Daddy's Little (Spider-)Girl(s) I

An old story I wrote on pastebin (Boy it sure is a good thing I'm not asian) that spawned another story I wrote. Had to rewrite it but holy shit, volleyball shorts. That was reason enough to come back to this, ngl.

(...)

At forty-four years old, Peter Parker wakes up in the morning. There’s a buzz in the back of his head and old habits saying the alarm is about to go off, that he’s spent enough time in a large, empty bed, alone. It’s time to get up, to leave the bedroom that’s lived in with his particular brand of mess because he has responsibilities to attend to.

The sunlight is just barely there, past his curtains. He turns in his sleep while his own internal alarm clock buzzes in the back of his head, and he habitually tosses and turns under the sheets. It’s an old song and dance routine that he can step to in his sleep. A choreographed routine of him raising his arm and fumbling for the cord to the alarm clock and pulling it out of the wall before he ever opens his eyes. Five more minutes, just enough time to get some more shut eye; just five more minutes, and…

He thinks of someone other than himself and then he’s out of bed like clockwork, not just routine. It’s punch-in for the day, time to clock in even with eyes blinking, bleary and half-heartedly opened. There’s a joke in the back of his head like a rousing cry. ‘You’re Spider-Man, Parker, so act like it’.

It’s a pretty hilarious joke. Him, the webhead? Not a chance. The only red he has in his life is a girl’s mop of dark red hair. He’s not a wallcrawler, but he daddy-long-legs by any measure.
‘You’re a Daddy, Parker. Got responsibilities to handle, so act like it.’ That’s something that always gets him moving: thinking of her. Particularly because if he wasn’t around, she’d sleep in forever. Takes after him that way.

So he’s out of bed, stumbling like a marionette first, and then a man just off a night long bender because he’s never been a morning person. He’s out of his room and into the hallway, and then he’s completely sober because it’s time to make breakfast, no matter how little sleep he’d gotten.

It’s a big day, she has a test, and Peter always remembers even if she doesn’t, and always knows she’ll ace it, because she always does.

Mayday Parker is her Daddy’s little girl.

(…)

Outside the room, in the hallway and on the staircase, there are pictures. Frames with pictures of family life. A young man and a baby, then a small child, then an older man and a teenaged girl. Birthday parties and science fairs and sports events – dodgeball, little league baseball, and finally volleyball.

The years have been kind to him. He doesn’t know why, exactly, and he’ll never really find out. It’s characteristic of him to always think that it shouldn’t be that way, that he doesn’t deserve it, but he’s grateful regardless. Still in his physical and mental prime, as fit as he was at twenty-five, if not stronger; bright eyed and barely grey at his temples and in his stubble, he’s an ugly duckling turned swan, a 98lbs water-weight geek turned to an exemplar of a man that’s grateful the one reason he’s still around: little Mayday Parker.

Big Mayday, that is. She’s not a child anymore, but a young woman – and still the only light in Peter’s eye. All he has and everything he will ever ask for. Nothing is more important to him than family, and family is all he has left. Family didn’t need his webs, and so he hung them up, threw them out. Family didn’t his problems, his life, so he ditched the former, found a new latter, and climbed up to some place safe for her.

Family needed safety, a place without vigilantes and psychopaths, and so Peter picked a place somewhere away from it all. Somewhere in the middle of the country, a place quiet and sunny where spiders were things you chased with raid and aliens were things you watched on an old VHS. But it wasn’t safe enough then… and so he had made it safe. A perfect piece of paradise-pie for Mayday, and everything he’s done to keep her safe is something he’d do again. Long nights and red knuckles don’t mean much if she’s okay.

She's his SOS. A godcall in a storm where the captain’s crew had gone overboard one after another. May Parker, Ben Reilly… Mary Jane, and then little baby Mayday. All that was left was the man at the helm, a hero that couldn’t save the people he cared about the most.

It hadn’t been Spider-Man that saved him, it had been the exact opposite. Some twisted version of him that abandoned everything that defined Peter – a failed clone named Kaine had retrieved Mayday during a storming opera of tragedies. Something poetic about that. Peter took that as a lesson and left town, baby in his arms. Spider-Man had his time, and now it was Peter’s. Things had needed to change, and he would change them for her. Anything for Mayday Parker. Anything.

