You know what they say...The Kids are Spunky These Days.
Characters: Spiderverse Spider-man Noir x Spider-MAN! Reader!
Summary: Noir is in a strange place with strange people. People who use little boxes of light to communicate, people who have the cures to most diseases and problems that plague his world. He stays quiet, isolated, that's until another spider catches his eye. A male spider.
Warnings: SMUT! Age gap (40 and 25ish), homophobia mentioned, rimming, prostate play.
A/N: I promise I'm getting to your requests guys...ha...ha...please don't stone me.... -Looks up to see asteroid coming- AHHHHHH😰- KABOOOMMMMMMMMM💥💥💥💥💥💥💥
(Author has a recent traumatic head injury, so please be kind with any mistakes - 🦕)
You're pretty.
You're pretty in the way you're one of the few Spider-people that actually shows your face, uncaring of your secret identity.
You're pretty in the way you're one of the few Spider people that glides around the halls freely, laughing and joking with others like you weren't under the eyes of a military like sergeant. Like you hadn't lost your Uncle Ben, like you hadn't lost your worlds Police Captain, like your Girlfriend hadn't broken up with you after - blaming you for it.
Pretty in the way you're one of the few Spider-People that seemed to have a light air around them -that seemed to have a glow emitting instead of some desolate aura- chattering and doing that small laugh that had your eyebrows crinkle down at a 30 degree angle.
Pretty in the way you're either unaware or uncaring of Miguel's harsh glares specifically in your direction, ignoring how he waved his hands in aggravation at whatever dumb thing you did just that day.
And it does something to Noir.
Something unnatural towards another man.
Something dirty.
Something different.
Different because his stomach churns in a way he hasn't felt in a long time.
One not of grief or shame.
It wasn't the same grieffull churn he felt when Uncle Ben died, wasn't the same nauseating churn when Aunt May rejected him, wasn't the same hateful churn when he was betrayed by Urich.
It was one that he had never felt before, not in a long time, one that he thought he'd never feel again, one that's full of heat, full of something that seemed almost foreign.
And even though he's a P.I., this was a feeling he couldn't investigate, couldn't look into, couldn't explore.
No, he could never explore this.
He could never explore this with you then go back to his own world, a world filled with bigotry and hate.
So he pretends that you don't exist, pretends he's not falling head over heels in love with another man.
Noir pretends not to notice when his heart flutters when your lashes get caught in the light, pretends not to notice how warm and pliant you feel whenever your body presses against his, pretends not to notice how your lips pout at that 27 degree angle -teasing- when Miguel tries to scold you about behaving, pretends not to notice how your muscles ripple under your suit when you stretch yourself thin - unknowingly bending into poses that have each vein of his cock throbbing in embarrassment.
Noir pretends not to notice how easily you manhandle Pav when you wrestle him or one of the other Spiders your age. His throat dries at the thought, shame creeping down his features at his embarrassing ogling at your figure...your age.
Hobbie once mentioned how you're only a few years older than him offhandedly -'offhandedly' in the way he grinned lazily at Noir, trying to force Noir's embarrassed gaze to Hobbie's knowing one. Because Noir knows that means you'd have to be early to mid twenties.
Noir is swooning over a twenty year old.
A male twenty year old.
It's unheard of.
You're colorful, purple lacing your suit, vibrancy emulating from more than just your personality when you sling an arm around his shoulder; giggling about the little things you did to aggravate Miguel that day.
Noir's desolate of all of that.
His world is black and white, literally and morally. People struggle where he's from, struggle hard. It's hard to even make a living, much less live. There's bad and there's the very bad, there's no good, never good.
And it's harder that the Spider-Society is a strange place.
A foreign place.
A place where peoples wounds could be fixed with a simple laser to a cut, a place where you could teleport to another dimension in milliseconds, a place were people complain about their phones having no woo-fii(?) - he's still not sure, honestly - in the inner dimensional plane, having dozens of brightly colored apps on their small devices that make his head spin.
You, had said games, ranting on about Reddit and Subway Surfers as he struggled to follow along. Yet nodding on and hanging onto every word you say, every smile you give, every eyebrow crinkle you form, ever giggle you don't even try to hold back.
With every struggle though, came warmth, came care, came...
Intimacy.
It's not normal in his world for men to be together, it's wrong, sinful, unnatural. Men who did that were seen as diseased, undesirable.
And what was Noir if not undesirable?
If not disgusting for just his thoughts alone, if not sinful, if not filthy?
It was filthy when he even started having these ideas - simple things, really. Running his hand down your arm, cradling your face in his hand -those big eyes looking up at him. Kissing you deep - hard. Your mouth engulfing him, milking him dry as he's doubled over in pleasure, whining, moaning. Wailing your name.
It was filthy when his cock strained against his pants the first time you caught him by his bicep, pulling him to safety. Whispering that he'd be okay whilst you crept his frozen state away from your worlds Vulture.
It was filthy when something he thought he lost long ago flipped dreadfully fast in his stomach.
It was filthy when he sullied his cock and boxers with his pre-cum. Using the same fluid to try and soothe his throbbing cock, soothe his aching veins, soothe every sensitive ridge that thrummed, groaning with each stroke when he fucked himself up into his hand.
What was Noir if not undesirable?
Especially as a 40 year old man to a 25 year old guy?
