Warning: Male slash, suicidal thoughts and attempt, depression, character death, blow jobs, anal sex, demon summoning.
Stardust
"If you came to me with a face I have not seen, with a voice I have never heard, I would still know you. Even if centuries separated us, I would still feel you. Somewhere between the sand and the stardust, through every collapse and creation, there is a pulse that echoes of you and I.
When we leave this world, we give up all our possessions and our memories. Love is the only thing we take with us. It is all we carry from one life to the next."
― Lang Leav, Memories
"Let me know if you need anything, champ." Tony claps a hand on Peter's shoulder and stands, looking down at the young man. No, not a man.
Looking at Peter confirms that he is just a boy. His young charge is haggard, normally tan skin so pale it made the bags under his eyes all the more jarring.
Peter nods, gaze not leaving the patch of carpet he'd been staring a hole into.
Tony opens his mouth to say something, to pass on some kind of comfort or wisdom. Because he understands loss, knows what it's like to have loved ones ripped away suddenly. But he can't fathom what Peter is feeling right now. He had already lost his parents by the time he was four. Then Ben was killed, and now tragedy had stolen May from him.
Peter is just eighteen. Tony got to have his parents, no matter how emotionally absent, until he was twenty one.
He can say nothing to lessen Peter's pain.
He simply pats the boy's shoulder again. "Anything at all, just tell FRIDAY and she'll get me. Someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on, even if you just want a different shampoo. Let me know."
Peter's chin tips up and he faces Tony. His former vibrance is drained and what's left behind is a sickly, listless creature. Tony's heart aches to hold Peter. His hands flutter awkwardly around him and land on his shoulders. He remembers the child hugging him in the car, when he reached over to open his door for him. Recalls how desperate Peter had seemed to be for his approval and affection. A teenager wanting for a father figure and picking Tony, of all people.
Two years ago Tony hadn't known how to give Peter that love, although he had certainly felt a fondness for the boy. A protectiveness he hadn't known what to do with.
He hugs him now. Peter slumps forward into him, but does not reciprocate. Tony reluctantly lets go, pausing to study Peter's face.
Thin, colorless lips part and close again. Peter shakes his head, a humorless smile tugging at his mouth.
"Thanks, Mr. Stark."
"I can stay." Tony offers, all of the parental instincts he didn't know he had screaming at him not to leave the boy alone. Not when they had buried his aunt earlier in the afternoon. Not after Peter had held it together during the ceremony just enough to keep his weeping silent.
Peter takes a deep, deliberate breath and shakes his head.
"I just… I want to be alone."
"Okay. Okay." Tony hugs him one more time and lingers in the doorway. Peter's mouth opens and closes.
"Thanks, Mr. Stark." He says after a long pause.
"Anything at all. You know where to find me." Tony says, leaving Peter to mourn in private.
He has a feeling he knows what Peter was going to say.
Can you bring my aunt back?
He can't.
The door clicks shut behind Tony and Peter goes back to staring into the nothingness that has surrounded him. Each inhale and exhale is a conscious effort. He closes his eyes.
Images bombard him.
May's body in the bathtub, submerged in pink water her hair floats limply in. Like seaweed, he had thought.
He is frozen in the doorway, and a terrible sound breaks the eerie silence of death. The scream is raw and animalistic. A mourning wail that rips out of him.
He crashes to his knees, pulls her from the water. He tries to breathe air into her lungs, but they are already filled with the same water dripping off of her cold skin onto the floor. His fingers brush against the impact wound on the back of her head. He looks up and sees a smear of red on the white edge of the tub.
With shaking hands he calls Tony, who answers chipperly. His attitude quickly shifts when he hears Peter's distress.
It takes two minutes of Peter gasping out words between hysterical bouts of crying for an intelligible statement to form.
Tony gets there before the ambulance, tries to pull him off May's naked, lifeless body. Peter fights against him, wrenches away from his grip to fling himself over her. He screams and cries, clings to her.
