alternatedoom: (weasel nerdy)
[personal profile] alternatedoom
Written for the Marvel Kink Meme here.

Prompt was: Weasel/Flatman. That massage Flatman offered and more, sailor. Flatman's gay, Weasel's straight but doing it cause he's lonely and horny.



Flatman's bedroom is surprisingly normal. There's a nice dresser, a desk and a chair, and the double bed is made up with light blue sheets and a blue and white checkered blanket. A collapsible massage table sits in the center of the room, draped in a plain white sheet and a big beach towel with an ocean scene on it. A bookshelf, full but not overflowing, takes up an entire wall.

Weasel expected something different, because Flatman is a superhero, even if he's a C- or D-list superhero. Not that that makes any sense. There's nothing special about Wade's bedroom. Not that Wade is a superhero.

Weasel's thoughts get circular when he's anxious, and he's anxious now. Weasel isn't sure what the hell he was thinking when he accepted Flatman's second, private offer of a massage.

Oh, who are you kidding, he thinks to himself. He was thinking of his horny. Okay, so he is pretty damn tense, but he's always tense. Mostly, he was contemplating another night alone with his hand and his porn. Unlike Manhattan, Wisconsin has a sad shortage of hookers wandering around.

"Take off your clothes and lie under the towel, I'll be right back," Val says, and walks out of the room.

Weasel hesitates. He wants to call after Val, 'All of them?' but he stops himself. Val was randomly hitting on him within five minutes of their first meeting a few months back, and no one, including himself, would believe he didn't come here for sex. When Mr. Immortal had answered the door, Weasel had trouble looking him in the eye.

The room feels cool without his clothes. He glances at the little mound of his jeans, T-shirt and boxers in Flatman's desk chair, plucks the boxers off the top of the pile and stuffs them under the jeans, cause it's just not cool to leave your underwear lying out. Normally Weasel doesn't care about stuff like that, but the situation is making him hyper self-conscious. Then he takes off his watch and his glasses, climbs naked onto the massage table and hides under the towel. The folding table feels sturdier than he expected.

Val's back within a minute, knocking first.

"Yeah," Weasel says from the table.

Val comes in and closes the door. "Okay then." He holds up two little bottles. "Oil or lotion? I prefer working with oil, it's slipperier, but lotion won't get your clothes greasy afterwards."

What a question. Weasel's never done this before. He's not sure why he's doing it now.

"Uh... lotion I guess." He doesn't want to walk out of here looking like he bathed in Crisco.

Val picks a bottle, pours some cream into his hands and rubs them together briskly.

"Do you do this often?" Weasel asks weakly, resting his face in the little hollow of the headrest as Val moves out of his line of vision.

"Give massages?"

"Um... yeah." Stupid ass question. The guy has a freakin massage table in his bedroom.

Weasel can't see Val any more, but he can almost hear the smile in his voice. "Only when I run into cute guys who I can tell have a lot of tension in their shoulders."

Weasel's silent a moment before deciding to ignore the implied compliment. "How can you determine who has tension in their shoulders?"

"In your case, I could feel it when I caught you," Val answers simply.

Ah, yes. He'd forgotten about ending up in Flatman's arms when Doorman accidentally flung him backwards. He'd been distracted by the ick factor of having his arm inside Doorman's body up to the elbow. Doorman's portal, rather. Or were they the same thing? Ugh. And just when he'd successfully blocked that whole episode out.

"That was an especially tense day," Weasel mumbles. Hardly a topic he wants to dwell on.

Val pulls the towel down, exposing Weasel's arms and bare back. Weasel jumps a little when Val first touches his back, warming up his muscles with light touches. He winces a minute or two later when Val works his fingers hard into Weasel's neck, and he lets out a little involuntary moan of pain. Val disregards it, or doesn't acknowledge it, anyway, and when his fingers move on, the aching spot relaxes into blissful goodness. Weasel exhales. Despite the rigidity of most of his muscles, Weasel relaxes a little bit, because Val's hands do feel great. His style is punctuated and professional, and there's a lot of strength in those thin bendy fingers.

"You're really good at this," Weasel says nervously.

"Thanks," Val says, modest.

