Chapter 1

That Old Parker Luck

Something that's been on my to-do list for a while. It's not what I originally intended, but what I originally intended is so badly written that you'll probably only ever find it on pastebin.

Everyone had their issues. Peter knew that. He respected it and had enough of his own to know not to judge, not when it took him weeks to be able to sleep better than normal and not dream everything was back to his normal, when he was happier than he'd been.

Maybe that made him stronger. Being what he was now, still standing, still… there. Just an old man, grey in the hair, bitter in the face, nearly scrawnier than he'd been decades before, but still holding on and never giving up. MJ wouldn't have wanted that, would have cheered him on to her last breath, and had. More than anything else though, he knew he was just too stubborn to quit forever.

Unsurprisingly, so was his daughter.

Not his daughter, but his after a fashion. On a cosmic, space/time-whatever fieldtrip away from where everything was happy and honky-dory, where he was a married man with MJ on his arm, a little girl turned young woman, and a bouncing baby boy. Where he had a weird goatee and a white picket fence house and a few years long stint as a forensics expert instead of… being a florist, along with a more than a few weird shenanigans behind his hung up belt.

And if that wasn't the biggest, "Well fuck you in particular, Peter Parker of universe blah blah, blah blah," he didn't know what was.

But then she, the girl, Mayday… Yeah. She'd taken off her mask the second she'd seen him, nearly fell to her knees sobbing at the sight of him. Certainly made him feel like the most handsome man on the planet.

If she wasn't everything her mother was but more, then Peter was finally becoming senile. Later he joked to himself about not being sure which one was better, looking at her and seeing MJ or not remembering the last few decades if they hadn't been so depressing - annoying and pretty par for the course, just like the old days, but depressing.

He settled on the first one. She was his daughter. The other him, not his daughter. MJ was gone, they never had kids. Mayday though came from a place where things had worked out and he'd finally been able to be happy… At least for a while. Peter knew he shouldn't be jealous, so he ended up being cynical about it.

She had taken after him in the worst ways. Got the powers, and got the curse depending on which day of the week it was and his mental state. And his luck, it seemed. Yeah, she had come from a place where everything was honky-dory, where there was a picket fence and the Parkers were considering getting a family pet. Was being the operative word, because the old Parker Luck had come back with a vengeance, tracked down Happy-Peter and decided to fuck everything up.

Mayday watched her old man's emaciated corpse get dragged out of her white picket fence house as it burned to the ground… and then she had the luck to happen upon the oldest version of her old man out there. Peter wasn't sure if that was some kind of accomplishment, seeing as how young the other hims tended to die, and they were apparently dying in droves across existence itself. Maybe Death just really hated him, or maybe his luck was so bad that Death took pity on him in particular and thought living was a mercy.

Whatever the case, he had figured to hash it out, just like always. Lived too long and too poorly to cash-out now. He was too stubborn, and Mayday looked like he had felt for the last couple of decades. Couldn't leave her like that. She wasn't his kid, wasn't his little girl… but he didn't hate himself enough to give the other him, Happy-Peter, a post-mortem middle finger by letting his daughter coast along the shores of survivor's guilt at the junction of "My life is Shit," like he had.

Poor kid really got hit by the Parker Luck. Technically that was his fault, and technically, he had to take responsibility. Do his best to help, even if his best couldn't help. If it didn't it'd be par for the course on his track record, anyway.

It was a little over a month after she'd fallen ass-over-tea-kettle into his neck of the woods, and Peter still didn't have it in him to say 'friendly neighborhood' on any day before hump day. It was springtime, they were having dinner and it would have been… nice, if he lived anywhere sort of presentable.

A one room apartment with a small kitchenette, a rusted stove that'd seen more action than he had, throwback tiles from the sixties with a worn round table on top, and a ratty rug. The walls were bare, the place was Spartan, and the fridge had been just past full enough before Mayday'd got there. She'd caught him on the beginning fringes of a self-improvement campaign and since then, in between walking around egg-shells around her, he'd gone down to the bookstore, picked up a couple of self-help cassettes for himself for the first time since college and put them to good use. Was probably the only one that still used them.

That day in particular he picked up a book from the local bookstore. "How to Get Your Sorry Ass Out of Bed". Chapter 1 was, "Act as if your bed is a coffin in the ocean." Imagery like that piqued his interest. Then he stopped a robbery of that same bookstore.

He had started thinking happy thoughts before all this and miraculously, not long afterward a girl that looked too much like his dead wife and her own mother just about dropped into his lap. Maybe there was something to all that hubbub, so Peter had doubled down on it.

That morning he'd gone out and got some health food for the first time in a while, for once more than enough to keep him moving and to satiate his metabolism. Greens and meats and carbohydrates and all that good stuff, biscuits and potatoes. If he kept it up he'd get some meat and muscle back on his bones.