The paramedics have to coax him to let her go.
Peter goes home with Tony that day. He doesn't return to the apartment.
He insists on attending her funeral, and Tony sits on his bed with him for an hour afterwards until he finally leaves him to grieve alone.
Peter sobs, a broken sound that crawls up from deep within him. He hugs himself and falls back onto the bed in the fetal position.
It wasn't fair. May was fifty three and healthy. She didn't smoke and he'd rarely seen her indulge in what had been nightly glasses of wine immediately succeeding Ben's untimely death. She should have lived so much longer. She should have lived until her hair had gone silver-gray and she needed a walker. She should have lived long enough to see him graduate college and get married. She was supposed to always be there. She was supposed to be a grandma.
There was so much more life for her to live.
And now she never would.
He had cried so long the night she died he gave himself a nosebleed. He thought he'd never stop crying, but he had. He cries again now, and he thinks he won't ever stop.
But tiredness overcomes him and his sobs ease as sleep takes horrible awareness away from him.
When he wakes he tries to pretend that it had all been a nightmare. A creation of his unconscious mind-the result of eating to soon before bed. The lavish mattress and Egyptian cotton bed sheets give the truth away.
He chases sleep and the blissful unknowing it provided. Both elude him and Peter is forced to face the ugly reality.
His body feels like lead and he stares at the wall for five minutes before he convinces himself it's worth the effort to turn over. It takes another half hour for heavy legs carry him to the window. Night has fallen over the city and he touches the thick glass. Beyond his reflection are a million lights. Eight million people in New York alone who were able to keep living their lives while their friendly neighborhood Spider-Man hid away.
A world that went on regardless of the fact that his life had ended the day May died.
Wait. That. That was an idea. An old idea that now had a new appeal.
From his grief stricken, skewed perception, the call of death sounded like a sirens. The cure to his despair. His fingers twitch for the window lock.
"Peter?" FRIDAY asks.
The AI would no doubt alert Tony if he left, if she hadn't already.
There's no hesitation as Peter punches his fist through the glass. He doesn't feel the sting of shards embedding in his flesh as he knocks away the rest of the glass and crawls out of the window. He runs barefoot away from the beach house, lights already flooding it's previous darkness.
Tony will surely be suiting up to retrieve him.
He runs harder, but he has not thought this through. He's left behind his suit and his wrists are bare of his web shooters. He knows even in his muddled state of thinking that he won't get far. His solution to this is to veer course straight into the ocean.
Moonbeams and city lights glitter on the gently lapping waves. His foot slides in wet sand and he's almost there-
Armored arms constrict around him. They tumble to the ground and Tony pins him down.
He bucks and screams, claws at the sand. The ocean is yards away, a freedom whispered in its frothing waves. He could swim miles out, until his arms would propel him no farther. Then he would sink below the salt water, into his own watery grave.
"Kid, kid!" Tony's suit peels away and reveals his terrified expression. "What were you thinking?" He yells this, and Peter cries in response.
Tony holds desperately onto him as Peter curses his name, shouts words that pierce into Tony's heart.
"Why won't you just let me die?"
His thrashing subsides, the exhaustion of crying sapping his will to fight. Tony gathers him into his lap and cradles him like a baby, presses their foreheads together.
"Shh, shh," he whispers, petting Peter's hair and trying not to cry himself. He fails. "I know, I know. Shh, shh. I've got you."
Peter holds Tony tightly and they cry together.
Every time Peter showers it turns into a bath.
His calloused foot pushes the drain stopper down, a simple action.
Had May done it accidently? Stepped on it and slipped, fallen backwards to smack her skull on the tubs porcelain rim? No. The tub had been full of water, but hadn't had water running when he'd found her. Which meant May had intentionally been taking a bath, had likely stood to grab something and slipped. In her unconsciousness she drowned.
If she had hit her head in the same spot in the kitchen, would she have bled into her brain? Died anyway? Peter can't stop himself from thinking about these useless things.
The tub fills and he takes an instinctive gulp of air, lets the water submerge him, blows bubbles out of his nose that float upwards like jellyfish. The sounds of the house echo in the acoustics of the bathroom.
If he steels himself, gathers enough willpower, drowning himself in this way is possible.
His lungs burn. He can hear his heart beating. His mind wanders to Tony and the rest of the Avengers, to Ned and MJ. It would only take three to four minutes under the water to drown. Such a small time gap between him and death. Between him and May.
He comes up gasping, droplets flying off him.
He probably hadn't been under a full minute.
"Kiddo?" Tony knocks at the door. "FRIDAY said you're taking another bath."
"I'm fine." The lie cuts out of Peter's mouth.
"Don't make me come watch you," his not legal guardian warns.
"I'm fine." He hears Tony sigh and linger, senses the man's conflict, can picture him standing on the other side of the door looking helpless.
"Dinner will be ready soon." He says finally. Peter hears his departure, the soft paddling of retreating footsteps. He sinks beneath the water again and bursts to the surface sooner than before.
Tony takes him to see a therapist he refuses to talk to. If he unlocks his jaw all of his wishes for death would fall out, spill onto the floor like blood tainted water. He curls into the corner of her white leather couch and grits his teeth, crosses his arms. She watches him for an hour and when her egg timer goes off she opens the door for him.
She prescribes antidepressants he refuses to take. The emptiness that has hollowed him out is the only thing that makes Peter feel safe. He's not crying himself to sleep anymore. Not snapping at poor Clint when the man offers his condolences. Seeing Pepper and Natasha doesn't make him burst into tears that worsen when the women console him.
If he takes the pills he risks getting better. And if he told his therapist that he wanted to feel bad- needed to feel bad-well, that was giving her ammunition to use against him. Her calm voice would slither into his brain through his ears and try to rearrange his broken pieces.
"It's okay if you feel guilty, Peter." She had said in one of the weekly visits Tony forced him to attend.
I am guilty. I'm Spider-Man. I save people every day but I can't protect my own family? She's dead because I was out training with Tony. If I wasn't Spider-Man, she'd probably be alive.
He says nothing.
"Guilt is a perfectly normal response to death, Peter. As is anger. But you need to realize that while the way you feel is valid, it doesn't make the emotions true. You were not the cause of May's death."
There's a folded quilt draped over the opposite arm of the couch and Peter can see other people's hair on it. A long strand of grey, a curlicue of brown. Rich people who wrapped themselves in the false comforts of strangers, dished out for hundreds of dollars per hour.
The timer rings and he bolts for the door.
If he voiced all that he was thinking and feeling, it would only make him relive his trauma in more vividness. Force him to examine the emotions that drove him to punch out a window and run for the ocean with the intent of returning only if he was washed up on shore.
Tony hugs him that night before he goes to bed. Whispers into his hair that he loves him and presses a kiss into the curly tresses.
Peter can't lift his arms to return the embrace. Can't undo the wires that keep his mouth shut to speak the truth. "I love you, too, Mr. Stark. I want to die. I need help."
These admissions go unsaid and Tony squeezes him before letting go.
"Peter, do you want to go with me to see the wizard?" Tony asks, and Peter's automatic response is, "no." But another thought steps in front of his desire to be alone.
Strange had all sorts of ancient relics and spell books, buried in one of them was surely a spell that would help him. Either one to bring May back to him or to take him where she was.
Luck smiles upon him when Strange accidentally unleashes an ancient evil and needs Tony's help containing it. They both tell him to stay behind. When he would have once protested, he is all too eager to be left to his own devices.
He starts his search in a room that smells of must and mildew, covered wall to wall with bookshelves. The air is thick and dust particles are illuminated in a shaft of sunlight coming in through a window. This was the room Strange had exited in haste after accidentally releasing a "long dormant evil", as he had explained. It looked to be the man's study, and Peter wastes no time leafing through all the open books on his desk.
It takes twenty nerve wracking minutes, Peter jumping at the slightest sound, but he finds what he's looking for in a leather bound book, the cover scratched and so faded its original color was indiscernible. Much of the text was in a language he didn't recognize, save for cursive notes in the margins.
"Demon will grant one wish–" and the rest was illegible. If Peter was in his right mind, he would know this was a terrible idea. But he is so consumed by grief he doesn't care.
He wants May. And he'll do whatever it takes to get her back from deaths clutches.
On the floor he draws a pentagram in chalk with strange ruins encircling it.
He phonetically speaks the spell and the further he gets the more quiet the room becomes. His voice is the only thing that breaks up the unnerving silence. Electricity tingles over his skin, sparks on the chalk outline drawn on uneven floorboards. He reaches the end of the spell and when the last word falls past his lips the pentagram glows blindingly.
Peter's arm rises to cover his eyes and when he looks there is a being in the confines of the circle.
It looks to be a man, his skin a mess of open wounds and scars. White, pupiless eyes crinkle at their edges and the creature grins at him.
"Why have you summoned me, angel?" He asks, tone higher than Peter would have expected from his hulking, muscled stature.
"I'm not an angel." He stutters, and the thing's grin widens.
"You will be, I can smell it." He sniffs the air theatrically. "You're a martyr, too. So tell me, angel, why have you called me from the darkness?"
"I need a wish."
The demon's head tilts. "Don't we all? Where is your master, youngling?" He scans the room and spots the book in Peter's hand, eyes him from head to toe. "You're not an apprentice." He realizes aloud. "That makes sense. No teacher in their right mind would let a student summon me."
"Why?" Peter steps closer, the action almost not of his own will.
The demon grins, his teeth now taking the appearance of fangs. "I am Wade. I am danger. I am death."
Peter steps forward again, one hand pressing to the tangible, shimmering barrier that kept Wade trapped. Wade mimics the action, pressing against the barrier. Peter can feel the heat rolling off the demon in waves.
"Can you reverse death? My aunt she… she died." Tears prick his eyes and Peter blinks them back.
"I can," Wade drawls, examining his fingernails in a board fashion. An ugly smirk twists his lips. "A life for a life. Another would have to take her place."
Peter gulps. His chin wobbles with the promise of tears. Wade tuts and shakes his head. "So pretty," he coos. "Tell you what, angel, I'll make you a deal. You do something for me, I'll bring your aunt back, no life trading required."
Peter should ask, "what?" Or better yet he should say no and tell the demon to crawl back into the pit from whence he came. Instead what comes out is, "anything."
Something glints in those white eyes. "Come here, angel." Wade's tone dips low.
Is Peter imagining that Wade says angel almost affectionately? Like a pet name?
"I–"
"If you will it the barrier will let you pass through."
Peter experimentally pushes forward and meets no resistance. He stumbles into Wade, caught by arms looping around his waist. Lips capture his and he feels the kiss in his toes. It's all consuming. Dizzying. "Say you're mine, Peter Parker." Wade whispers against his jaw. At this distance Peter can smell the sharpness and sulfur that clings to Wade.
"I'm yours." God, he's an idiot.
"Close your eyes."
His eyelids suddenly feel heavy and they flutter shut. Wade's nose brushes against his throat, his breath making Peter's skin bristle in goosebumps. "We're going to be in love for eternity, I can already tell." Wade says this softly, as if to himself.
"Yes," He agrees, swaying on his feet. Wade crushes Peter flush against him.
"Yeah?" He laughs lowly, tongue licking a path on his throat. Peter moans, body instinctively leaning away from the touch. Wade's supportive grip on his waist tightens painfully. "If you are not mine, leave now and seek atonement, angel." He rights himself, towering over Peter.
Inhuman eyes bear into him and Peter shudders, feeling as though his very core was exposed. Wade doesn't pull away from him, but he also doesn't move closer. "Decide now."
He has been given the option to close the door he opened, an out from making a deal with a demon. The fear in Peter only serves as reluctance and he stands on his tiptoes to kiss Wade again, chaste this time. Sweet and sad.
"I'm yours." He confirms, and Wade thumbs the tears he hadn't felt himself crying away.
"You know not what you do, mortal." Wade warns, tone warmer now. Almost regretful.
"I'm yours," Peter repeats, kissing the demon again. It's frenzied, fearful. Strong hands push him away.
"You are pure. I'll taint you."
Peter meets his gaze. "Ruin me."
Wade dives and the kiss is bruising, a painful clash of teeth. It makes Peter forget everything. The reason he's doing this is lost in the suffocating haze of Wade's heat and smell. The demon's teeth catch and tug at his bottom lip, drawing a trickle of blood. Peter can't keep his cry of protest silent.
He expects a violent punishment because this demon must now own him through some kind of verbal agreement, but Wade hushes him gently. Broad hands that surely have power that surpasses his own sweep down his back soothingly.
Wade kisses him again, soft and loving in a way Peter can't comprehend. "So much loss," Wade muses, hand coming to rest on Peter's nape. "So much sadness." He sucks at Peter's earlobe and oh -that feels nice. "I'll make it better, angel."
That statement, coming from a demon, should sound condescending. But Peter hears only sincerity.
Clawed fingers comb through his hair and touch him everywhere-when had he shed his clothes?-not once do the pointed nails cut him. A hot mouth sucks at his chest and a ragged cry is forced from Peter's mouth. The world seems to spin and he finds his back flattened to the rough hardwood. His legs fall apart to accommodate Wade's presence. His mouth, filled with teeth that could rip his throat out, sucks love marks on his skin. It tastes and savors him.
Wade is lounging in his dark domain when he feels a long forgotten but familiar pull. Below him his summoning circle appears and engulfs him in flames. When the hellfire dies down he sees his caller. A human child.
Immediately he can sense the goodness in him, can see the sadness he's drowning in. Truly the human existence was tragic.
His demonic attributes, which had been dormant for centuries since he'd gotten himself condemned to his own little slice of Hell, stir awake. He wants to lure this child closer, steal the innocence he exudes and leave him broken. Alas, he's trapped within his summoning circle.
He goes through the motions. Each time the boy speaks he gets a glimpse deeper into his past.
Death, loss, pain. Yet the boy-Peter Benjamin Parker-endured it all. Strove to help others, put himself recklessly in harms way to protect people. Angels wings were meant to sprout forth from those shoulder blades.
Peter steps tentatively forward. Approaches his demise and wastes the sole safeguard protecting him from the demon's sadistic tendencies.
Wade is unable to strike the human down. No other who had summoned him was like this boy. They had been souls destined to become demons themselves. Peter's insides shine with light. Any other demon would not hesitate to defile someone as pure as this, but Wade feels compelled to protect the light rather than snuff it out. In the oblivion of his mind he hears the murmur of a memory-a past life. A humanity all his evil deeds had not managed to erase.
He was once innocent, in need of protecting.
He lays the boy out beneath him and is as gentle as he can be. Pleasure fogged eyes find him and Peter whines beautifully. Sinewy arms twine around Wade's shoulders and Peter's body arches to meet him.
The boy tastes like sunlight and saltwater. He tastes like redemption.
Wade can't resist shoving two fingers into the heat of Peter's mouth and the boy makes a muffled sound before closing his lips around the digits and sucking. His other hand trails down to Peter's chest and he rolls a nipple between his fingers, loving it when Peter thrusts up against him.
He grins wickedly and puts his mouth on the other nipple, knowing full well no one had ever touched Peter like this. It's a strenuous exertion of self control to suppress his demonic need to harm and dominate. But he manages.
Well, a taste wouldn't hurt.
He takes his fingers from Peter's mouth and wraps them around his throat, a firm weight that constricted his airway without blocking it. Peter stiffens beneath him, hands flying to grip Wade's forearm. He doesn't struggle against him, however, and Wade knows the boy has the ability to fight him off if he wanted to.
They stare at one another, Wade down and Peter up.
Wade finds himself transfixed by those dark eyes, feels like he's looking at something he'd been missing his entire life and hadn't even known it. His hand flexes on Peter's throat and the other rests on his hip. Peter blinks, something akin to acuity returning to his eyes.
They look at him curiously, and Wade realizes this is Peter when he isn't mourning the loss of his aunt. This is the boy who cracks jokes and makes everyone around him laugh or roll their eyes.
This is the boy he's going to fall utterly in love with.
The hand on Peter's throat moves to brush his red cheek with a tenderness Wade didn't know he had.
True remorse seizes hold of him. Peter is doing this to bring his aunt back to life, not because he wanted to be with the demon. He didn't know what he was doing and Wade was, and would continue, taking advantage of that.
He could tell himself it was because they were star crossed lovers, or any number of beautiful lies. But the truth of it was he wanted Peter and he was going to take him, keep the boy to himself for the rest of his human life and then his afterlife.
He could grant Peter his wish with nothing in return.
There was a reason good things didn't happen to the demon, and this was it. He did bad things, and the universe in all its wisdom doled out bad things to him. Peter was a good thing. Better than he could ever deserve.
He reacted to the universe's slights with malice, rage. He used his powers for revenge and personal gain. Peter was given power he could have used selfishly, but he set out to help the undeserving citizens that lived in the taint and rot of New York while anticipating nothing in return. Even now Wade can feel the light inside the boy licking at his disfigured skin, bathing it in a warmth only an angelic creature could exude.
If he kept Peter near him, that light would fade to embers. He would break Peter one way or another, take everything he had until he was a husk of his former self.
Wade makes a decision then.
He takes Peter's mouth again, reverent in a way he'd never shown to any divine authority. The boy returns clumsily, another reminder to how painfully young he was. How inexperienced.
Wade sighs into the kiss and breaks it, looking down at Peter's pretty face. His head is tilted back and his eyes are half lidded, kiss swollen lips parted around heavy breaths. He seems to wait, suspended, for Wade.
The darkness in him flares and his teeth ache to tear into delicate flesh, to liter his skin with bite marks. Saliva floods his mouth at the thought of lapping up virgin blood.
Peter is unaware of it, but his light reaches out and soothes Wade's rising desires. Brings him back into the control that had been slipping through his fingers. He sighs again and pets his angel's mop of hair. Peter nuzzles into the touch.
Wade stands, uses his grip on Peter's hair to guide him onto his knees. The boy goes willingly, although Wade can hear his heartbeat quickening, a rapid succession of beats thudding in his chest. Whether it's from fear or arousal he can't be sure.
Those pretty lips part expentently and a pink tongue peeks out. Peter glances up through his lashes, and Wade sees the glimmering trail tears have made down the corners of his eyes. If he was a better person he would release his prey. Instead he brings Peter close enough that he can reach the tip of his erection. The boy tries to move closer, jerked to a stop by the hand tangled in his hair. His tongue prods the blunt head of Wade's cock, swirls around it before he settles for kitten licking the slit. If the taste of precome is disagreeable, his face doesn't betray this.
Wade lets him strain against his grip to suck him and then relents, his hold on Peter's hair loosening so his fingers can comb back to the cradle the base of his skull. The boy sucks him in, drool spilling down his chin as Wade breaches his throat. When he's sheathed Peter's lips are a seal around him, his mouth taut and his throat bulging with Wade's girth.
The boy swallows around him, unsure of what to do.
"First time blowing a dick this big?" Wade huffs a laugh, hand stroking through his hair.
Peter gives a muffled hum in reply, struggling to breathe through his nose. He blinks more tears out of his eyes and they trace the soft curve of his cheek. A few get caught in his lashes.
The tension bleeds out of him and Peter blinks up at Wade. His eyes shine with tears and his face is flushed, his mouth stretched wide around Wade's cock. Somehow he still looks innocent.
It's hot and wet and oh so good, but Wade pulls out. He rubs the tip of his cock over Peter's lips, paints them with precome. Maybe he hopes Peter will miss his taste after they part.
He would like to take his time deflowering his angel, balance Peter on the cusp of orgasm until his flush reached his chest and he was begging, but he knows the boy has powerful friends. While he is physically imprisoned in his summoning circle his demonic senses extend far beyond. He hears and sees things Peter is deaf and blind to.
The wizard, a worthy foe, fights with the man of metal and they will soon return to this place.
He could go on like this for hours, but all good things must come to an end. And Peter was the best thing Wade had ever seen.
A bit of magic conjures oil he uses to stretch Peter. He gets one finger in and the boy whines, trying to wriggle away from the intrusion. He rubs his pulsing insides with the pad of his finger, slowly in and out. Peter's hyperventilating breaths settle into a calmer rhythm. Wade twists his finger and pushes into the knuckle.
He searches for the spot that will make Peter's toes curl and when he finds it the boy sobs, arching in what must be an involuntary motion. After what can only be about a minute Peter's body pushes down to meet the exploring finger and Wade adds a second. He scissors the tight hole open and when he adds a third finger Peter gasps so violently spittle flies from his mouth.
Wade slicks his member and lines himself up at the stretched hole, presses inside Peter's pliant body. It's a battle to pop past the ring of muscle.
Slender, trembling thighs clamp down around his thighs.
The boy chokes on garbled cries. He might say "please," or "stop," or "it hurts." But Wade is pretty sure its his name.
Scrambling fingers find purchase on his shoulders and scratch at him, drag him down so his body covers Peter's shaking one.
Peter's heat flutters around him and Wade can only restrain himself from moving for a few moments. He sets a slow, steady pace. He would like to pound into his angel with a punishing force, leave inkwell imprints of his fingertips on Peter's hips, but he can't justify hurting the little one anymore than he already has.
Besides, this speed lets him feel the sweet drag of Peter against his scarred flesh and the sight of Peter shuddering beneath him is worth it.
As much as he loves watching pleasure spill across Peter's face he hauls the boy up and repositions them so that he's sitting cross legged, Peter's forehead pressed to his shoulder. He jerks Peter off, the both of them rapidly approaching completion.
"Okay, angel. Are you ready?"
Peter's mouth falls open to question him, a gasp forced from him in the place of words. Sharp teeth sink into his throat over his pulse point. His scream is lost in the roar of magic around them.
Peter wakes up beneath a severely missed water stained ceiling. Around him are a hundred sounds. Traffic, groaning pipes, dishwashers rattling in other apartments.
Most importantly the sound of someone shuffling around in the kitchen.
He bolts out of bed and into the kitchen to see May preparing coffee. She glances over her shoulder and smiles. Her face is bare of makeup but rosy with life, the pallor of death gone. Beneath her glasses her eyes are fringed with a thin network of wrinkles. Flashes of silver run throughout her tangled topknot of brown hair and gold stud earrings are pinned into her ears. They match the delicate gold chain necklace she's not wearing, and those pieces both match the wedding ring she no longer wears.
She's really there. Peter knows this because he couldn't imagine her in this much detail after they buried her. If he pictured her all he could imagine was her body in the bathtub, or laying on the white satin bedding of her casket.
"You're up early for a Saturday." She had gone back to making her coffee and looks back at him as she speaks. She stops immediately. "Peter? Are you crying?"
He hugs her tightly. Her body is warm and alive.
She returns the embrace, confused but always happy to hug her nephew.
Later he wonders if it had all been a hyper realistic dream, but as he dresses for the day he sees a scar in the juncture between his neck and shoulder.
It's the outline of teeth.
A/N: I do not own Spider-Man or Deadpool.