Bile burns in his throat, desire churns in his gut, heat runs through his body. Shame burning up his neck and running to stain his ears in red when he thinks of the mere things he wanted to do with you.
Not just because of the age gap.
Not just because you're from a different universe entirely, one made of color, one made of good, were evil never prevails.
Its because he shouldn't want to. Not before marriage, not while in his suit, and certainly not with another man. It's filthy.
"Thought you weren't done over that pretty little lady yet." Noir responds gruffly, body and verbal language awkward - out of place. Out of place to be the pin-point desire of such bright eyes, to be in your world, to be under you - straddled and stroked so sweetly.
It's disgusting.
You blink at him, indignance swirling in your iris before you gain a shit-eating grin and fuck- fuck- Noir thinks he just got tens time harder. And you seem to think so too, because you grind down on him, his nails flying to dig into your sides as a sound rumbles deep from his chest. It's whimpery, whiny. Unsuiting of a man of his stature.
It's unnatural.
"I didn't have an MJ." You whisper playfully, breathe grazing the shell of his ear. And Noir throbs harder, breathe catching in his throat - and he can't move, "Besides, Flash and I broke up awhile ago."
Oh.
Oh.
He feels your lips press to his, careful, slow, testing.
It's so fucking good.
"You're so pretty like this." You mutter, fingers stretching him out in a way he's never felt before. Noir's heaving, panting.
Its so, so, fucking good.
His jaw is pulled open -stuck- in a way that has him gasping, whimpering, whining. High pitch noises being forced out of him as your fingers roll straight into his prostate, massaging that small bundle of nerves he was always too scared to even think about, to scared to talk about, to scared to touch.
He's dripping, sullying his inner thighs and dripping down onto your bed; a nice cot with a beige styled blanket that you put on just for him. That you put down before he had even pulled his pants off. It was like you knew he was eager, knew he was already dripping at the thought of you opening him up, dripping at the thought of you even just touching him.
Then you thrust your fingers in.
And he whines.
He fucking whines.
It's high-pitched, its filthy, and the small burning pain he felt finally cocoons into burning pleasure when he arches down into your fingers.
Your fingers are thick, they're filling, and he can only imagine how your cock will feel - stretching him till he's sobbing, cumming himself silly, crying out your name, begging for you to go faster, harder, pretending like he can take it all in one thrust so he can prove himself.
Prove he can take it.
Prove that he was a good fit for you.
Prove that he could make you feel good too.
Prove that he could make you moan as he squeezes around you, milking out every single drop like you could breed him.
Prove that he was worthy of you filling him up.
"N-Ngh-!"
Noir gasps, choking out a whimper when your fingers begin to curl in and out of his pulsing hole- hitting that one sweet spot. Thrusting into it, hitting it, fucking him so good that he begins to clench around you; trying to suck you in so you can't pull out again.
He can't barely stand to look at your face for once, to look at your fanning lashes, to look at how your muscles no doubt bulge in your arm as you’re working him so good. Embarrassment and shame burning up his ears, mixed with arousal as he rolls his hips; fucking himself down onto your fingers - shuddering.
The heat builds, and builds, and builds, burning his gut like never before. His hip juttered, trying to chase your fingers, trying to chase his high whenever you even tried to pull your fingers out, trying to get past his shyness, trying to make himself feel good - hesitation lacing his action whilst he groans into his hands.
And then you speak.
"Just like that baby, let me fuck you good." You praise quietly, voice kind; filling his body with another warmth as he whined, "Like I'm your personal fuck toy, right?" You lean down, whispering words like their a secret just for the two of you, "Stretch yourself out for me baby, yea?"
Fuck- Fuck-
His eyes rilled back, covered by the mask he insisted he keep on as he wailed out,
"Shit-" He groans, back arching, jaw clenching and his hands scramble to find somewhere to grab; eventually curling into the sheets - almost tearing them in two.
"Just like that, just like that." You mummer, leaning over his body. Chest to chest, warmth to warmth, "You gonna cum?"
Noir can’t answer.
He fucking looses it, wailing out, crying. Hips already juttering down, chasing, thrusting, fucking himself onto your fingers. Jostling the little bundle of nerves deep inside him. Fingers sliding in so sweet, so deeply. Each digit just thick enough to stretch him out with each thrust, just thick enough to help him ride out his high, just thick enough to dull the somberness he felt at not being stretched dizzy by your cock.
You work him through his orgasm so sweetly too, fingers never stopping - only guiding, pleasing. He wants to thank you, cry until he can't anymore, get on his knees, kiss you silly until he has you cumming all over him too.
But he can't.
His body too busy jolting, shaking, shivering from the sheer intensity as your fingers thrust in and out, pushing straight into his prostate each and every time. His head fuzzying, his ears ringing, his eyes rolled so far back he thinks he's seeing color.
White hot stripes spurt out of his slit, untouched, cock thrumming as he spilled his load all over his chest. Cock trapped firmly between your bodies as you lean up, looking down at his heaving form when his body finally unclenches - relaxing.
Panting fills the air. Noirs thighs shivering and quaking in your wake, hole clenches when you pull out - a pathetic whine dribbling out of his lips at the loss.
"Shh baby-" You start, pulling his legs even further apart. Watching him deliciously harden when your throbbing cock presses against his hole through your sweatpants - hard and heavy, "Lets use those P.I. skills of yours to help me find your sweet spots."
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