Even with Mayday there he had more than enough money for the both of them. The flower business had been better than the photog business – when times were crappy, people, chiefly women, liked to pretend they weren't with pretty things, surprise, surprise. He'd just been living on the bare minimum since MJ died.

He ate the food straight away, something about actually eating again getting his old appetite to wake up. His plate was empty in minutes. Mayday took her time, scraping the green beans and picking at the steak. Seeing her like that made him feel bad. Not just because he must have been one hell of a lackluster cook, but because it wasn't too far afield for him to see just how much this must have sucked for her.

It felt like she'd said less than a hundred words to him since she'd gotten here and he couldn't blame her. She slept on the couch, and so he had bought a new couch for her. She kept to herself in this small place and he would've been the dumbest old fart ever not to hear her crying herself to sleep at night with hushed moans, or to see how she clutched that mask of hers to her when he went to cover her up after she'd gassed herself out. This wasn't easy for either of them, but out of the two of them only he was used to dealing with stuff like it.

He decided to make conversation. Couldn't stop himself, really. "Stopped a robbery today," he said, barely looking past his pair of old man specs at her. Across the table she flinched. He shelved a sigh.

"Some schmuck tried to turn over my favorite bookstore," he said. It was the only bookstore that was just a bookstore and not something else that he knew of. "When the kid saw me- damn near crapped himself. Funniest thing I've seen all week," he said, then bit the inside of his cheek.

He'd never been good at emotional tact. Had more of his father's taciturn nature than Ben's heart, and past that, couldn't bring himself to bow down before the circumstances, even when conversation called for it. Things were crap, yeah, and they'd been full on shit for the past twenty some years, but they'd get better. He wouldn't stop until they did and Mayday… she was a sign that he was right. Just needed to make her see that too. Be a dad, for once. Or the closest thing to it. While he still could.

Mayday picked at her food some more, eating the green beans one by one, scooping up mashed potatoes with them, cutting into the roast beef delicately. She had her mother's hair, except darker, messier, and more tussled. Almost reminded him of himself, but god help his masculine pride if he'd been that much a pretty young thing at her age. When she finished – and the food was still less than half eaten – she swallowed, also delicately, and gave him this small, glassy smile. Perfunctory and offset right down to the look in her eye.

"Wish I could have been there to see it," she said, licking her lips, her word counter going up to some place just south of one-hundred, he thought. They were dried and cracked, and her eyes had bags underneath them. Peter wondered just how many times she'd been asleep when he'd covered her up - just how many times doing that had actually helped, too. "I never got to see… that. You in action like the…" she scooped some more food, "…good old days."

He dodged that sad-flag like a bullet from the 'good old days'. "You're lucky. Watching an old fart like me jump around in a leotard? Don't know how kids spend their time nowadays, but I don't think that's… what's the word… 'fly'."

"Fly?" She actually let out a small laugh. That was good. "…No, you'd be surprised. Kids, we… Do some stupid stuff. You ever hear of twerking?"

He said, shaking his head, "Don't think we have that here."

"Oh." She looked at him, then down, almost embarrassed. "I used to ask… well, he'd never want to, mostly. Never wanted me to, and with his leg gone, said he… couldn't really spin the webs like he used to. Because of the prosthetic."

Peter's eyebrow went up on reflex. "He was missing a leg?" He asked, and Mayday nodded, hesitantly. "In a world with Reed Richards, he was still missing a leg."

She shrugged. It was obvious that her heart was barely there, this part of- whatever this was. "Where… where is your Mr. Richards? …Franklin?"

Peter stared at nothing in particular, but something far away at the same time. "Gone the way of the dodo bird," he said, eyes squinting to the point that he felt like a crotchety old man and looked like one too. "Or the Savage Land. Hear it's prime real estate, nowadays."

"...Do you ever talk with them?" She asked, like she already knew the answer. Peter smiled at that –she was smart. "My- he was really close with them. They were like family- once the whole "You're actually Spider-Man's- you know" thing came out."

Peter shook his head. "They asked me to come along, once. Get away from this place. I said…" he made a noncommittal grunt. "I couldn't."

"Oh."

"Don't think I didn't notice that tone in your voice, though," he smirked, shaking a speared piece of beef at her with his fork. "Franklin Richards, huh? Good kid… at least I remember him being a good kid. Probably a good man now. If he isn't dead."

Mayday frowned. He considered that it might have been a poor choice of words, but when had his choice of words ever been perfect, or even adequate. "You think he might be dead?"

"I dunno. World's nuts," Peter said. "I know that if he is dead, he's running with a crowd of people that come back like weeds." That time he did reconsider his words, but it was too late. He gnashed his bottom lip, seeing the way she squeezed her fork. The metal bent and conformed to the shape of her fingers like paper. "Sorry."

