The black was going to come back.

And the next time he took the mask off, I was gonna make him say my name while he blows his webs.