#24aztober

“Look at the camera, baby. Look. At. The. Camera.”

Ghostface huffed in response, his arms obediently staying behind his back. He angles his head in a way that portrays he was staring into the lens, and you catch a glimpse of his chin just below his eternally screaming mask. With the instrument in the palm of your hand, you had evidence of his haunting arrival.

Actual blackmail against the cold-hearted, driven-by-bloodlust killer.

But you think you won’t use it any time soon. Not that it’s currently necessary.

You could barely fathom the whole ordeal, down to the tiniest detail. It was unbelievable. Ghostface was on his knees, his lips curving into a pout as his snark dies on the very tip of his petulant tongue. Additionally, his mouth was inches away from. . .your cock. Fucking hell, have you gone batshit?

Receiving a nasty, sloppy blowjob from him out of everyone you could’ve chosen past midnight wasn’t exactly ideal. Mostly due to how blood spatter clung to his wear, and who knows if it’s his or someone else’s—

The flat of his tongue drags a looong stripe along your weeping tip. “At least pay attention to me. Is my mouth not enough for a filthy thing like you?” He’s speaking as though you’re bringing him physical harm, but you figure that’s the way he is.

Wrenching your hand into the fabric surrounding the back of his head, you yank him forward until his lips were stretched around the top of your cock. “Shut up,” you command lowly, letting out a shaky gasp as he swallows you in repeatedly in an attempt not to gag, “Look good for me. C’mon.”

That’s the resemblance of a warning you give him, not even close, before the recording begins. Ghostface swears his heart unlocks an unknown door and flees his mortal body at the familiar click, a feeling he’s unable to identify crawling up his chest and sinks into his cheeks. Almost suffocating him with the feeling and by all means, he’s so fucking turned on.

It’s embarrassing. He couldn’t be caught like this. You won’t seriously have that file uploaded. Right?

He redirects his attention towards breathing properly. Then, he runs his tongue up and down a vein, easing himself into the taste of you. The scent of you.

Shit, what is he doing? He barely knows you—a surprising first occurrence—and yet...

Ghostface squeezes his thighs shut, trying to chase after some relief. Drool piles in his mouth, acting as a lubricant for him to take in more of your pulsing dick. He groans, sending vibrations that makes you accidentally stop the recording. It had went on for two minutes—that’s something.

You click on for the flash, letting it spring upwards in place, then you take a picture. He’s startled by the light, and you suddenly feel his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. You have half a mind to jerk, but you definitely don’t need him biting you.

Instead, you simply put on the record mode again. It certainly doesn’t take long for you to feel him slowly sucking you as an apology, his own cock throbbing in his pants when you don’t react to the pain. He probably appeared as some useless slut to you, something that he isn’t. The thought alone has a whine creep into his throat, but he’s not going to let you hear that.

You bring the camera closer to his masked face, capturing the way his saliva coats your length. “There we go,” you sigh, watching him sink more of you into his pretty little mouth, “That’s a good boy, Ghost. Mnn, hhfuck, that’s a good boy.”

The sound of your voice. . .he wonders how you’ll feel inside of h—oh, he’s hooked.

Noir was a simple man in an odd place.

According to his own perception of this alternative reality, at least.

Being a newly recruited member of the Spider Society was certainly not for a man who belongs to the twentieth century; mostly due to the existence of advanced technology no one from his time has invented quite yet. He was unaware—traditional, in his respective terms.

It wasn’t that he was judgmental of the future. He was just clueless to how everything currently functioned. Even now so when he learned that most accepted others so easily without so much of an intentional blink of a suspicious eye, he seemed to shift into a demeanor strangely experimental.

You were one of the only Spider-men he was ridiculously able to settle at ease with for an extended period of time, given that you didn’t ask too many questions and you didn’t feel the need to talk his hearing senses off.

And maybe, maybe it was also due to how... inhumanely large you were in stature.