After everything, it wasn’t the skeletons in his closet and the deeds he’d left behind to make sure their peaceful, middle-American suburban homestead stayed safe that haunted him – it was his secret identity, a stupid thing that still trailed after him years after Peter left his alter-ego behind. That Mayday didn’t know who he’d been was just the tip of the iceberg – by some sick joke, she was the webhead’s biggest fan, his biggest fan, and if Peter had his way, she would never find out the truth.

Maybe she hadn’t inherited his abilities. That was a vain hope, obviously. It was just a matter of time. He was fine with her having them, but the cons, outnumbered, still outweighed the pros; even though she would be able to defend herself from almost anyone, if she was anything like him – and she was a chip off the old block – there would be that perceived obligation, a looming legacy of misaligned commitments and failure that said she was Spider-Man’s daughter and that she had a responsibility.
Peter wouldn’t let her serve a world that didn’t deserve or appreciate her, and the world didn’t deserve her in the slightest. It could have him and call him whatever it wanted, but it would never do that to her.

The question of when her abilities will manifest, how, and whether she’d be the latest kid on the X-Men’s roster, or a mutate like him, he doesn’t know. But the time’s coming. He got his powers at fifteen, and she’s already seventeen. His luck is straining, but maybe her being the wallcrawler’s biggest fan will make it an easier pill to feed her. He doubts that.

Now, per routine, he’s in the kitchen again. The fridge is open, there’s juice on the second shelf, OJ and AJ chilling on the bottom, eggs on the top and in the back, cured ham on the bottom. Everything neatly organized thanks to Mayday. Peter looks at it all and shakes his head – if only she could be this clean with her room…
Egg yolks get scrambled and sat to sizzle on a neat and well-kept black pan next to bacon. It’s not always eggs and bacon, sometimes its waffles – she likes blueberry with cinnamon. He prefers pancakes. Once upon a time she tried to make herself like coffee so she could be more ‘adult’, like him, even though he doesn’t drink coffee. After spitting it out in the sink it was back to her orange juice with extra sugar. Peter prefers apple juice.

Their home is large, and there are double glass doors that look into the backyard. Vibrant green grass topped with early morning dew, the clouds starting to light up, the neighborhood peaceful and quiet save for an overhead airplane. The eggs sizzle and sit, and again he’s back in his seat, AJ in hand and watchful eyes on his home. He’s made money through inventions and grinding work, and… other ways, too, but none of that matters now. This place, this life, there isn’t a single thing Peter would trade it for, no deal he would make to change it. Nothing but the best for Mayday.

As he sips from his glass, clockwork comes round – a loud thud sounds from the ceiling, then a groan. Then, the blare of an alarm clock. Daddy’s little girl’s awake, and Peter smiles.

He’s happy.

(…)

Mayday Parker is a normal girl. She has normal freckles and normal, vibrant green eyes and normal, short tomboyish red hair. She’s just like every other girl. She hates early mornings, loves cute animals and math and science, and her father dearly. She hates staying up late but can’t seem to help it, sometimes, and she has normal, well above average grades. She’s the captain of her school’s volleyball team, the expected valedictorian, and like every other girl, she shattered her school’s scholastic average just a year ago.

She’s normal, and so are her problems. Like waking up just when her dreams are getting good, and falling on the floor because of it.

She always feels it before it happens, like every other normal person must does. The sensation of falling a buzzer on her scalp, jolting her awake just as she’s tipping over the bed. She falls and thinks she can catch herself finely, her fingers having a good hold on the covers, almost sticking to them. But then her sheets slide and it’s to the floor with her, off with her bed.

Her dreams are spilling out of her head like smoke in a kept room, and she groans. She was almost done. So close… there are times, just a few, where she’d like to be able to see them to completion. They rarely ever do.

Like any other girl, she has an enemy. Not Felicity Hardy, bringer of everything annoying and contrarian to her ever since they were children, no. Her nemesis’s name is Floor, and Mayday hates it today of all days because just as the all-encompassing heat that had been spreading throughout her body started to come to a boil, and her toes began to curl and her core began to pulse – just as she was about to… finish, without so much as doing a thing herself – she’s looking down at it instead.