Weasel tries not to groan again, but he can't help but gasp now and then as Val leans deeply into the tight spots where Weasel's shoulders meet his neck.

"Ow! Okay ... yeah, right there. Jesus," Weasel mutters. Forget great, Val's hands feel amazing, and he uses a ton of pressure. Weasel's never had a massage. Not a real one, anyway. Those half-assed happy-ending dealios at sleazy massage parlors hardly count.

Flatman moves down his body, rubbing his lower back marginally more gently than he did Weasel's shoulders. He digs his knuckles deep into Weasel's butt, and Weasel tenses up, partly because it hurts and partly because he's allowing a guy who studied fashion in college to give him a full-body massage, and he doesn't precisely know where Flatman's intending to take this. For a second he's afraid Val's going to finger him there, which he does not want. But Val dwells only briefly on his butt and hips before re-covering his back and pulling the sheet up to expose his legs. Val moves on to his upper thighs, and Weasel relaxes again. Having his thighs rubbed feels exquisite, especially up near where his legs meet his torso.

"You're so thin," Val says as his talented fingers take small handfuls of Weasel's legs, and Weasel doesn't know what to say to that. Freakin Flatman is telling him he's thin? Jesus. Like he doesn't know he's skinny. "It's nice," Val adds.

Weasel melts under Flatman's fingers as the massage continues, and Val has to have been going for thirty or forty minutes at least when he finally speaks again. "Roll over," he instructs.

Weasel feels self-conscious, but he obediently rolls onto his back. He's keenly aware of the parts of him Val's hands haven't touched, like his muscles have become sensate and are crying out for similar handling. On the plus side, being on his back, Val can touch those parts. On the down side, he can see Val now, and it's awkward.

When Val starts in on his upper arms, he says, "Has anyone ever told you you're very cute?"

Cute. Ha.

No.

"Not in recent memory," Weasel mumbles with his eyes squeezed closed.

For a few more minutes there's silence, nothing but the sound of slick flesh on flesh.

Val's next words twist Weasel's stomach in knots. "You're straight, aren't you, Weasel," Val says, thoughtful.

"Yes," Weasel says at once, not opening his eyes. "Straight. Yes."

"Okay. That's okay. Relax, this doesn't have to mean anything," Val says as he takes a hand and runs it over Weasel's cock. Weasel's careful to keep his eyes shut as Val's slick hand strokes him to hardness. This at least he's familiar with.

Val bends down and delicately licks the inside of Weasel's ear, and no one's ever done that to him so sensuously. Val's moist breath in his ear makes his whole body quiver for a second. "Want to fuck me?" Val's voice sounds completely unaffected, casual, like maybe having sex with a guy truly doesn't mean anything. He could be asking whether Weasel wants butter or jelly on his English muffin.

Weasel opens his eyes and looks at Val, but he can't answer. His tongue feels heavy, like his mouth is full of concrete.

Maybe there's lust written across his face, because Val smiles in the wake of his silence. Val wipes off his cock before dotting lotion on the tip. Weasel's hips arch up a little at the contact, he can't help it. Val grins as he rolls a condom on and adds more lotion all over, patting it on with two fingers as though Weasel's latex-covered cock is a sculpture and Val's a master artiste. Weasel doesn't particularly like wearing condoms, but he always does, and it's probably a good idea now too since it's looking like he's about to fuck another guy.

"C'mon sailor." Instead of walking the three steps to the bed, Flatman stretches over to it, gets on his hands and knees and retracts.

Part of Weasel can't believe he's actually going through with this. Another part is screaming that this is sex, and that it's been ages since he's had any he wasn't paying for. He rises up off the table and gets up on the bed behind Flatman, and this is it.

Val's body is less than an inch thick, and Weasel knows Val can go paper-thin and that this is the expanded version of him. Weasel has to pull Val's buttcheeks this way and that to see the tiny hole where his cock will fit, and Val is by far the weirdest thing he's ever done in bed.

