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December 24, 1933, 5:45 P.M. The Sun was barely visible in the dusky sky, a slight sliver of yellow fastly fading. Tiny snowflakes fell from the cloudy skies, tickling Spider-Noir’s nose. In his shabby briefcase, the hero, costumed as regular Peter Parker, carried his suit and mask. Peter trudged through the snow. All around him, the holiday cheer had infected the people. Red-nosed children sang carols and played in the ice while their parents chatted amongst themselves amiably; small businesses decked their windows and doors in holly berries and mistletoe, holding Christmas sales and free drink offers. Peter ignored these sights, albeit wanting to engage with the happy people, who were just as willing to engage with him. He had a single destination. New York’s elite held their Christmas Charity Masquerade Gala every year at the same place: the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Politicians, bankers, journalists, musicians, and the millionaires of the city gathered to celebrate the year and its achievements. Spider-Noir, as the “big hero of the city,” as the kingpins put it, was graciously invited. This would be his fourth time at the gala. It would be the fourth time he saw her, too. From asking around, Peter found out she was the daughter of a big-time company owner. From the few and far between occasions he came into contact with her, he had already deduced what type of girl she was. A millionaire’s daughter with a penchant for shiny jewelry, whose façade of sweetness toward her “dear daddy” earned her whatever she wished. The type of girl who knew how others, especially men, saw her and used that to her advantage. The type of girl your head knew to avoid, but your heart swooned for. Peter had danced with her on one occasion: his second time at the gala. She had been sitting by herself, a rare occasion for such a popular and beautiful girl. A younger, more brash Peter had the willingness to ask her; to his surprise, she gracefully accepted. While they danced, Peter’s nose was filled with the scent of vanilla and carnation, a dizzying but nice combination. A euphoric haze had blurred his senses, practically seeing pink as they waltzed. It was a…sensation…not unwelcome though. Sadly, she had departed before their dance had ended, and he never got her name. Even though he‘d seen her multiple times, she never revealed herself. Even the person who knew her father never mentioned her name. Now Peter stood in front of the museum. Realizing he was still dressed as a normal person, he quickly dipped into an alley to change back into Spider-Noir. As he slid the mask onto his face, his whole demeanor changed. His swagger increased tenfold; a new confidence took the place of the shier Peter Parker. When the guards spotted Noir at the gates, they let him in without hesitation. Maybe because he was an obvious guest, maybe because they were scared of him. Who knows? “Spider-man!” Norman Osborn greeted him joyously, carefully nursing a half-drunk champagne flute. Although he wore a mask, he was easy to identify. “Ain’t a surprise to see you here.” Noir stiffly nodded in his direction. His index finger tapped against his thigh holster rhythmically; it was a habit of his. “Osborn. Long time, no see,” he acknowledged. Spider-Noir glanced at Osborn’s forearm. A smallish woman held onto it, wearing a red fox mask; no doubt she was one of Osborn’s “playthings,” as Noir likened them to. “Well, how are you? I’ve been doing good, with business and all…” Osborn began to ramble. Noir pretended to listen, while looking around for the black and gold butterfly mask she always wore. You sauntered into view, wearing a pitch black dress. The bodice created an X across your chest, and the skirt was thin and flowy, leaving plenty to the imagination. Your elegant back was in full view, smooth and beautiful. Noir gulped, suddenly hot under the collar. Osborn followed his gaze and watched you along with Noir. “Ah, got yourself a dame, huh?” Osborn let out a single chuckle. Noir glances at him from underneath the goggles. “She's gonna see under the mask?” Noir ignored his statement and moved away from him. You had sauntered over to the drink area with your friend. “I’ll see you