She doesn’t curse – she’s a good girl and her father didn’t raise her that way. Instead, she drops a fist to the ground and glares at her truest enemy. “So, we meet again, floor…”
The heated sweat that had caused her hips to arch beneath her bedsheets and the full body tickle that had caused her to squirm in her sleep ebb to something awful: a clammy and anxious feeling. Frustration. She drops her head to the floor hard. It doesn’t hurt, but doesn’t distract her from the feeling of lost dreams either.

“Girls don’t get blueballs,” is what Felicity had said when Mayday questioned her about why she enjoyed tormenting the boys like she did. Wrapping them around her little finger and turning them into her hormonal little puppets. And she was right. Girls don’t get ‘blue balls’, they get cranky. Mayday is well acquainted with that feeling. Almost to the summit, paralyzed from the sensation of the journey… and knocked down to ground level with mud in her face and a blaring alarm clock in her ear.

She yanks the cord out of the wall by her bed without looking and flops onto her side, and then her back. It’s embarrassing falling out of bed, but there are worse things... like falling because her wet dream was so wet, she slipped. She has a few things to be embarrassed about, and in his infinite wisdom, her father’s advice is, “Nothing to be embarrassed about. You’re a teenager. Awkwardness goes away eventually. Usually. Probably. …Hopefully.”

Peter Parker doesn’t have the best way with words, but that’s his only fault. He’s away from the stereotype Mayday’s peers have of their own fathers, and worlds away from the sedan driving, beer gut having, superbowl watching fathers of her classmates. Fit, vibrant, and dedicated. Handsome, too handsome; capable to the extreme, yet strangely closed off to be the point that he was a topic on his own for the gossiping teenaged girls that found everything they could want in a boy… in a man.

That can make things get awkward for his daughter, sometimes. And that’s natural. Mayday is a normal girl, and it’s normal for a girl to find other girls talking about how hot her father is uncomfortable. How well-groomed he is, how good his muscled chest and arms looks in his dress shirts, the strong and sculpted shape of his body at any given time.

It’s all obscene, annoying, and haunting for her.

Really, it could drive a girl insane.

And maybe it has.

Because like her peers, Mayday has her own problems with the opposite sex. It isn’t that she can’t find a boy to like and date – they nearly throw themselves at her. She’s pretty, smart, popular – apparently hot, with an ass that looks like a perfectly ripened peach in her volleyball shorts; her lips that were both cute, pouty, and plump, as weird as those things are to hear through the local grapevine. So the selection is there for her, and she definitely has her eyes set on someone of the opposite sex, in particular.

Handsome and capable, perfectly in shape and somewhat mysterious. Mature, but funny, kind, and confident. Strong, brave, and a great cook that would love her as much as she loves him. The perfect man, really.

…And also her father.

So, you see, Mayday isn’t a normal girl. Her problems aren’t normal, and her dreams aren’t normal. All of them, her included, are spectacular.

Spectacularly sick.

(…)

She doesn’t have a problem with waking up and getting blue-balled, so to speak. Blue-balled – Felicity is the one who introduced her to that, the one who knows lingo like that. Blue-balls: noun, the sensation a man experiences when repeatedly aroused without release. Horned up. Fuck-frustrated and cumbrained.

Felicity Hardy has quite a way with words.

For her own personal usage, Mayday prefers… ‘break time’, because whenever she does experience that particular sensation, she has the sterling habit of stopping whatever she’s doing to go someplace private if she can manage, and then she takes a break, takes her time, and then… she pulls down her pants and tries to break her pussy with her fingers in time.

‘Pussy’ – Felicity calls it a cunt. A snatch, for snatching cocks, of course… A box – for holding cocks, obviously… A cock-holster for- Mayday understood implicitly. Or just a cunny if Felicity is feeling cute and innocent, but ‘innocent’ isn’t a word that could describe Felicity Hardy. Then again, at least in part because of her, there’s nothing innocent about Mayday at the moment, either.