The size difference between the two of you was stark. Hell, he thinks you stand a few inches taller than the Miguel O’hara. It was probably the reason why he appears to be drawn to you, dare he say attracted.

Right, he hasn’t thought about that part. Hasn’t come to the conclusion that he wasn’t a heterosexual man, as it was the only thing that wasn’t considered to be outrageous in his world.

But Heaven forbid, you were something otherworldly. Built like a beast that towers over him entirely, hands big and calloused while being simultaneously calculated and cautious when it came to tending to his wounds, and you didn’t treat him like he was a stray that’s originated from a nameless town.

He liked you in a way he didn’t know how to admit, and that made him fear the intruding feeling.

That realization only dawned on him as you backed him against a wall, his back hitting the bricks, his head now required to tilt up to meet your masked eyes through his goggles.

“What...” Noir begins, as if he wasn’t deliberately rubbing himself against you every chance he gets despite the danger lurking due to the presence of an anomaly you had the enough luck to capture and send back just moments ago. He swallows nervously, the separating barrier between arousal and regret blurring in the face of getting what he wants at last.

“You know what.” You scoff, leaning your forearm up against the brick wall in front of you in favor of bending slightly down to force yourself into his personal space like how he did with yours. You’re fairly certain his eyes are blown wide in excitement, but you needed to hear it from his mouth - that he wanted it.

“Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll leave and forget about all of this.”

He liked that about you, how you’re so easily considerate unlike the way your personality outwardly appears to be. For a moment, he considers it, but his core suddenly aches for your touch.

His hand tentatively reaches up, curling around your nape to tug you closer to his masked face. “No, I... I want you.” His words drawl out as foreign sin and lust on his tongue, but neither of you care. “Don’t go. This is what I want. Please.”

“Yeah?” You follow-up, your hand manages to slip down the front of his pants and you waste no time with palming his growing bulge through his boxers, “Want me to take care of you?”

Noir shakily nods his head, a choked gasp escaping his lungs when you apply the right amount of pressure around his cockhead to have his mind begin to haze. “Yes.” He manages, his hands frantically clutching onto your forearms to stabilize himself.

-

He thinks about how you haven’t grown downright exhausted with him yet. You keep on giving and giving to him until he can’t decide what to do with himself; his thoughts prominently melting into slick that pools at his slit and cascades down the length of his dick.

You’re knuckle-deep inside of him once more, the glove you’re using mildly dulling the pleasure but makes him brainless nonetheless. Your digit is thick and long enough for you to roughly prod at his sweet spot, with Noir eagerly asking for another one.

He’s acting as if he’s got something to prove to you. That he can take your cock, that he can make it fit inside of his tight hole. Noir gasps as you push in a second finger.

“That’s it. You’re doing good.” You praise lowly into his ear. Your frame against his is the only thing keeping him from sliding off the closed dumpster he was currently sat on - which should’ve turned him off, but he was hyper-focused on getting himself to come undone beneath the work of your hands.

He is doing good, Noir repeats inside of his head. A whimper slips his lips as he rocks his hips to provoke you into sinking in deeper. He relished in the stretch, a burn that molds itself into a peak.

Noir was yours - made for you as he had no protest despite the phantom whispers of overstimulation making themselves known.

König’s cheek is pressed against the silky pillow, his arms supporting himself beneath the cushion. His knees wobble with the effort of presenting his lower half to you, exhaustion spiraling around his tension-marked muscles. The constant dipping of your cockhead into his clenched hole causes him to let out a whine, never fully situating inside of him. Mindless strings of curses in his language fall from his lips, one of them nearly a tinge too lustful.

“Please... need it now.” He whimpers, shuffling himself backwards to you.

You sigh out of imitated disappointment, pretending to disapprove of his chafed state. “Can never be grateful, huh?” You chastise, your hands curling around the thick muscle of his hips. A man of his status so desperate for your cock elicits a pleased sigh from you, your length impossibly hardening. Finally, you give in—pushing the half of it in carefully, you gently coax him to lighten up for the stretch to mitigate.