later, Mr. Osborn.” Norman acknowledged him. Noir walked to the drink bar, sitting down beside you. Your heavily shaded eye regarded him with a slight smile on your cherry-red lips. Noir calls the bartender for his drink. “Sidecar, extra lemon juice.” “Get me a Colony Club,” you interject. “You imply I’m buying you this drink.” You turn to the bartender. “Get my friend here a Barbary Coast too, while you’re at it.” “Yes, ma’am.” Noir could feel your friend’s eyes on him, burning into the side of his head. “Spider-man’s here?” your friend said, mildly surprised. “He’s been going to this shitshow as long as I can remember,” you mutter. “And lower your voice!” “It’s too late for that,” Noir blurts. “I didn’t know you could bring a plus one.” “Was it that obvious?” you ask drily. He just snickers. Noir hastily changes the subject. “Do you remember the last time we met?” “Clear as day.” Your body turned toward him unconsciously. “You had never given me your name.” Your lips curl into a mocking smile. “Do you think you’ve earned it?” “Yeah,” he challenges. “I do.” You shamelessly scan his body with your eyes. Your friend could practically cut the tension between you two with a knife. At that moment, the bartender came back to deliver the drinks. “A Colony Club for the lady…” he sat the drink in front of you. “Barbary Coast for your friend, and a Sidecar for Spider-man.” “Extra lemon?” “Extra lemon.” Noir held the glass’s stem lightly, swishing the liquid around. “I pray you don’t contemplate drinking with the mask on,” you grin. “ That interested in seeing my face?” “Who wouldn’t be?” Your hand slides across the wooden counter; your pinkie lightly grazed him. “With all that mystery, what dame wouldn’t wanna see the plenty rugged man underneath?” You ran a finger down the collar of his trench coat. “Doll, you can’t be one to talk about any ‘mystery.’ You can’t even bother to tell me your name!” Noir lifted up the bottom of his mask and drank. “You must believe me to be a twit, but I know your kind.” When he said that, you took a long drink. Turning to him, you lean in. “Really? What kind am I?” Noir smirked at you cheekily, lips twisting into a grin. A surge of boldness took over. “The kinda girl who gets everything she wants.” Noir’s voice turned into a gravelly rumble. “Who seduces men into giving her gifts, but pretends she doesn’t. Whose façade of innocence makes her seem like an angel to her parents, but…” He tilts his mouth to rest by your ear. The smell of lemon was pronounced. “I know what you really are. Who you are.” You were shaken, to say the least. “You know nothing.” You push him away with your finger, jabbing it into his chest. The very obvious attraction just emboldened Noir more. “Let me know more,” he asks. He downs his drink in one go, pulling his mask down. “If I’m so wrong, then please,” he stands up, holding his hand out to you. “Show me I'm wrong.” You glanced toward your friend, who was watching this whole interaction. “Go ahead,” she said. You took Noir’s hand, biting your bottom lip lightly. “Lead the way, hero. ” The band started to play a soft, jazzy number. Noir pulled you up, steadying you by grabbing your hip. “Darling, I can stand on my own ,” you croon teasingly. You place your wrists on his shoulders as he leads you into the dance. “Oh, we’ve reached nicknames now?” Noir challenges; you can practically see his cocky grin. He spins you around while swaying to the band’s slow melody. “I guess we have.” Your soft hand rests on the edge of his mask. You finger it lightly, rubbing the coarse material back and forth between your fingers. “I’d prefer if you left it on my head,” Noir snaps. A tug on your hips brings yours to his. A slight gasp leaves your lips. “I didn’t think you’d cave so fast, doll. ” His right thumb rubs deep circles into your soft dress. “You’ve grown bolder than last time, Spider-man.” “You have no idea.” You dip and rise; Noir spins and lifts you. The songs shifted from slow to fast to slow again. Melancholy saxophone is followed by rumbling bass, which is then chased by a happy trumpet. The whispers you both exchanged were quiet and nothing to an outsider, but loud and clear in your ears. It had escalated to where neither of you had really said it, but either knew what the other