Her fingers are all the way up inside of her, to the knuckle and hilt, rubbing this little spot on the roof of her puffed up, plump snatch like a button, then smashing down, punching it like it said something awful about her favorite superhero. She lets out a small, disbelieving laugh at what she’s doing – it’s her spot, and she’s grinding it into dust, but it’s not entirely her fault. It’s Felicity’s. The devil on her shoulder whispering things in Mayday’s ear without ever having realized it. The one who taught her these words, and made little, innocuous comments about the conspicuous inseam of her own crush’s pants that made Mayday aware of the fat, heavy bulge in her father’s shorts when he walks around the house.

Mayday doesn’t hate Felicity, but she can’t help but think that life would have been so much easier if they had never met.

Her room is decorated in posters and she thinks she’s such a kid for it, so immature… while she’s whimpering with a bit lip, mashing her palm flat against the plump rise of the top of her cunt. Spider-Man is on the wall in various acrobatic positions, looking down at her while she’s doing… this. She thinks she’d rather die than have him see her like this, but it’s better than the alternative that comes to mind when she sees the credits on these posters. The initials of the man who took them.

She keeps the name to the initials, but the two P’s together are enough to string together a mental image that makes her repress a groan. Her back arches, hips pressing into the air and toward the ceiling, her toes curling. She twitches and her vision gets all… spotty. She’s cumming, just a little, and as she smiles at that fact while it makes everything feel “So… good…” her reflex causes her to kick out toward her dresser.

Her already loose posture slips and she falls to her back, plump butt smacking against the ground with two fingers hooked into the drooling, choking pressure of her insistently tightening cunt to the thought of dropping down on something and wrapping her legs around someone. It’s not her dream, which had been more intense, less frustrating, nowhere near as full of self-loathing, and promised her a cum she wouldn’t have to tire her fingers for… but it’s good enough to make her chew her lip, whine, and shake like she’s begging to cum, because she is.

Nothing else matters, she just needs to finish. To cum. Her eyes dart for a good target so she can say who, because it isn’t who it really is. No, no he didn’t make her cum, won’t, and didn’t make her eyes close and her teeth chomp down on her lip so he couldn’t hear her from downstairs while he’s making breakfast for his little SOS. He won’t. No, no it’s Spider-Man, in his red and blues. Not his photographer, who’s in his boxers that make her eyes wander.

It’s Spider-Man she’s thinking of grinding against at the kitchen table as she sits in his lap and he grips her hair and tugs, using his powerful hips to spear her from below. In her mind’s eye he’s holding her tight, tight, so tight… He’s feeling her outside and in, groping her, molesting, possessing her as she whines for him to let it all out inside. But then his hand is at her throat, gripping it firmly and silencing her, his powerful arm around her waist, and his mauling claw at her rear leaving the prints of his fingers in her pliable, pert, and fat little ass while he starts to breed her like it’s her job.

He kisses her. Her juices turn to syrup that drool from her abused pussy, her cock-holster of a filled box and cunt. Her stomach clenches and the air in her lungs is gone as she feels it slam into her with force. There are hot, kludging lances that mark her and are making her feel so full even while she feels so stretched and claimed. Her fingers struggle to grasp something and claw at his muscled back. Her mouth lets out a cry she can barely hear as she’s pressing herself down to feel his full testicles against her ass as they empty, and his tongue is in her mouth, claiming her even though he already owns her.

All sense in her head melts away. An explosion radiating out from her core like a blossoming heat while her pussy clenches down tight enough that even her fingers can’t move. There’s an old dent in the dresser, and now more a deeper one with splintered wood on the carpet. Her toes are splayed, then curled, and her voice is gone. A sheen of sweat is on her freckled skin and she can see it, see him, so clearly…

She calls out, “D-Ungh! Daddy…!” while she looks in his eyes and feels his cum filling up her emptiness to make her whole.

To Spider-Man, of course. But it’s her father that answers her, both in the fantasy and out. “’Day?”

It’s all so routine that she doesn’t even have to think of what to say, and so routine she snaps back to reality. “Daddy, I’m up!” She says, not missing a beat and overloud so he can her through the floor. Her voice wavers and her fingers stutter, both trying to escape her pussy and trying to sculpt it to the shape of his cock.
“A-Ah… B-Be down in… a minute!” She says. He doesn’t answer back, satisfied. Mayday is too.