Weasel doesn't want to hurt Val, but he doesn't particularly want to put his fingers in another guy's asshole, either. It's not a homophobic thing, he doesn't like touching girls there either except with his dick. Holding Val's cheeks apart, he lines up his cock and pushes forward exceedingly slowly. Val doesn't object, just moans a little, reinforcing Weasel's sense that Val badly wants it from him. Which is flattering. It's been a long, long time since anyone's given Weasel the impression they seriously wanted to fuck him.

As Weasel sinks his cock into the tight wet heat, struggling to keep it slow, Val flattens his butt out, slimming himself even further. Weasel enjoys anal from time to time, but he's never done anal like this. Having his cock inside Flatman is a little like fucking a balloon. Looking down, he can clearly see the outline of his cock bulging inside Val's ass, filling and distending the surrounding area. The sight's more than a little hot. Disturbing, on some level, but hot. It occurs to him that Flatman could probably make good money in specialty porn.

Specialty porn, there's quite the euphemism. Freak porn, really. Mutant porn. Weasel doesn't know a lot about mutant porn, except that it's out there. Hell, he doesn't know a lot about mutants. He's certainly never been with one before. Not that it bothers him, it's just not someplace he ever thought he'd get to try, and he's more of a traditionalist when it comes to jacking material. Chicks getting fucked are all he usually goes for. Standard, unrealistically gorgeous chicks with big breasts and sultry eyes and long hair. Weasel doesn't mind the freakish stuff, he just doesn't need it.

For sure, the guy thing is a bigger deal than the mutant thing. Val's not bad looking - he's got soft, light brown hair, and the naked skin of his back is smooth and clear. But his torso, even though it's wafer-thin, is decidedly masculine. The noises he makes as Weasel gets inside him are definitely guy noises.

Strangely, Weasel doesn't feel compelled to pretend anything in this scenario is different. He kind of expected he'd need to pretend he was doing a chick, but despite the whole fucking a guy part, the sex is surprisingly hot. Weasel's pretty sure he's not gay, but sex is sex and novelty is novelty and Val's ass feels incredibly tight gripping his cock.

"Little help here?" Flatman says politely.

"Oh-- right. Sorry." Weasel realizes his voice sounds as ragged as his nerves feel. He reaches around Val and goes to grab his cock, distracted by the sex and momentarily forgetting that taking a flat dick in hand the way he would hold his own isn't going to work. He ends up curling the edges together. But hey, Weasel's an engineer and knows his spatial relations, it doesn't matter that he never jacked off another guy before, nor that he can't see what he's doing. Extending his index and middle fingers, he presses them together and slides Val's cock between them, then starts to jerk Val off more or less the way he would himself. He lingers around the head a little every few strokes, and every now and then he runs his fingertips gently down the edges. It's the best way Weasel can think of to give a reacharound to a guy who's essentially a paper doll. Weasel never played with paper dolls as a kid. Girl toys. He was more the chemistry set type.

Val seems to appreciate his technique, and he shows it by pushing back against Weasel. Keeping his balance while fucking Val and rubbing his cock proves trickier than Weasel expected, and he teeters a few times and has to switch hands. Val's quite a bit shorter than he is, which would makes the angle a little off, but he's stretched his body out so his ass and Weasel's dick are at the same height. Plus he has no real body mass to reach around, which helps. Still, Weasel can't adequately focus on getting himself and Val off at the same time, so he concentrates first on the thin cock in his hand. The flesh of Flatman's dick feels the same as his own; the only difference seems to be that Flatman's is the width of corrugated cardboard. Funny, that his dick should be wider right now than his butt. Or maybe it makes sense, Weasel's long past logic. It occurs to Weasel that he probably shouldn't have been worried that Flatman might want to fuck him. The dick in his hand isn't going to fit right in any normal human orifice.

Sucks to be him.

Well, maybe blowjobs wouldn't be out.

When Val comes, moaning, he sinks down into the bed, compressing himself to paper-thinness. Involuntarily or on purpose, Weasel doesn't know, but he goes with him. Free to finish up, Weasel fucks him to completion faster than he thought he would. He slumps on top of Val when he comes, and except for the slight movement of Val's chest underneath him, it's almost exactly like Weasel's lying on the bed instead of on top of a person.

"Relax," Flatman murmurs when he stirs. "You don't have to move."