meant. Still, neither broke down. “I got the bulge here, Spider-man,” you mutter. “And you know it.” “Don’t lie to yourself, doll. When I do this… ” Noir’s leather shifts against your silk; you bite your lip lustfully. “I can get you to do that. ” “Don’t act immune, darling,” you purr. “I quite literally am.” Your eyebrows furrow. “Don’t be silly, everyone has a weakness.” “I doubt you’ll find mine.” You smile cruelly. “Is that a challenge?” “Do you want it to be?” Before you can respond, the band finishes and everyone stops. Noir lets go of your hips; you unwrap your arms around his head. Your hand dips into your dress’s neckline. Carefully grabbing a slip of paper, you place it in Noir’s waiting hand. “Tomorrow at nine o’clock. Don’t be late.” Noir flips the paper around to see an address in neat cursive. “Anything I should know?” “There’s a window with opaque cream curtains on the left side of the third floor. Ellington is gonna be playing inside,” you murmur. “You a cat?” “I’ll be a canary too, if you can make me sing,” you say. You pat his vest, fixing his coat’s collar. “Remember: nine o’clock, cream curtains, third floor. Don’t gum the works.” “Don’t worry doll, I won’t.” You kiss his cheek, feeling the rough mask on your lips. “Good.” “I’ll see you then.” - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - The nine o’clock rain was heavy and harsh. Carrying nothing but the paper, Noir rounded the corner to get to your place. He chanted your address in his head, walking quickly. The rain pushes his hat’s brim down. Finally, he reaches your house. “She’s a rich one,” he mutters. Rich one, indeed. Your house was four stories tall, with large, angular rooftops reminiscent of Gothic architecture. The whitewashed walls were pristine and untouched by the filth of the howling wind. A plaque of the manor’s name was emblazoned above the doors; wide, double doors made of polished cherry wood. Noir crept around to the left of the building, careful to not be spotted by guards. He crawls onto the wall of the building beside yours; nimble footwork and a few webs get him to your window. He pressed his ear to your window. There, he heard the smooth voice of a Duke Ellington record. The closed cream curtains only confirmed he found his target. Noir lightly tapped on your window. “I said nine o’clock on the dot, Spider-man,” you sigh from inside. Noir hears your footsteps come closer to the window. You push the curtains apart, looking down on him. You wore a pale blue peignoir set and had your hair loosely tied. You wore rouge on your cheeks and lips, but the rest of your face was bare. Noir let his eyes shamelessly scan your body before looking back at you. “It’s thirty seconds past.” “Tsk,” you click dismissively. You unlock the window and push it up. “Come in.” Noir’s large body squeezes through the window before he nimbly steps onto the hard floor. He scans the room, looking for anything he could use to determine your interests from. You watched him stand still, looking around like a periscope. Cocking an eyebrow, you walk over to him. Noir’s head immediately snaps to your body. When you’re barely a few inches from him, his hands raise slightly. You bump into his body, your arms outstretched. Large, gloved hands wrap around your barely clothed hips. You pulled the windows back down with a squeak, deafening in the silence. You look at Noir with a smart smirk. “Don’t want anyone to hear us, do we?” “No,” he muttered. His grip on your hips tightened. “we wouldn’t.” You stared into the translucent goggles, holding his gaze. Finally breaking the silence, you say, “How d’you think my dear old man would feel about…us?” You slide out of his grip and sit on your neatly made bed, the covers in what Noir assumed was your favorite color. Noir follows you, sitting on a nearby desk chair instead, swiveling to face you. “I don’t know, tell me,” he proposed. You shoot up from your seat, spinning around to look at him again; you place a finger above your lips, imitating a mustache, and your other hand goes up to mimic a handgun. “Ay, Spider-man, you want lead poisoning?” you ask in an exaggerated deep voice. Noir laughs out loud at your silly face. You chortle too, falling back onto your bed. Ellington still crooned in the background. Still