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He doesn’t have a good reason for buying the bowl.
It’s a garish thing, for one. The design is eerily reminiscent of Deadpool's suit, bright red with two black circles at the front of it. White slits like smiling eyes. Peter didn’t even know they sold Deadpool merch. The man isn’t exactly a popular figure. Definitely not the type to warrant something meant for trick-or-treaters. Ergo, kids.
But Peter ends up buying it anyway, because it’s the cheapest one in the knick-knack store and he can always just paint it if need be. Not that he’ll probably put energy into that. It’s three days until Halloween.
Yes, he knows he’s doing things late.
To be fair, he’s a very busy man. And he also thought he still had like, two weeks. Time really slips away when you’re in a constant cycle of work-patrol-work, with no end in sight. He’s so exhausted he’s pretty sure he’s been running on autopilot the past week, and it wasn’t until he got a text from Harry about his Halloween plans that he even remembered Halloween was a thing.
“They want to see their Uncle Peter.”
Peter hums into the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear. His arms are filled with his groceries, the bowl, and a bag of candy. He has to kick the door shut with his heel.
“I will absolutely be there,” he promises.
“Peter, really. I mean it. As an adult I can understand it when you’re busy. They won’t. Trust me.” Harry sounds exhausted when he says it, and Peter knows it’s because of Normie. The kid just wants his dad, but dad is always busy and mom has a baby to care for.
It still stings a little to hear Harry speak so plainly, though.
Peter drops his bags on the counter. “I swear it, Harry. I’ll be there. I’m not gonna skip out.”
“Okay, Peter. We’re meeting at five. Five o’clock PM. Stanley can’t stay up too late yet.”
“Five sharp. Got it. Uncle Peter will absolutely be there.”
“Do you have a costume?”
Peter pauses, glancing over his bags. Candy bowl, candy, no costume. Just food that he had to pinch pennies for, that isn’t nearly enough for his empty stomach. Such is life. In a panic, he says: “Uh, yeah. Totally. I’m coming as Spider-man.”
Harry huffs in amusement. “You need to get a new costume. You dress up as Spider-man so often, I’m convinced you really are in love with him.”
“For the last time, I’m not dating Spider-man,” he sighs. This was only funny the first few times, but at least his friend’s amusement is better than his friend’s suspicion.
Zzzt!
Peter straightens, Harry’s voice like white noise in his ear. The sensation of being watched makes the hair on his arms stand up. His spider-sense is a buzz, quiet but present. Peter glances around but sees no one. His apartment is terribly small, practically a studio. Every corner is open enough, and he doesn’t see anyone in his bedroom or the bathroom.
“I’ll see you then, alright? I’ve got to go now.”
“Uh, yeah. See ya, Har’.” He hangs up and slips his phone into his pocket. Slowly, the sensation fades. It’s not malicious, that much he realizes. Maybe it’s a spider? That does happen occasionally. Usually he’s able to pinpoint where it is, though.
Shrugging to himself, Peter finally relaxes. He puts the bag of candy, still unopened, into the bowl and puts it by the door for another time. Groceries come first. He’ll probably have to find batteries for it. The hand at the back edge of it is sticking straight up, horrifically scarred and pockmarked. Oddly lifelike, from the wrinkles by each knuckle to the matte sheen of each fingernail. It’s supposed to sense when someone reaches a hand in and then smack down, scaring them.
Hopefully that’ll satisfy whichever kids in his apartment building come by, since he won’t be here. He doesn’t even care if someone steals it, honestly. He’ll be with Harry and the kids all night. Ben promised to pick up the slack as Spider-man in exchange for a weekend with May.
Errands and tasks done for the day, Peter stands helplessly in the middle of his apartment and contemplates getting a dog.
No, that wouldn’t be fair to the animal. He’s not home enough. But maybe he would come by more often if he had someone, or something, waiting for him. Loneliness can hit harder than a supervillain some days.
For a long moment, he thinks about leaving. Just putting on the suit and embracing it like a second skin. Turning into a creature that feels more like him than the mask of Peter Parker he puts on for others. No matter who he is, he’s always hiding. It’s exhausting. And he’s so tired from work, work, work, that he might drop dead at any moment.
Pressing a hand to his aching head, Peter opts to take a well deserved shower and pass out for as many hours as he can. Even when he wants to sleep, it can elude him. Nightmares linger at the corners of his mind, waiting for him to loosen up before striking.
He leaves his clothes on the bathroom floor, adding to a pile from the day before.
“Shit,” he mutters. The water is cold. He kicks at the side of his shitty tub-shower. The pipes in this place suck. In the colder seasons they even freeze, which has to be a health code violation. He should sue.
After the quickest shower possible, he hops out and wraps himself in three different towels. His lips are practically blue and his teeth are chattering obnoxiously. He hates the cold. Water, weather, soup. All terrible when the temperature is low.
THUMP.
Peter stills. His breathing pauses.
The sound around him heightens. Rattling pipes and voices from neighboring units. The buzz of electricity, of traffic outside. Vibrations from movement both near and distant. His fridge against the floor, hum, hum, humming away. There’s no heartbeat inside his house.
That doesn’t exactly mean much in this world.
Peter opens the bathroom door, a towel around his waist, around his head, and around his shoulders. His footsteps are utterly silent as he crosses the floor. There’s no one in sight. Just an empty living room slash kitchen combo, poorly furnished and clearly owned by a man with poor organization skills. No one lounges on his couch. The window opposite the door is shut, and no one lingers on the fire escape outside. His kitchen is empty. Still, the faintest buzz of his Spider-sense makes his skin crawl.
The Deadpool bowl is on the ground, the bag of candy a few inches away.
“Dammit, Wade.” He strides forward and picks it up, once again surprised at the heft. He runs his fingers over the—well, over the thing’s fingers. They don’t feel cool or warm, but they’re weirdly soft and rough, like real textured skin. He squints at it.
Eventually, he sighs. “I’m going crazy…and I’m talking out loud to myself.”
This time he drops it on the coffee table in front of his couch, right in the middle where it can’t possibly fall off. He scoops up the bag of candy and tosses it in a cabinet. Mostly so he won’t be tempted to eat it all later. Out of sight, out of mind.
Whatever’s happening, it’s not dangerous to him. Technically, he lives with the light buzz of his Spider-sense nearly 24/7, so this is nothing new.
Peter tosses his towels over his mismatched kitchen chairs, standing nude for only a moment. It’s too chilly here to be comfortable. The floor is cold, so he bolts over to his big, fluffy bathrobe and favorite pair of comfy Captain America slippers by the door. Wrapped up tight, Peter trudges to his bedroom without another look at the eerie candy bowl.
Exhaustion makes his head foggy. There’s nothing obviously amiss, and he’s simply too out of it to look further. The room swirls. He nearly trips over a bag, some clothes, and then a spare red glove.
He tosses himself face first on the bed and promises to just take a quick nap. All he needs is to shut his eyes for a bit. Then he’ll make a frozen pizza and pretend it’s enough sustenance. Yeah. That’s a good plan.
In his dream, he’s boiling. The temperature soars, drawing sweat to his brow. It’s a good kind of heat, like slow moving magma in place of blood. It travels from his head to his toes, pooling in his gut and groin.
There’s a sensation—rough, textured, rigid—trailing over the fine hair on the back of his upper thighs. The softness of the bathrobe rises over the swell of his ass, baring it to the open air. It draws goosebumps across his skin, pulls arousal to the surface. The touch is gentle and insistent across the crease of his ass and thigh, dancing against his balls and soft cock.
Quickly, it returns to his ass, groping at each cheek in a reverent manner. One, then the other, fingers dipping into muscle and fat, caressing and squeezing. A finger dips through his crack, then the hand returns to massaging his ass. Then again, skating just over his hole. Always brushing but never lingering, as though too enamored with the plush jiggle of Peter’s butt.
Peter hums, moans, makes high breathy sounds.
It feels good.
This is an excellent dream. This is a dream he deserves after the hell he’s been through these past years.
The touch of a single hand continues, groping his balls and rolling them softly between textured fingers. Occasionally it prods at his perineum. Trails a finger with a delicious amount of pressure up and down, up and down.
Moaning softly into his sheets, he urges his body to spread his legs. The motion feels distant. He can’t tell that he’s even moved at all until the touches grow bolder, more open, pressing to newly revealed skin with more ease. The hand on him is warm and dry, thumbing the head of his cock until it stirs and jerks against the mattress, flushing with blood.
There’s something cooler nudging at the inside of his thighs, something that doesn’t feel like a person or skin. The thought slips away when the hand begins to pump his cock with a tight-but-not-enough grip. Like it’s teasing him.
He whimpers, wondering if his desire can break through the fog of the dream. It feels almost real. But he can’t tell, can only minutely roll his hips in short, mindless thrusts, hoping for more pleasure. He’s not even lucid enough to know if he’s actually moving at all. He hopes he is.
The hand continues to jerk him off, too slow and too loose. It plays with the leaking head of his cock, trails pearly liquid up and down his shaft, and drags against the throbbing veins.
Peter furrows his brow. His hands grip at the sheets. Sheets with creases he can feel, more detail than he recalls dreams having. It’s like he’s swimming just under the surface, near enough to stretch his arm up out of the water. In the back of his mind—
The touch vanishes.
Peter sinks back down, groaning impatiently. This is his dream! Shouldn’t he be able to control it? He wants the pleasure back. He wants to be fucked open until he can cum and relax.
No real face swims in his mind. Just a lot of muscle and a big dick. Yeah, that’s what he needs. What’s a guy gotta do to get split open on a fat cock? Ridiculous.
Stuck between dream and reality, Peter can’t tell how long it is before the hand returns. It could be hours or seconds, but one moment it’s gone and the next there’s something cool slipping between his cheeks and prodding his asshole.
“Yes,” he exhales. That’s what he wants.
The lubed finger circles the clenched skin, smoothing over wrinkles and dipping very slightly inside. Slowly, painfully slowly , a single finger works its way in. His perineum is rubbed with a thumb, nails from the other finger biting just slightly into his asscheek. The slight sting makes the fog recede slightly—
But he’s soothed by the massaging of his insides. The finger slides in and out, circling and curling slightly, pressing against spongy walls. Peter breathes hotly against his sheets, sparks shooting up his spine. He whines sharply when another finger pokes at the edge of his hole, slipping in to stretch him. The pace is maddening. It’s a steady work-up, until he’s so desperate for another finger, for a bigger stretch, that he starts working his hips against the mattress.
Abruptly, the fingers pull out.
He makes a high sound of complaint. “Mmngh, no…”
When he raises his hips up, blindly seeking the touch, that strange, cool object slots between his thighs. His body adjusts. He rises a tad and arches his back, face pressed to his mattress and hips propped up on his knees. Face down, ass up, legs spread so his hard, heavy cock swings between his thighs, unable to touch the mattress. His balls are pressed against whatever the round, plastic object is.
The touch finally comes back, brutally slipping three fingers into his twitching hole.
Peter moans, “Yeah, oh, fuck—”
His thighs shake as the fingers start a rapid pace, thrusting in and out of him and wriggling the whole time. Dragging along his walls and insistently pressing into him until they catch on his prostate. It makes him howl, muffled in his mattress, back arching even further in an attempt to get them deeper.
Objectively, Peter thinks he realizes something weird is happening.
His thighs are wet with lube, the squelching and slapping of skin against skin loud in the night. His breath is heavy and high, squeaks and moans and whimpers spilling from his lips. It’s all loud enough to pull him out of sleep—
But it has to be a dream.
The week-long exhaustion and lack of adequate food and consistent pressing of his prostate make him weak. It means he can’t think straight. He just feels lightning bolts of pleasure lance through him and lets it drown him.
It could be hours that he spends, half delirious and half asleep, fucked open by bumpy, ridged fingers until he’s drooling and his cheek has grown wet with it. Briefly, he thinks he opens his eyes, lashes fluttering. Darkness, shadows, the flash of his alarm clock telling him a time he can’t quite comprehend.
A fourth finger slips in and spears his prostate, the thumb left out to jab his perineum and tight balls. He squeals like a pig, starbursts flashing against his eyelids, and feels his cock squirt.
What might be a sob catches in his throat.
“Nnh—Oh, oh, yes—Fuck me!” He begs, shaking his hips on quivering thighs. His asscheeks jiggle and clap against the rough hand caught between them. “Please, oh god, please fuck me, I want it—want it, want it, want your cock —nnhg!”
A cloud of red-hot arousal washes over him, turning his need into desperation. His prick bounces uselessly, untouched and pulsing angrily. He doesn’t reach to grasp it, doesn’t think he can even move aside from shaking his ass like a whore. His balls have tightened up so much that every brush of a wandering thumb feels like a punch.
The fingers go as deep as they can, thrusting so hard that the sound of smacking is filthy. Peter trembles all over. They jab unrelentingly and painfully against every soft spot inside him, always with brutal, single-minded efficiency. Then, suddenly, that thumb harshly presses down onto Peter’s balls to the point of pain.
It floods him abruptly. He cums untouched, cock painfully spurting and twitching erratically. His entire body jerks, euphoria thundering through him in pulses. Peter cums so hard he goes lightheaded, cums so hard it feels like he’s pissing himself.
And it doesn’t stop. The hand keeps fingering him, nearly violent as it thrusts into his body and his quaking, jerking hips. He doesn’t know whether to crawl away or push back, can only throb around them and gasp open-mouthed against his drool-soaked mattress. The peak doesn’t seem to end.
His enhanced stamina keeps him horny, and his orgasm rolls through him over and over. He must have blanked for a moment, or an hour, or for weeks and months.
His lashes grow damp with overstimulated tears, and he shakes so violently the bed creaks under him.
“Please,” he croaks, the word a breath between moans. “I’m—-cumming!”
His cock pulses, rock hard and pointing straight down. Vibrating as it squirts cum into the soaked sheets and all over the plastic thing lodged between his sweaty thighs. The fingers slip out of his hole, leaving him to clench on emptiness.
“Nn—cock, want your cock inside,” he heaves, sure he’s slurring his words. Every bit of him is loose and pliant. He can’t bring himself to move, can only burn in place and moan.
There’s no words or reply, and there’s no dick breaching his pulsing ass. The two orgasms back to back make him pound like one big bruise, in time with his rapid heartbeats.
“Eep!”
The sound hiccups out of him as a hand slams down onto his asscheek. Then again, and again. Smacking echoes in the room, the violent sting of each blow shocking him and intertwining with the orgasm’s afterglow. He humps down into the air, balls rubbing against the cool plastic object. The hand keeps coming down, alternating cheeks.
It lets his ass bounce, lets it redden and bruise. Sometimes the spanks are against his crack, catching the rim of his puffy hole. He moans desperately and keeps thrusting his hips helplessly. The pressure against his balls feels good, a slick slide against something unforgiving and warming slowly under his heat. His cock bobs and swings, dripping and sending strings of sticky fluid over his abs and hips.
The next slap comes down harder than the others, aimed directly between his cheeks. It slams down on his swollen asshole.
He screams and grinds his balls against the object between his thighs, shivering violently—so hard his teeth chatter. His cum splatters into the puddle below, messy on his torso and pooling in the space where his chest meets the mattress. He keeps cumming, clenching, and sobbing.
The third orgasm has him dizzy. Blackness creeps up his mind, threatening to pull him down further into whatever state he’s in. He can’t remember—sleep? Is this a dream?
He doesn’t care.
He tastes blood on his tongue, a bitten lip caught between his teeth. He thinks his eyes are open, but they might not be. They might have rolled back in his head.
“Mmm,” he moans softly, dazed. Everything feels so good. Like he’s floating.
The object slips from between his damp thighs, and he slumps, knees slowly sliding out until he’s lying flat on his stomach with his legs spread. He hears the faintest sound of something sliding across the sheets. Away from him.
“Wher’re you goin’…?” he mumbles. It can’t leave yet.
With the grace of a newborn fawn, Peter rolls over. He thinks his eyes are still shut, or his room is so dark that it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t try to sit up, doesn’t think he can. He’s moving through molasses, limbs heavy and tired. Thrumming with residue heat. The sounds of whatever is moving halt.
Peter rests his head back against his pillow in a daze, then reaches to loop a hand under each knee. The bathrobe sleeves ride up to his forearms. He pulls his legs up and apart, spreading to show off his cum coated torso, wet cock, and glistening hole.
“Fuck me more.”
For a moment there’s silence.
Then the sound of whatever it is crawling across the sheets starts up again, and it grows closer.
Peter feels fingers stuff him, breaching his abused walls like they’ve carved the perfect space there. A litany of Yeah, yeah, yes, oh fuck, yeah, yeah’s explode from his drooling lips. It takes him minutes to realize that the angle is different and the fingers are upside down. Another moment later and a cool, slightly sticky object flops over and pins his cock and balls down.
Delirious, Peter opens his eyes, stars of sheer ecstasy nearly blinding him. He makes out what looks like a bowl over his groin. The Deadpool bowl. Between his trembling thighs he sees a shadow of movement. The attached, scarred hand fingering him so deeply he might die.
His eyes slide shut again.
He thinks he loses another section of time.
The palm smacks against his perineum and balls. Rubbing them sensually with every twisting thrust of fingers deep into his aching ass. He feels the echo of stinging slaps. The pain-pleasure has him gritting his teeth until his jaw pops. He feels euphoric. Half-dead. Stuck in a limbo of wakefulness.
He starts to drift, riding the pleasure like a tsunami.
“Oh—” his moans are high and hoarse, more free than he’s ever heard from his own mouth. If he could feel embarrassed at this moment, he would. The noises pouring unapologetically from his throat are pornographic, rattling the windows.
He shakes, shatters, is rebuilt. Put back together by a skillful hand. Four fingers stuff him, and the thumb pushes at the edge of his soaked, abused hole. Pressing. Pushing. Gentle—
All five fingers slip inside.
Peter cums all over himself, shrieking as he does. He becomes wild, the parts of him he keeps locked away to remain human trickle out. The hand thrusts into him, huge and domineering. The fingers were already massive, definitely larger than any of Peter’s. The entire hand spears him. Draws out a near painful ache as it stuffs him over and over, never once ceasing intense pressure against his battered prostate.
He cums and keeps cumming, soaking into the bowl. His healing factor can’t keep up. Every last bit of cum is drained from him, balls tight and emptied. The hand pauses as Peter’s hole flutters around it, remaining still as Peter keens and screams.
For a moment he thinks it’s done.
Then it slowly begins to slip out. Peter feels his body grow numb, so completely lax he doesn’t think he’d be able to move even if the ceiling came crashing down. He sighs, voice a croak. He can’t tell which way is up or down.
The hand slams full force back inside him, assaulting his prostate directly and stretching his walls. Peter gurgles. The edge of the bowl brushes the head of his cock. The feeling is nearly painful. It jerks against his sensitive, drooling tip over and over and over.
He begs. He can’t remember what for. To stop, to keep going—
Darkness, true darkness, creeps at the edges of his vision. It’s going to kill him.
“Gonna die—” he hiccups. “You’re gon’a fuck me to death! ‘M—fuck, fuck, fuck! More, I want more—”
Peter wakes up slowly.
One by one his senses come back to him.
Every bit of him is loose and pliant, more relaxed than he can ever recall being. He thinks he’s never been more comfortable in his life.
Then he really wakes up.
His body aches in a pleasant way, dull throbbing from his hips speaking of a good night. He’s absolutely coated in fluid, dried or half-dried and congealed. Cum and sweat and lube. It’s everywhere. On him, his sheets, his fluffiest bathrobe—
Peter sits up abruptly, wincing at the motion.
What the fuck? He thinks.
“What the fuck?” He says.
Holy shit. Did someone—? No. His spider-sense would have gone off. No one could fuck him in his sleep. Could they?
He dimly remembers half dreaming. Clearly, it wasn’t a dream. Heart leaping, Peter lurches from the bed and scrambles out of his room. The living room slash kitchen is empty. So is the bathroom. There’s no one else in his apartment. And no Deadpool candy bowl on his coffee table. Peter storms back into his room.
He stops short.
The window is cracked open.
His eyes scan the floor. A pile of clothes underneath it has been disturbed, likely kicked to the side. Horrifically, his spider-suit is folded with true care on his nightstand. Even his gloves are placed on top. Along with a strip of paper.
Peter leaps over parts of his mess and skids to a stop by the suit. The paper is clearly not from his house, because it’s absolutely from a child’s notebook. There’s a unicorn figure printed in the corner. In a messy, terribly familiar scrawl are the words:
I promise I didn’t MEAN to find out your identity. BRO-SWEAR. I’d never betray U like that, webs. Pinky-toe promise. U can consider those orgasms I wrung outta ur absolutely SCRUMDIDDLYUMPTIOUS tushy as me paying U back for the secret. And b/c i needed a lot of cum to turn back. Not that ur secret identity is only worth five cummies. It’s worth an utterly infinite amount and baby seeing you cry was a fucking delight and i wanna I will do whatever U want to keep making it up 2 U. XOXOX!!!!
Ps. Thanks for helping me w/ that spell. How’d you know i got turned into a Halloween bowl by a REALLY horny Gandalf-reject??? Ur spidey-sense is almost as ASStronimical as ur actual ass
Peter puts his head in his hands and screams.
Why is this his life? HOW IS THIS HIS LIFE? The best sex he’s ever had was with a cursed Halloween decoration that turned out to actually be his maybe-friend, actual-annoyance, full scale nutcase Wade Wilson.
Peter is shocked to find that he’s more pissed about the fact that Wade can fuck so good with only a hand than he is about being fingered while half-asleep. He’s pretty sure he just had the best fucking snooze of his life. What can the guy do with his whole body?
Fuck, he needs a shower. Daylight is already here. He slept for almost thirteen hours. So much for dinner last night, or a late patrol. He stands on weak knees and hobbles to the bathroom.
Shower first, food after. Any freaking out can be done under a frigid water spray.
Then, he’s off to find Deadpool. That man owes him a big dick.