The world gets hazy as her orgasm ebbs away. Her pussy is throbbing like her heart in her chest, her eyes rolling. She’s panting, but trying to keep her breaths to herself like her fantasies. Her rationalizations. She has a crush on a popular guy, and that’s no lie. Because of it her panties around her ankles and the meat of her peach-like ass, perfectly plump and ripened to sit pretty in a pair of tightly fitting volleyball shorts, is fat and flush against her bedroom floor.

She raises a hand to see the just desserts of her efforts. Her hand is shaking, her digits soaked and glistening in the morning light. Viscous, clear, sticky, and she feels… bad. It’s been a while since she’s felt bad about doing this. But why should she? Spider-Man isn’t her father, obviously, and he’s who she was thinking of. Right. She’s normal, and it’s normal to indulge, sometimes. ‘Just like any other girl.’

Part of her agrees, but it’s knows it’s never sometimes for her, and she knows that too. She has a problem past what she won’t admit. A problem only solved and made worse by her wriggling fingers insistently grinding her spot between her legs, or grounding her ass into her seat against something hard. ‘If only everyone knew… volleyball captain, expected valedictorian, a golden child by any other measure… and you can’t stop fucking yourself because your daddy won’t do it for you. Because he’s not sick.’

Mayday shivers. The thoughts hurt, but only because they feel so good. A wrong, simmering taboo adding to the afterglow of her cumming. She wants to laze in it, squirm in the shame of it to feel the heat wriggling in her, like she’s back in his lap, shaking and full of his seed as it languidly sits in her core while he softens inside her.

She tries to take her words back and pretend, even while she’s grinding her little bred snatch against his heavy balls, and he’s kneading her fat little butt with his large hands. “Not… my daddy,” she feebly says, and feels like a silly little girl for it when he holds her against him, takes her to bed, and tucks her in. Spider-Man, not Peter Parker, and it’s enough to make her cum a third time as her fingers audibly plop out of her and her body goes rigid.

The clinical side of herself snarks back. ‘Yeah, Spider-Man. Right.’

(…)

In front of the bathroom mirror, she’s objectively beautiful. Peter tells her she has her mother’s eyes and hair, her cute button nose and fair skin, and freckles. Beautiful like her mother, he says. She wonders about that. Objectively, there’s cuteness with hints of the woman to come, but subjectively, because that’s all Mayday can think of after cumming while stuffing her covers into her mouth so she can shut up, she feels… ambivalent.

Peter doesn’t encroach on her privacy like her friend’s dad’s do. He knows that she’s a growing girl, a young woman who needs her space, but he always be there if she needs him. Mayday almost half wishes he would have just walked in on her while she was calling out to him and humping her hand, pillow, mattress or bedpost, just to get it all out in the open. That she has a problem, and maybe if they act quick they can reserve her a pretty room in an asylum, or something.

She’s the perfect daughter, not a little girl anymore… and looking at her body in the mirror she can’t help but think about what type of woman she’d be. Slender, with small breasts? Or will she grow, her breasts turning heavy and her areola large, puffy?  Will her nipples be pinchable and perfect to nibble, or soft, pliant and suckable? The freckles at her collarbone and on her chest, will they go away? Will she look better with longer hair or should she keep it short? How would she look if she laid off the sports and allowed herself, her ass, to grow plump? Guys liked that, but… what did Peter Parker like?

She doesn’t know. What she knows about her father is that he’s amazing.  He grew up in Queens and had a wife – her mother. He loved her very much, and she died in childbirth. He doesn’t talk about those times much, and Mayday doesn’t ask. She doesn’t need to.

He calls Mayday his little SOS because at the end of a really, really bad week, she was the one that had pulled his butt out of the fire. Out of some place dark and painful, and yet here she is, standing before her bathroom mirror, in the afterglow of finger-fucking herself stupid to the fantasy of riding in his lap. Of all the reasons to be an atheist and hope to whichever god that an afterlife didn’t exist, hers is because she doesn’t want her mother to look down on her little girl as she cums to the thought of her father.

Great.

She’s not disgusted at this point. That comes later, now it’s time to wash up and get dressed. It’s all a routine for Mayday, mental gymnastics like clockwork: there’s the frustration, and then the masturbation, cumming, and in summation, she knows she’s a messed up little Daddy’s girl.