lying down, you smile. “You remember why you’re here?” “Clear as day.” You grin widely. “So, Spider-man,” you murmur. “how about we play a game?” That piques Noir’s interest. “A game, you say?” He gets up and places his hands on either side of your waist. You sit up and look into his goggles, seeing your distorted reflection in them. Nodding slowly, you stand up. “What kind of game, doll ?” Noir drags his leather-clad hands up your thighs, pinching the silken fabric beneath his fingers. “The first one to make any noise…” Your voice grows breathy and seductive, loaded with meaning. “…loses.” “And you think you’d win?” Noir’s hands slide up your ass and onto the small of your back. “I know I will.” “What does the victor get?” “The loser,” you smile. “When does the game start?” The question hangs in the air, only interrupted by the scratch of the record ending. Your hand pushes up Noir’s mask just to reveal his mouth and nose. “Now.” You push your lips to his passionately, grabbing his face while he holds you. The silence of neither of you willing to have any reaction muffles the bedroom air. Noir picks you up by your thighs and carries you to your desk chair. He sits down on it, placing you on his lap. His stubble scratches your chin; you tug at his coat as he kisses you while raking his fingers through your hair. Noir hastily tugged it off. You yank his turtleneck down and suckle at his throat. Wasting no time, you hold his waist while slowly grinding on his pants. Noir slides his hands down your arms, relieving you of your robe as he goes. It falls to the floor with a soft rustle, and then a whomp as Noir’s heavy trench coat is thrown on top of it. Now in a garment that barely qualifies as clothes, your body is practically shoved in Noir’s face; he watches your shoulders and chest rise and fall with every soft breath you take. His lips are tightly shut, but you know he wants to make a noise as badly as you do. You unbutton his vest to throw it into the clothes pile too. Noir tugs the straps of your nightgown down softly, kissing your collarbone. You gulped, screwing your lips together to avoid a sound. Noir watched your reactions. He knew you were breaking. Teeth bite and scrape at your skin, leaving reddish marks across the bone. He pulls your nightgown down further and kisses your solar plexus. Your back arches against him as his tongue swirls against your skin. A close-lipped moan leaves your throat. “You lose, doll,” Noir finally utters. His voice is throaty and low. He picks you up again, pushing you onto your bed until you hit your pillow. “Bastard,” you moan as he pushes your nightgown up. Your plump thighs squish together as Noir’s leather gloves slide up your shins and in between your thighs. He pulls them apart and sits between them. Slowly, your nightgown is taken off along with his shirt. Your high-waisted lingerie and matching bra waited for him. “You know it.” His eyes are trained on your tits, which his hands itch to touch. Noir hastes to take his gloves off, but you stop him. “Keep them on,” you appeal, a sweet moan leaves your lips. In response, Noir drags his hands over your scantily clad body. He tiptoes his fingers up to the waistband of your shorts and hastily tugs them down. “Mmf,” you groan. Noir traces his left index finger down your hip bone, which leads to your aching, beautiful cunt. Noir traces a teasing finger around your clit, making you moan in response. Suddenly, he pushes it in, eliciting a squeal from you. The leathery texture is like nothing you’ve felt prior; it was exhilarating. “If you don’t stop making those faces on your mug, I might not be able to stop,” he moans. “ doll .” “Do I look like I want you to, darling? ” you said smokily. He just chuckled and added another finger. The in-and-out motions made you clutch at your sheets and groan loudly. Noir shushed you with a deep kiss, adding tongue when you relaxed into his mouth. His right hand goes up to cradle your head, playing with your hair. You use Noir’s broad back as a brace, running your hands up and down his thick muscle. Ankles tangled together and legs interlocked as he fingered you into bliss. “God, you’re magnificent,” he groans into your heated kiss. “Where’ve you been hiding?” You pull away to look into his eyes. “In