You believe he’s calmed down his own unfulfilled soul, but that thought is quickly put an end to when he drags out a whine.

“No,” König shakes his head, breathless, “put it in, too. Please.”

Right. The toy.

You deliberately roll your hips, the gradual but sure friction laps at his neglected cock, pre-cum continuously beading from the slit. You grab the faux length behind you, one that’s already soaked due to König’s mouth.

“Color?” You ask, rubbing in inattentive patterns into his skin as you feel him tighten in anticipation.

“Green. It’s green, hur—ngh!”

He lets out a moan—one uncharacteristically high-pitched from his throat, a sound that immediately strokes your ego—as you plunge the tip of the dildo alongside your own dick. “You okay?” You don’t move yet, leaning down to offer a soothing kiss to his back. He nods all too eagerly, breathing deeply through his mouth. That’s not what you want. “I need words, K.” Threateningly, you begin to slide out of him.

“Ah, fuck, I’m sorry, schatzi,” König gasps, sensing you unintentionally brushing against his sweet spot, “I’m okay, I’m okay, want you to continue.”

Your cock pulses upon hearing the hint of a needy noise akin to a whimper in the tone of his voice, and with barely any resistance, you inch by inch rock back inside until you’re situated to the hilt. He sputters, trying desperately to keep his legs apart.

He’s met with the blunt prodding of the toy once more, your hand incessantly driving the silicone into him bit by bit. With that, he’s frozen for a moment, forced to bite down on the pillow underneath him and clench and unclench helplessly around the two of you.

“Move,” König abruptly gasps, drool dripping down the corner of his lips, “move, ahnn, move—”

You don’t need to be told twice.

Though, you only move your wrist, thrusting the toy in and out. Confusion writes itself over his features, but it’s quickly replaced with his eyes rolling back as the false length hits his prostate just right.

Glancing downwards where the both of your bodies connect, you have to steel yourself on the bed to not restlessly have him take you then and there. His hole’s nearly thoroughly wrecked—all loose and ready to receive what you give him.

And he is, his hips are already subconsciously rolling back to meet the thrusts of the toy, craving the burn and small gnaws of pain that only you can give him.

𝐄𝐑𝐀 𝐎𝐍𝐄

track I. shotgunning ͙۪۪̥ logan howlett.

track II. double penetration ͙۪۪̥ könig.

track III. mask + daddy kink ͙۪۪̥ keegan russ.

track IV. deepthroating ͙۪۪̥ miguel o’hara.

track V. size kink ͙۪۪̥ spider-man noir.

track VI. filming + humiliation kink ͙۪۪̥ ghostface.

𝐄𝐑𝐀 𝐓𝐖𝐎

track VIII. breathplay ͙۪۪̥ wade wilson.

track X. somnophilia ͙۪۪̥ din djarin.

track XII. pain + glove kink ͙۪۪̥ logan howlett.

track XIII. public sex ͙۪۪̥ bruce wayne.

track XIV. gun play ͙۪۪̥ sebastian krueger.

𝐄𝐑𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

track XV. face-fucking ͙۪۪̥ ghostface.

track XX. sex pollen ͙۪۪̥ keegan russ.

𝐄𝐑𝐀 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

track XXXI. monsterfucking ͙۪۪̥ zombie ghost.

all rights reserved © 2023 2kiran. these works belong to 2kiran. do not steal/copy, repost/promote on any platform, modify, or translate. I do not own the character images or frames.

The vile, lackluster whispers amongst soldiers resound throughout the otherwise silent base, reserved for the nauseatingly attention-gaining thomp thomp thomp of your boots against polished ground.

There you were—the rumored magnet of mischief and death, the man who can’t offer clemency, the soldier—everything Keegan shouldn’t want.

But by the ancient words of Gods, he craves you like a man of riches desiring more than he can handle.

You’re far, far higher in rank than he is. A seasoned tank-more-than-man. You’re someone who’s experienced the worst aspects of hell; yet, you took advantage and made it reform you into something terrifyingly better.

He doesn’t quite get you for it.

No one really does.

All that Keegan comprehends is that he wants you, no matter the promise of consequences.

He thinks it’s the way your mask accentuates that near soulless look within your captivating eyes. Think it’s how, with one flick of your wrist, you send other soldiers down to the ground and to the infirmary. Thinks it’s how your stoic presence sends a pulse between his thighs, giving him an urge to beg for anything you’re willing to provide him.

He thinks he’ll have you.

As long as you’ll let him.

-

Keegan can’t remember how it got to this.

He’s avoiding your gaze. Avoiding you.

One leg of his is hooked over your hip while both of his hands claw for purchase at your broad shoulders. His mask clings to his skin that’s wrapped in a light sheen of sweat, causing it to be more difficult for him to properly breathe. Your cock pounds his sensitive spot with every thrust repeatedly, your tip grazing against the deepest parts of his body, and shit, he wants to cum.

“Daddy,” Keegan whimpers, the slick push and give has him clamp down hotly around you, “I’m close. Hnghhnm, fuck, please.”

You grunted in response, hands locked onto the fat of his thighs. “Look at me.” You demand, delivering a deliberate, taunting roll of your hips against his already bruised ones.

He obeys—and the sight undeniably makes you twitch inside of him. His eyes are glossy with tears he’s adamant on holding back, his eyebrows twitching together, and he’s desperately trying to feign a glare.

Damn that stupid mask of yours.

You seem more distant with the materialized barrier, only indulging in him to satiate a neglected need. That thought has Keegan whining, the knot situated deep in his belly tightening to the point of humiliatingly snapping without your permission.

You lean down, your obscured face against his neck, breathing his scent in. “Call me that again.” You demand, your voice rough and dripping with restrained need.

He whimpers—tightens once around you, his hole wetly sucking you inside—before he gives in.

“Please,” he tests his raw voice, finding the word in his wrecked brain, “please, daddy, need you to make me c—”

Your cock throbs at the sound of the name coming from his mouth. You drag your cock out of his entrance as he speaks, holding back a breath as you slide back in him again with one rough thrust.

“—ah, fuck! Yeah, like that, nmng—”

You know this won’t be the last time.

Logan begins to mouth at the skin of your jaw, leaving hot, lingering kisses in his wake. There’s no rush to it—simply the fundamental need clawing at his brain to feel you. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, and your hands grasp his hips to remain still. You grunt contentedly as his teeth ghost over your quickened pulse, your breath catching in your throat.

“Want you.” He murmurs, his thighs on either side of your hips.

“Yeah? You wanna take your clothes off?” You lower your voice enough for it to come out as a whisper, your hands smoothing over the material of his jeans before they grip his waistband.

He nods his head, humming a little ‘mhm’ before raising himself further up. You pull them down—including his underwear—and Logan shimmies out of them before straddling your lap again. He’s alluring above you like this; his cock half-hard, his eyes holding a gaze that’s a note too intense, and his lips slightly agape when he releases a sigh of relief.

One hand of yours snakes along his body, skimming past every detail and scar, until you reach his bottom lip. Without you even getting out a command, Logan slips in a digit into his awaiting mouth. He groans at the taste, his senses intensifying his cognizance of your natural scent, and fuck, the blood from his brain goes straight down to his core. His slick tongue draws your finger further inside, the muscle swirling to smear his saliva around it. His eyes flicker to yours, arrogance glinting within them as he pulls himself back.

Logan takes hold of your wrist, bringing your hand to his hole. As you ease in a finger, he tips his weight on his knees to reach for a cigar. He lights it up, the corners of his mouth downturning when he feels you pause, waiting patiently for him to finish with it. “Didn’t say you had to stop for me.” He grumbles, irritation igniting in his chest.

“You might’ve hurt yourself if I had you take it.” You push it in further, rolling it forward and backward to punctuate your mock-of-a-scolding.

He scoffs, the sound slightly alternated by the whimper trapped in the back of his throat. “I’m not fragile. I can take you.” He presses his ass back as if to prove his point, gasping when the digit slips in all too easily. His walls clench, the intrusion sudden enough to make him throb.

“Fuck...” he swallows, taking deep breaths before impatience settles. To minimize his uncontrollable whines, he hangs the cigar between his lips. Mumbling, “Stop wasting time. Wanna feel your cock.”

An amused huff escapes your nose, but you still comply. You thrust your finger inside of his entrance in and out, in and out—feeling him beginning to relax around you. You add in another, watching his face twitch with micro-expressions of pleasure. Stretching him open so slowly, he almost chokes on the smoke.

When you pull out, believing he’s prepared enough, he’s already inching towards a climax. Logan whimpers in frustration at the loss, puffing a dirtied cloud towards your face to retaliate. You ignore his protests anyway, rushing to sling your belt out of the hoops and to finally unzip your pants.

He’s too horny to realize that you don’t take it off completely. The gears of his brain only clink back together when he registers your leaky tip slowly breaching his hole. Little tremors pass through his thighs, the burn shifting into a pang of want.

“Atta-fuckin’-boy,” Logan groans out, sinking himself down your length, and spreading his legs wider, “always so hard for me.” This time, his words were teasing, careless in their lust-filled nature as he grinds down on your cock. In response, you take the stick from him, greedily inhaling a long drag.

He doesn’t immediately react, but when he does, you feel it. The sight of you smoking his cigar revives an innate possessiveness he had forgotten. Makes him squeeze around your dick like he wanted you to cum inside of him so soon.

Your palm finds security on his nape, pulling him closer to you. Tugging the stick away from your mouth, you pry his lips open with your thumb. You breathe the smog into his mouth, holding him in place and making him endure the sensation of you being merely inches away and the familiar caress of the fume. Logan’s eyes widen, his hips rocking involuntarily. Heat pools in his belly, his cock twitching from it all and he’s suddenly high off of it.

Once you’re done, he swears he’s dizzy with the need of you fucking him until he’s senseless. Logan quickly leans in, capturing your lips in a fervent kiss. The smog passes in between his teeth, and he aches to do it again.

Miguel was stressed.

Even the tiniest add-on detail of the mission went, hilariously, wrong. He relied on them—the other Spider-men—and they failed. Again.

That’s when you’re needed. He needed you, to unwind and fall at peace for once.

You don’t care enough to remember when this arrangement began. Not with this sight of Miguel on his knees, disdain etched across his strong features. He makes use of his mouth, pulling the zipper of your pants down with his teeth and yanking your boxers out of his way.

His warm breath fans against your sensitive skin, making your cock twitch. “Easy.” You murmur, your hand reaching down to card through his locks. He responds with a glare, his tongue sheepishly peeking from its place between his lips before he drags the muscle along your base and up to the head of your dick.

He swirls it around, lapping at the angry vein just beneath. The cold but dizzying sensation forces your hand to clamp around the edge of the desk behind you. It was addicting; the familiar embrace of his sickly hot mouth takes your cock inch by inch, stopping half-way.

You’re able to feel how he’s struggling to relax around your size, how his throat is constricting and urging him to let go of you; yet, he doesn’t listen, eyes fluttering shut instead.

After a few minutes, he fits more of you in, his cheeks straining as he attempts to suck you harshly. You grunt brokenly, hand involuntarily gripping onto his hair enough to punch out a guttural moan—the sound sending immediate vibrations to the shaft of your cock.

He sees it as an opportunity, his lips tight around you as he takes ahold of your hips. He pulls you forward, your length slipping down his throat with ease. “Shit, Mig,” you gasp.

Miguel opens his eyes at the sound of his name, tilting his head back enough to look up at you. He moves his head back-and-forth repeatedly, his tongue licking at your dick deliberately, teasingly. He’s panting through his nose, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth. Fuck, you’re already close.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST | VERSION AO3