But it’s in that post-masturbatory apathy that she can reconcile with the scathing remarks she deals herself – she really is messed up though, isn’t she? She’s just brushing her teeth, but stops at seeing the white in her mouth, foamy, but thick. Not something she would want, normally, but… she opens her mouth and shows off her pink tongue, and white suds fall to her pert, plump breasts, sliding down to her nipple.

Something not normal occurs to her: how would his cum taste as toothpaste?

…She’s messed up, alright. Fucked up, and she shrugs, momentarily at peace with wanting to know and never being able to before she resumes brushing her teeth.

Showering comes last, to wash the sins away. She climbs in, pleasantly plump and athletically shaped thighs, fair skin and dainty feet over the large rim of the tub, and then the water is on, falling over her. This used to be the time where she’d endeavor and proclaim she’d never do it again, but that comes less and less as she cums more and more, maturing to her thoughts. Now it’s silence, thoughts, and watching her hands run the soap along her glistening body, the suds bunching up between her plump breasts and the meat of her thighs.

Her mind is clear, it’s bright and early, and the birds are singing… and she’s going to do it again. And again, and again, until something changes, some game changing thing happens. She’s the definition of insanity – daddy issues and an Electra complex all wrapped in a pretty little package, but none of that quite matters when she’s cumming.

Her poster is in her mind while she gropes herself, trying to replicate the unyielding pressure of a man’s forceful touch, his grip. A shaking sigh in her throat as she shivers and moves her tight, toned stomach, pressing down and jutting her hips so the puffy mound of her snatch is that much more accessible. Her clinical mind says it’s transference, that she’s at least trying not to be such a sick, twisted little cock-holster for him, and that counts for something. She’s still a good girl, still a good daughter. Still almost normal.

And that puts her hand into a frenzy as the water falls over her, the other snatching her towel to press it to her mouth. And she cries out, because in her mind’s eye she’s a good girl on her hands and knees, feeling that goodness getting utterly fucked out of her by his fat cock.

Peter Parker’s, not Spider-Man.

(…)

After, her throat is raw from groaning into her towel in the shower as she comes down the stairs. A new pair of panties and her clothes for the day. The shame has already set in and is working its magic – they, the panties, hug her butt a little too tightly and she wonders if they and her pants make it look fat. Has she gained weight? She hopes so, hopes her pants say so, hopes he’ll look, and then hopes she can shove those thoughts some place dark and quiet where they’ll die long enough for her to not have to deal with them for at least a day.

But, the more time that passes, the more she begins to think that wearing the pair of panties that have a heart-shaped Spider-Man face on their back, on her butt, is counterproductive to her goals. They’re her favorite, but she’d rather not have her pussy drool into them on a school day.

The air smells good – like breakfast. Like clockwork, Peter’s made it before she even woke up. She sees him in the kitchen, standing broad and tall in his shirt and boxer shorts, tending to the food kept on low heat just so she could eat it warm, and that makes her feel at ease inside.

‘Alright,’ she says mentally, making a deal with herself. ‘None of this right now.’ Because it’s time for breakfast, the most important meal of the day with the most important man in her life, and she needs to at least pretend to be normal for him.

“Mmn… mornin’ Dad,” she says, rubbing her eyes. Her voice isn’t just hoarse; it’s almost completely gone. The innocent chirp of Mayday Parker’s voice is replaced with an orgasm-worn one fit for a pack-a-day smoker, or a lounge singer. She almost chokes, and feels like she’s swallowed a frog. Her father is a man with his experience on his sleeve, and if he notices… well, that wouldn’t be so bad, actually.

Peter doesn’t turn to see her. He moves the pan from one eye to the other, letting it cool. He takes a sip of his drink and grumbles, “What’s so good about it?”
He doesn’t notice, or he does and makes no mention of it. Good, less reason for her to cum from, and then die by, shame.

Neither of them are morning people. Mayday figures she gets it from him. “Gimme a minute…” she says, laughing weakly, and pulls out one of two of two seats from the table to sit in. As she does, she jerks and twitches – this must be what a hangover feels like. Her pussy is throbbing and clenches as she sits her fat butt down, but it’s just plain through for the time being, finished and fingerfucked full. Her legs feel weak and jellied, and her chest is pounding.

It’s almost enough to make her… ‘Not now,’ she tells herself, again. “Got the entire day ahead of us!” she says out loud, happily. “So, something good might happen.”
When Peter turns, it’s to present a plate piled high with food. All for her and not him, because she came and comes first. Guilt and gratitude are like shame and orgasm – they come hand in hand, just like her. She grabs the maple syrup and pools it onto her plate and wonders if this food will go to her ass if it hasn’t already.

“I’ll tell Mr. Murphy you said that, and not me,” Peter says, his voice a gravelly timbre. He’s smiling wryly and she thinks he looks handsome like that, and in the morning, especially when he hasn’t shaved. He yawns while Mayday stirs her food. “Who knows, you could be right. Could even pass that test today.”

“Pft, yeah, right…” Mayday says, not really hearing him as she forks bacon, eggs, and dips it into the syrup. She bites, then freezes. “Wait- test?”

Peter’s sitting down now, legs spread as he lounges in his chair. She doesn’t look on principle and threat of suicide.

“Modern History,” he says, smirking as she starts to panic. She hasn’t studied- History isn’t even her favorite subject and the irony is that she doesn’t even remember there being a History test. Probably because while the teacher was talking about it, she was thinking of the best way to hump her bedpost when she got home that day to curb her over-eager enthusiasm…

“Any advice for the poor girl about to get sent to the C minus morgue?” she asks, mouth full of food.

“Nope,” he says, with all the mercy of a headsman.

“I hate you, Daddy.” She can’t keep a straight face as she says it.

“Good. Got a lot of reason to,” he chuckles, and she flicks some egg at him for saying something like that. “You probably got this… Unfortunately.”

“Said the father to his very anxious and unsure-of-herself daughter… that’s a lotta love, pops.”

He smirks again, and she watches him, again. “You’re the one keeping me in the loop about the news.”

That’s when it clicks and she remembers, and she smacks her forehead. “The SRA!” If there’s one thing Mayday knows, it’s superhumans, superheroes, vigilantes, and the news surrounding them. She calms a little bit, and settles into an almost self-satisfied smirk as she eats. “Haha, yeah, I got this. Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I? Totally…”

Peter doesn’t look too pleased. She knows how he feels about her interest in that stuff, in heroes in general, and Spider-Man, in particular. She thinks it’s odd, seeing as he was his most prolific photographer for years. From his mouth to her ears, Spider-Man isn’t as amazing as she thinks he is. He wasn’t a hero, was unreliable, and had let people die – a menace just like everyone said, and New York City was better off without him.

If there is ever something Mayday disagrees with him on, it’s that. There has to be some reason why he thinks that way, but she doesn’t ask why. He lets her have her hobbies, loves her too much not to, and the posters she has are birthday presents, one for each year. She has his published book, too, full of the photos he’d taken over the years before retiring.

He asks her about the SRA like he’s Alex Trebek and she’s on Jeopardy. What it was, how it started, the whole schmear. Mayday knows it like the back of her hand, another thing she is intimately familiar with.

“The Superhuman Registration Act,” she says primly as though she’s making an oral presentation. There’s a bit of egg at the corner of her mouth. He points, she licks, and her mind goes to a place it shouldn’t before she yanks it back.

She goes on about the incident in Las Vegas because of the Hulk… the massacre in Stamford, the relations the SRA had to the Mutant Registration Act. Her father nods, though Mayday can see the sheer disinterest on his face. Despite that he asks her about the major players, and she tells him. Tony Stark, Iron Man, and Steve Rogers, Captain America, were both leaders of opposing sides, with the former in favor of the SRA and the latter opposing it. Stark had the support of SHIELD and the Fantastic Four, while Rogers had the backing of the majority of the heroes whose identities weren’t already known.

She wonders, out loud, which side Spider-Man would have been on. It’s at that point that Peter, though looking like he was ready to fall back asleep at any moment, grumbles in obvious distaste. Mayday nudges him with her foot, rolling her eyes. He grunts like an old man. “Eh… what was the result?”

“Steve Rogers was killed,” Mayday says, pausing. “With him gone, the resistance mostly fell apart… but then so did the SRA. Some of the prisoners kept in the Negative Zone were released. Though now any person or persons possessing super powers are required by law to register so that they can be held accountable for their actions and receive support, it isn’t really enforced due to the immense backlash it faces. Mutants… are a protected class, though. Wonder how they got that passed.”

“Don’t bother.”

Mayday sighs longsufferingly. “Would it kill you to be interested in some of the things I like?”

“Yes,” he says without pause. “Your taste in music is awful, and I say that with love.”

Mayday pats her chest and points at him. “Oh, I’m feelin’ the love, Mr. Parker.”

He snorts. “I will never understand why you like that webheaded freak, and everyone knows that Deep Space 9 and Voyager are better than The Next Generation and the Original Series. And I’m sorry, but Star Wars as a whole is just… awful. I think I’d get septic shock just trying to enjoy what you like.”

Mayday thinks she’s the real freak, but she holds her tongue and laughs, which is enough to make her forget how she spent the first part of her morning being a freak. “I’m not laughing with you, Daddy,” she says, fork hanging from between her fingers, “I’m just laughing at your bad taste.”

‘And myself,’ she adds mentally.

“Well keep laughing, kiddo. Fools always laugh first. Age and wisdom.”

“Youth and beauty,” she shoots back, batting her eyelashes. “You’re not that old, and aren’t I so pretty?”

Peter rolls his eyes, but the one second he spends looking at her before smiling, makes her feel beautiful… and something else.

“Yeah, and you better get your pretty little butt to school before you’re late, too,” he says, taking a sip from his drink. There was a clock above the kitchen doorway and Mayday looked at it – 8:05AM. They have the fortune of living within jogging distance to her school. She can make it if she runs, both for her shoes, her socks, her phone, homework, bookbag, and the door, but she likes to run.

“Oh- man!”

She’s shoveling food into her mouth, then kissing him on the cheek, leaving some of it on his face. It’s a mad dash back to her room, where she opens the window to air out the scent of her masturbatory shame while she stumbles over the perpetual mess she keeps up there, struggling to find her bags and books and shoes. And then it’s out down the stairs almost two at a time.

At the bottom of the flight she’s hopping on one foot to get a single sneaker on, intently aware of what she’s wearing: a tiny jacket with a Spider-Man emblem on the back and a black shirt beneath; cut-off shorts with softly colored leggings tight enough to hug her thighs and the plump contours of her butt to a questioning, almost lewd degree if anyone were to look.

Peter is looking, but not how she wants him to, and that’s fine. He’s watchful, and she’s not stupid, just sick in the head, and that’s fine so long as she has her priorities. “See ya ‘round, kiddo,” he says, giving her a chaste kiss on the forehead. “Knock it out of the park, Parker, you hear me?”

She nods, and kisses him on the cheek just as chastely. ‘Priorities.’ “You got it, coach,” she says with a happy smile. “Love you – even if you do have awful taste.”
“That means nothing coming from you, Little Ms. Prequel.”

Mayday snorts, but then she’s out the front door, running. Only after making pace does the jiggling of her ass and the tightness of her clothes occur to her. Apparently, she has gained weight.

She wonders if he noticed before she did.

(…)

The loud hum of the bus comes to a crawl, and the doors open. She walks down the aisle, dressed in a beat up biker jacket. A girl on her own, but not alone in an unfamiliar place.

The bus pulls away and she’s at the station. Instead of being uneased, she thinks that this is a pretty nifty way of getting around, as opposed to airdrops, armed escorts, and webbing. Because here, some place in the Midwest, it’s a bit out of web range from Manhattan. It’s also a bit different, here. No costumes, and no chaos.

Norman Osborn had let his little attack dog loose for her birthday, and she was told why... because Peter Parker was here. Spider-Man.

Her father.

The air is fresher, new, and she can almost smell him. It makes her shiver as a black, slithering shape undulates beneath her clothing, and she wonders what kind of reunion this will be. She’s hoping for the intimate kind. After all, what other reaction would there be to finding out that the daughter you thought died was still alive?

April Parker is home at last. It’s time for a sensational family reunion, and there’s no time to waste.