Right. Cause someone named Flatman's probably not going to have any trouble breathing. The reminder that he's lying on the flat guy he just fucked makes Weasel the tiniest bit uncomfortable, but whatever. Weasel remains sprawled on top of him for a minute, recovering and catching his breath, and the motion of Val's breathing is almost like the gentle rocking of a waterbed.

Weasel startles out of beginning to drowse. He could fall asleep like this, he realizes with a start.

Val has a box of Kleenex by his bed, and Weasel rolls onto his back and grabs a handful. He passes some to Val, thinking as he does it that Val could easily retrieve them himself without getting up. But Val accepts the tissues without comment. Weasel looks away while Val cleans himself up. He's maniacally thirsty.

Val seems to read his mind and stretches his arm to about six feet long, reaching under the bed. "Here," he says, pulling out a couple of water bottles. "You should always drink lots of water after a deep tissue massage," he intones in a pedantic voice, like he's concluding an academic lecture.

Wade told him after he'd met the 'Lightning Rods' (name subject to change without notice) that Dr. Ventura isn't really a doctor at all. But Weasel knows better than anyone that diplomas or lack thereof mean nothing in the grander scheme of competence and real-world know-how. Weasel's not one for conventional titles, and he doesn't give a crap what letters anyone has after their name. Faking it is equally stupid, but Val Ventura has talented planar fingers, and Weasel didn't come here for medical advice. Or fashion advice, for that matter. Are there doctors of fashion?

Oh, who cares. Val could well be a doctor for all he knows, and indubitably Wade is sometimes full of bullshit.

Weasel accepts one of the bottles, twisting the plastic cap off and drinking until he needs oxygen. He swallows a last gulp and inhales a breath. "Thanks."

Though he can't emulate the fancy professional style Flatman has going on, Weasel debates whether it would be polite to offer a backrub in return. The only problem he can see with that is that he doesn't think he can stand up. Still, Weasel thinks of himself as a basically nice guy, and with that occasionally goes doing stuff you don't really wanna do. "Would you, uh, would you like some reciprocation?" Weasel asks, nodding at the abandoned massage table.

Val shakes his head. "Nah." He smiles. "Better to give than to receive. Well... in some things it's nice to receive," he adds suggestively.

Weasel's at a bit of a loss, and it takes him a few seconds to answer that. "We just fucked. Are you still flirting with me?"

"Guilty as charged," Val says with a smile. He reaches out and messes up Weasel's hair. "Who says that after you get off once the fun has to stop?"

Weasel smiles back. He feels... more okay about this than he expected. "No one."

"Honestly I just think it's better to give or to receive, not both in a single afternoon. It inhibits the recipient's enjoyment. That's my opinion as a doctor," Val says loftily.

Weasel hides how grateful he feels for that. He doesn't want to move right now, let alone stand around for half an hour rubbing somebody's back.

Val's looking at him intently. "Maybe another time?"

Weasel's flustered, but he nods. Another time. This... this experiment wasn't half bad, and perhaps he's not as 100% completely straight as he thought. He can get off with guys. Okay. Self-knowledge is a good thing, and strangely, the thought's not that alarming. Weasel knows he's not a guy who can afford to be that picky, and Flatman's companionship, his desire for Weasel specifically, has been like a soothing balm to Weasel's beaten-down self-esteem.

"Okay," he says, and his blush deepens. "Thanks for the massage," Weasel adds.

"You're welcome."

Weasel glances to the side and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks rumpled, his hair messy and standing straight up all over the place. He wonders if he's supposed to get up and go. The clock by the bed reads 10:23, and the room still feels cool. Weasel's sleepy and could easily lie here and pass out in the pleasant afterglow. Still, he doesn't want to overstay his welcome. He's about to sit up when Val raises his bushy brown eyebrows and asks, "Do you want to stay the night?"

Sweet, he doesn't have to get up at all.

"Sure," Weasel agrees readily. Weasel hasn't slept next to another person in years, and he feels grateful to Val for banishing his loneliness, if only temporarily. Flatman stretches his arm to the floor and pulls up the light blue sheet up to cover them. As he settles in, Weasel's not sorry he said yes to the massage.
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