plain sight, of course.” Snarkiness still managed to slip into your tone. Tingling electricity numbs your face as you slam into his lips again. His fingers move faster as he feels your body twitch; you’re about to come. With a muffled cry, you orgasm all over Noir’s leather gloves. “That’s it, doll. You got this,” he coaxes you to finish, raising himself up by his hands to survey the mess he made you into. You reluctantly let go of his back. Furious fluster spreads all over your face. “You’re spicier than a bitch in heat, doll,” he mutters under his breath, dipping his head to the right side of your neck. He peppers light kisses up and down the skin. When he finishes, you sit up, looking into his face; the soulless mask stared back. “It’s my turn on top,” you demand. Noir reluctantly acquiesces, letting you sit on his lap. His very obvious boner made you giggle. “Excited?” “You have no idea.” “Take your pants off.” “Yes, ma’am.” He hastily undoes his thigh holster and belt, and the gun slides out; you cock an eyebrow. “Always stay prepared,” he shrugs. He kicks the pants off and throws them in the medley of clothes by the desk chair. His boxers join the pile too. “Ya ready?” “As I’ll ever be.” You unclip your bra and push your hair out of your face. Sliding down to align your cunt with Noir’s erect dick, you push it in, inch by inch. Noir hisses as you fully sit down. “Am I too much for you?” “You’re perfect,” you moan. “Can I keep you as mine?” Noir doesn't respond; whether he didn’t hear or didn’t have an answer, you didn’t know. You get up again, preparing to slam right back down. Noir senses how slow you plan to fuck him; he’s not having it. “Nice try,” he grins. Leathery gloves grab your hips once again, and he snaps his bony hips to yours. A choked cry escapes your kiss-bitten lips. “This isn’t going to be a slow thing, y’know?” He pulls you up and down again. “I want you; you want me. Let’s skip the semantics and get right to it, alright doll?” “I- ah -okay,” you moan. You let him have control, remembering your bargain from earlier. You hold onto his chest, involuntarily squeezing his breast. Your back arches like a cat’s, and you muffle your moans as best as you can. Noir relentlessly fucks himself into you, not caring what noise leaves your sweet mouth. The endless pleas to “Slow down!” or “I can’t take it!” just feel like music to his ears. Your sweet, pitchy voice betrays the indescribable pleasure you feel. Your eyes were tightly shut, and your hands held onto his waist as an anchor instead; a rocky anchor, since Noir was pounding you into oblivion. Eventually, your sentences turn into fragments as his hips’ pattern stutters: both of you are going to have the orgasm of your life. “Are you gonna…” you moan. “Yeah, I am,” Noir’s husky voice forces out. The pleasure is so blinding he might be seeing spots. “Doll, I’m gonna pull out, and we’re gonna come together, alright?” “Yes,” you say. “You can…pull out.” The mere second Noir’s dick is out of your cunt, you come with a yelp. Noir’s growl-like groans follow suit. Exhausted, you fall onto his chest with a sigh. You try to speak, but slurry nonsense tumbles out of your mouth, so you stay silent. Noir kisses your glistening lips one last time. He wants to say something too, but your current state makes him stay quite a while. After what you assume to be ten minutes of recovery, Noir says, “I really must leave before you’re caught with me, doll.” You begin to protest, but he cuts you off. “Trust me, I want to stay here, but this needs to be our little secret, okay?” “Of course, darling.” You reluctantly roll off him, sitting up to let him get dressed. While he tugs on his clothes, he tosses your peignoir set to you, silently asking you to put it on. When you’re both fully dressed, Noir’s thick leather boot steps onto your windowsill. You stand up, rushing to him. “Quickly, pull your turtleneck down.” “Why?” “Just do it.” He does. You push your lips to his neck and suck a hickey onto the hollow of his throat. When a purplish-red mark bruise forms, you pull his neckline back up. “There,” you smile brightly. “When this fades, come back for more,” you say. “With pleasure.” And with that, he jumped into the night. - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -