Chapter 7

Mayhem in April

Peter had been bounced around enough times over the years to qualify as a human pinball, and the only reason why he hadn't been able to go from pinball to wrecking ball being that he had talked too much. In that time, he'd been punched and kicked around, shot, fired, torched, defenestrated, scorched, bitten, and chewed; he had been broken, bruised, frozen, and electrified; injected, drugged, dragged through the mud; crushed, ground, peppered, and tenderized... and he'd been criticized a bunch, too. With sticks and stones and everything else, he'd been worked over worse than a dish placed before an impossible to please master chef for the majority of his life.

With treatment like that he'd learned: how to take a punch, or several, or several dozen, fairly well. He couldn't heal as well as some others on the block or in the business, but just well enough that his stiff upper lip had healed back stiffer, and he couldn't hit as hard as some either, but he could take a hit better than the majority of the working joes out there and keep walking with only a standup routine of complaints.

He had made a career out of being a punch-drunk barfly, always on the prowl for his next all-nighter, and somehow the medications, hospital bills, and funeral bills that always inevitably came his way over the years had never once been for him. The Webhead had always been hard to squash, if not hard to stay squashed, which was just peachy for him. But for the longest time, Peter himself wondered what kind of a lucky guy he had to be to see everyone around him get laid to rest while he stayed awake, never there in time to keep their eyes open. Lucky, lucky, lucky…

The book he'd bought had said that was a waste of time and that, "When you are waking up in a casket at the bottom of the ocean, it is always better to stop thinking and to start swimming. And, if you don't know how to, you this is the perfect time to learn."

Fortunately for Peter, he was good at swimming if nothing else. But after all was said and done, the periods of rest that came in between his shifts gave way to one of the two types of recuperation he'd come to expect afterward. Punching out of his shift with bruised knuckles and sore everything else had always been a lonely affair for the most part, he'd come crawling home to find some place to lie down and what kind of rest he'd get all depended on just how hard the day at the office had been.

Most of the time it was oblivion – a deep and near dreamless, sleepless haze where his body hibernated and healed from his tiredness. He'd wake up and be right as rain afterward. Usually. Any other time though, when he engaged his favorite, lifelong activity of punching up out of his weight class at hulks, gods, giant sized robots, aliens, and everything in between wasn't as pleasant. During periods of rest like those he was always semi-lucid, with whatever bed, floor or couch he'd had enough strength to crawl to being too hard while also being too soft. A breeze could be too cold while simultaneously being too hot, and covers would suffocate him while his sweat would freeze his bruised and near-broken, chill ridden body that sank into whatever he lay on like a boneless puddle of tactless jokes and self-deprecation.

Everything always seemed to heal back into place in a matter of hours to a couple of days, but it was always rest without the pleasure of it: just painful recuperation. And it had a tendency to be more common as the years went on, so he got to know the ghosts and voices and scathing criticisms and regrets of his own making a lot better while they kept him company.

Because back then, after a hard day's work when he was finally punching out from his low to zero paying, but action rewarding, 9-to-5, Peter was always alone until the days finally came where he wasn't. Until MJ was with him, against him, and every rest was full of sweet dreams where family and friends never died, and where the too-late and two-bit, no sense vigilante was the big, spectacular, sensational, amazing hero who always got there just in time to save the girl, no matter what.

And those were some good dreams... but without her there they had stopped for good, and Peter had put in his two-week notice to resign.

He'd allowed himself to forget what rest like that felt like, and it wasn't until after the symbiote had come and taken him to the dance-floor that was the mayor's office for their reunion that he couldn't help but remember. When it was over and she'd left him to to nurse his bruised and sore body just the old days, and he was too cold and too hot, wrapped up in a cover and watching his cuts and bruises heal over in the dark, lonely solitude of apartment for hours, did he realize that he hadn't experienced the former type of rest in a long, long time.

He had realized, once again, just how alone he was. And what a rude awakening that had been.

And now he'd gone and ding-dong-ditched at Death's door; had turned and drunkenly tripped on his own two feet to stumble down the steps to damn near break his neck on Death's stoop. And as his Daddy-issues having ex dragged him away from Death's doorsteps.

Death itself wrenched open its door and threw back its hood. Peter saw salt and pepper hair, Charlie Chaplin's mustache, and high blood pressure personified as his ex-girlfriend dragged him away off the Grim Reaper's lawn like he was a dumb teenager again. Death shook his fist at her to, "Get that idiot named Parker off my lawn," and, "Out of my office so he could go get him some better pictures of Spider-Man!"

And Peter chuckled in his dream-filled sleep, and waved back.

This was the best nap he'd had in years.

Peter woke up in less pain than he expected. If there weren't any at all he would have figured himself for a dead man, and he didn't meet the criteria for that.

His eyelids creaked open with crusted and his eyes burned. He smelled sweat and the sharp tang of rubbing alcohol all around him more than anything else. It took him a moment to make sense of what he saw, and when he did he still didn't know what it was he was looking at – a bed? – and that was all the time it took for the headache he had promised himself after using his head like a battering ram to come running up to knock him in the skull.

He bit back a groan while his brain serenaded his skull with the throbbing rhythm of his own dull heartbeat, and spots danced before his eyes. He put his fingers to his temple and felt a bandage wrapped three or four times there, with no blood came away when he looked.

Sunlight streamed through a window at his side, jut bright enough to make his eyes burn worse, and he groaned. With hangovers like this, of course he never needed to drink…

He leaned back and found that he was, in fact, laying on a pillow. Multiple ones actually, all stuffed beneath him as comfortable as could be and mitigating his discomfort as much as they could. He was in a bed, a soft, warm bed, inside of a bedroom, wrapped up and sweating and healing in covers in a way that had to have been intentional. He hadn't known or expected where he would have woken up, but the symbiote's usual go-to places when it wanted to take him away where they could be alone had always involved some place dark, quiet, and intimate - like a sewer.

But this was just downright courteous, if not caring. After all he'd done to her over the years, without even realizing it, he couldn't imagine why. Obviously he didn't need to, which was fine. Decided to chalk it up to her being grateful about his comments about her bedside manner and taking them. Better late than never for the both of them.

He sat, catching his bearing while the room swam around him, and there was even a moment, just a moment, where he felt a depression next to him. He thought about rolling to his side before thinking better of it; MJ was always the smaller spoon, even though her ass had been the one to swallow him whole while he fed her more and more. And back then, He'd smell her long, red hair and get a hankering for waffles because of it. He would always would tell himself to ask how she got her hair to smell like waffles, but somehow always managed to forget while he gave her breakfast in bed in the form of a creampie. And she'd groan and shift and moan against him, annoyed and tired, but too fucked raw to do anything but to stick her ass out and let him finish using her because she knew he'd make her enjoy it, and always had.

They'd spend the morning together in bed, before he had to go to work. But he knew that MJ wasn't there anymore, and knew there was a good-as-gold chance that she might just recoil in disgust from him, knowing what he'd been getting up to recently as well.

But waking up and reminiscing had gotten him hard, and he sighed to himself and rolled to his side anyway to wheel out of bed and find out where exactly he'd ended up after his latest bender. His priorities had assigned themselves as more important than his erection, and they were to find out where, if anywhere on his Earth, the kids were. Mayday, Ashley, and Junior… his little knick-knack would only keep the dimensional portal closed for so long, with them all sharing his last name, if not his DNA to a certain extent, he knew they'd all come trudging back to finish the fight that he didn't want them in, stubborn as a set of mules.

He turned rolled as far as his penis could make it before he came to a stop. It took him a moment to make sense of what he'd stuck his dick into this time before he looked under the covers to see his hard-on planted a good bit between a pair of soft, warm, plush thighs of the girl next to him. Peter looked up at her and stared. She was doing the best impression of Sleeping Beauty he'd seen in decades, a world away with some change to spare over his, but that face of hers would have made Walt Disney and his entire lineup of Princesses go out of business…

Dark and messy red hair, freckles beneath her clothes eyes and around her cute, delicate nose, and mouth parted open to breathe as her lithe, delicate body rose and fell beneath the covers… he breathed in himself, not sure whether to bring her close or to slowly back away.

Before he could even think of doing one or the other, her eyes snapped open with more alertness than he expected. She blinked, rapidly as if to make sure she wasn't dreaming, and then the covers billowed as she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed.

Having been through a lot in his life, he could shrug off good amount of discomfort before he let it show and this was no different. He wouldn't let it be. She was her Daddy's little girl and could probably lift a sedan over her head with one hand, Peter was sure, and his bones creaked and snapped painfully as she clutched him to her, her breathing heavy and shuddering. But Peter took that pain as easily as any punch or kick the Webhead had ever gotten, and he took it in stride.

He wasn't good at comforting people, and being around people who cried made him uncomfortable as it was always likely for him to say something wrong. It occurred to him that she was doing with him exactly what she hadn't gotten a chance to do with Happy-Peter, tongue-kissing and incest aside, which was to embrace him after he died.

Peter let her do that much. She deserved that much, and he softly, somewhat awkwardly pat her back as she started to sob into his chest. "Hey kiddo…," he rasped, a slight, pained smirk on his face and his throat as dry as his own humor, "...Daddy's home."

She froze and her sobs ceased, and he wondered if he'd said the wrong thing, but knew he always had. He waited for the fallout of putting fresh salt on her wounds, only to blink as she started to laugh. "You're alive- we thought- you were… we- we…"

She had to swallow a lump in her throat to keep talking and looked up at him as though she were running out of air, her sparkling green eyes both wet and wide and her pretty little mouth half-smiling and half-crying. "…you're alive," she finally managed.

She held him tighter, and his spine popped in a place that felt like it shouldn't have. "Alive enough to be in pain," Peter grunted back, flaring his nostrils.

She recoiled, but he stopped her, holding her by the back of her head. He just… wanted to stay like this, even if only for a second, or two. And she understood that, as well as she understood him, and softly held onto him while he ran his fingers through her hair and the two of them lay in bed, together. "…Better than the alternative," he said, mostly to himself.

She let out a laugh into his chest and he looked at the wall behind her. Soft cream-colored wallpaper that went down to a just as clean carpet. The room, he didn't recognize it at all, but it did remind him of his apartment. The fresh, but still sparse and Spartan look to it gave him the vague impression that whoever it belonged to had the same interior decorator that he did.

It had been years since he'd laid in bed with a woman, even if she was only barely just that; she didn't smell like waffles, but she did smell like sweet sweat and hot air, and with the covers bundled around them with their body heat made Peter begin to sweat, too. She shifted, and the movement of her legs and of her plump thighs reminded him that he was still stuck between them, with the even hotter mound of her crotch sitting atop his recently acquired morning wood… that he'd gotten because he was thinking of how he used to fuck his late wife – and her mother.

As she looked down between them, Peter wondered when, not if, he was going to be doing the tango in a room full of fire and brimstone. And how many times he could get off before that happened.

"Did you… sleep well?" she asked, looking back up at him. There was a question on her face as she bit her lip and frowned, just as much to herself as it was to him.

Peter understood it well enough because he wondered the same thing – how many steps from death did he have to take before he got to fuck his not-daughter?

The answer was: not long at all. He breathed slow and deep and ground his hips against her while sparing a glance to her eyes. They slammed shut and she let out a breath, her hand coming down to where his prick began to softly see-saw against her cunt to help him along with dainty, shaking fingers. Peter felt the friction of her underwear and couldn't be bothered to wonder or care what kind or color they were, only that, if his death defying luck held up, he'd be making them white.

"Best sleep I had in years," he responded, and she leaned up to kiss him with an elated grin on her face.

He didn't know how long he'd been asleep but his breath couldn't have been the best, but hers was nothing but heady, hot air as she breathed into his mouth and slid her lips and tongue against his. She began to let out small noises that were crushed beneath his deep voiced growls, crashing her body back against his more insistently. The friction between them felt good enough but it was the heat that made him want to go someplace even tighter.

She pulled away with a little smile, her eyes alight and happy and alive as she looked at him. "Any good dreams?" she asked, laughing softly with, her voice full of vim and vigor before Peter swiveled his hips to ground the fat head of his prick against her steaming cunt through her underwear, working a hoarse cry out of her. She wrapped her legs around one of his – it felt like she was wearing short shorts. He wanted to get them wet, make them wetter and stickier, gooey and whiter and stuff her full of it all until her slim belly was all nice and full…

He thought of how she looked at him and saw Happy-Peter, when all Peter himself saw was a bad reminder and the tag-in that gotten put in the ring after the last wrestler had been taken out on a stretcher. He was thinking of how young he felt with her, his chest swelling and feeling powerful and triumphant. That he had just walked away from a fight with yet another bozo who thought they could take him. It was like he was young again, back in the ring after his very first match with Crusher Hogan and feeling high from the testosterone fueled machismo of it all, and Mayday was the showgirl that scampered on stage to drape herself around him so he could take her into the back room, split her open, and screw her against the lockers so hard he'd have to carry her home to her horrified and infuriated parents.

He was thinking of how he wasn't too bad for an old man. Then the door opened.

Having never been on the receiving end of seeing it but always an active participant when applicable, Peter only figured that the sight of two people dry humping and fucking beneath the sheets was an easy sight to figure out. Because it was as he'd moved from Mayday's side to above her, dwarfing her slim body with his powerful one and crushing her cunt with the weight of his fat, lust engorged cock. Her left leg kicked out and wrapped around the back of his right knee, tugging him into her, and as she rolled up her shirt – someone cleared their throat.

Peter stiffened painfully and beneath him Mayday clicked her teeth, sounding utterly annoyed, and when Peter looked down at her, his prick still sandwiched in the enticing fat and heat of her cunt, she looked… different. Her face was the same, but the way the dim light fell on her features wasn't. She looked up at him, looking like she'd gotten caught reaching into the cookie jar as he slowly peeled the covers back to get a better look at her. Uncaring that he was damning himself to the fate of being a known incestuous cradle-robber.

Beneath him Mayday was the same as he remembered her, with her untouched, unscarred, almost porcelain smooth body seeming like a precious treasure against his worn and torn one. Her belly fell and rose and she tucked into herself, smiling bashfully up at him with that face and those eyes of hers…

They were hazel. Peter blinked. Her eyes were hazel, not green, and her hair was as deep brown as his was, not dark wine red, and her freckles weren't as numerous as he knew they should have been. What he saw while he looked down at the daughter he never had was something from his dreams, a living, waking reminder that he had failed at being a father, years before he'd even met her.

She trailed her eyes up his body and to his face with a smile that was quickly turning predatory as she struggled to keep her elation to herself. They locked eyes and she blew a kiss to him, her teeth sharp and her tongue long, pink, and slick with saliva. Peter finally looked behind them, at the doorway, and there was Mayday, standing awkwardly in his shirt with her teeth gnawing wordlessly into her lower lip. There was two of her now, which was hardly a bad thing, but the Mayday beneath him changed further, her clothing melting away to an approximation of his night shift uniform – like all symbiotes usually did. All Peter could think about looking between both of their make-a-Disney-Princess-green-with-envy faces was that there wasn't an original bone in a symbiote's boneless body.

The Mayday beneath him seemed to delight in the look of realization that crept on his face, and even moreso as it quickly dwindled to an expression of mild annoyance and an oncoming headache. He stared her in the eyes as she licked the air between them and Mayday behind him began to speak.

"Da- Mr. Parker," she started, keeping up their act from before and playing her awkwardness of seeing a man almost fuck her twin that he thought was her as the awkwardness of seeing him almost fuck his technical daughter at any rate, that most certainly wasn't, and shouldn't have been Mayday under any circumstance if polite company were to ask. But they weren't with polite company, now.

"Mr. Parker, this is…" Mayday's shadow stretched over Peter's back and he saw it gesture at the girl beneath him.

He cut her off with a grunt. He wasn't surprised, because if there was a surprised bone in his body, he'd broken it a while ago and it hadn't ever managed to heal the right way again. He knew who the young woman beneath him was, at least by half, and he had a damn good idea who her other half was as his prick twitched insistently at the too thin barrier of faux cloth, blocking him from sinking his fat cock balls deep into the cunt of who he assumed was a good, dead man's other daughter that Peter had been ready, able, and all too willing fuck like she was her twin sister.

His lack of advances was far and away more unwanted than his advances had ever been, always had been with her, and the girl beneath him cooed in an effort to spur him back on. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Parker," the symbiote said with Mayday's voice, and she laughed sweet and soft, throaty, haunting laugh – haunting because it got him going more than he cared to admit and because of the audible relief he could hear in it from her. From both of them.

April Parker placed a soft, gentle kiss on his lips, and whispered into his ear, "So… are you feeling thirsty again, Daddy?"

A/N: Quality over quantity – I want to make shorter chapters to have an easier time of getting them out. Hopefully this is quality enough, and I hope you're enjoying it.