She looked up with that perfunctory smile again. She really was a lot like him. Or her father, he supposed. "No, you're… right, I guess? I mean, you're… still here, so," she said with an almost relieved sigh. "And that's so… A-Anyway."

He let her go at her own pace, patiently pushed her along. "Anyways."

"You, the other- …Dad, he'd tell some crazy stories, sometimes, when I begged hard enough. We had a joke: How many Jean Greys does it take to fill a coffin?"

Peter knew that one. It was an insensitive, asshole joke, and it was right up his alley. "One. The catch is making sure she stays in it."

Mayday smiled, but then it shrank. "Yeah, that's the one." She pushed her chair back and stood up, gently setting the deformed fork down, just behind the plate where she thought he couldn't see. "Thanks for the food. I'm… gonna hit the hay early, okay?" She walked out the kitchenette without another word, into the dark, cramped space of the living room.

Peter nodded. "Yeah. Sleep tight."

After putting his plate up, washing it, putting Mayday's in the fridge as leftovers in case she got hungry, Peter did what he did best: stayed awake at night.

Putting the suit on again reawakened a lot of things; the joy of fighting, being high on his own ability, and his insomnia. MJ wasn't around to lull him to sleep anymore, but seeing as how he could still sew like a champ there'd only been one avenue for him. After he'd pricked his fingers a couple dozen times he'd made himself a new suit. Couldn't rightly hop around in one that'd been in a coffin for years.

The city was loud again, but not like it used to be, not sleepless-in-Seattle loud. No, it was silent-loud, too quiet so you knew that just around the corner something bad might, could and would happen. Gangs were quick to form and all the old classics were out to play without the mayoral administration around. Without that big fish to quell the smaller ones, people were getting stir crazy with their new freedom. Supposed that's what he was for. Just like the good old days.

Knew he couldn't move like he used to – at least not yet, positive thinking - so he didn't try. He improvised, adapted, and instead of being the young punk that could toss an SUV down the street, he played the old man with a weird fetish for spraying people with his sticky stuff. Played it smart and fought fast, something that was easy to when his bones still creaked after getting tenderized by the Josie and the Symbiotic Pussycats that passed winter.

He finished up the night racking up a tally that would have made the younger him's head spin. The younger him, but not Happy-Peter, though he'd made a bit of a contest between the two of them. Which one was more rusty, the one-legged husband and father of two... or the shut-in geriatric who was chasing down his heyday. Which one of them had more to fight for and which one fought harder for it. It'd be hard to lose to a dead man, but if anyone could do it, he could.

He climbed in through his bedroom window somewhere past three, sweating up a storm. The city was quiet in this area, he made sure of that, and the street lights were busted, so he wasn't worried. There was no one left alive that he needed to protect or worry about - that couldn't do it themselves. His body soaked and burn from hours of an exercise from hell that made him feel nostalgic. Soon he'd be able to look at himself in the mirror and not wonder where all the muscle had gone.

He peeled himself out of the old suit and left it on the floor, planning to wash it, before hopping in the shower. As he made plans for the day the water made the tension and adrenaline from being back in the swing of things suffuse into and bleed out of him. Peter allowed himself to relax, to think...

Would need to pick up more detergent, laundry duty this coming weekend. Maybe something nice for Mayday, he drew a blank on what. Wanted it to be a surprise, see that rare smile from her. Said a lot, or the obvious, that he didn't know what she'd want aside from the obvious, for her father to not be dead. Peter wasn't dumb enough to think that he qualified for a technicality, not really. He doubted an old man who looked like the Rip-Van-Winkle version of her old man was good enough to pass as Spider-Man from whichever universe she'd come from.

He decided on picking up some hair-dye. The white in his features had faded the more positive he thought, the further out of the fugue and fog he dragged himself out of, and he was starting to look more his own age, mid-forties instead of mid seventies, but was still tired of looking like someone had sprayed his hair and beard with fake snow.

His thoughts, inevitably, turned back to her. Back to Mayday. Maybe she'd want clothes... The ones she worn here were all she had, and she shouldn't have had to he lent her - boxer shorts and an old Mets t-shirt of his didn't seem to be up to a teen girl's standards, nor should they have been, but Mayday humored him anyway and held onto them. Wore them like they were her own.

In the meantime her clothes were cycled through and washed over, though she never left the apartment. If it was awkward between them now, it would have been a lot worse if he was clueless. She'd sometimes sit in various states of undress on the couch, in front of the old TV, waiting for the laundry to finish. At those times he'd held himself up in his room or make sure to leave.

Even then he'd somehow always manage to see her like that, almost bare-assed naked and sitting in a pair of panties or boxers on his couch, just long enough to make him realize just how old and out of touch he really was...

Peter's mind turned some place else. "Fuck…" he muttered to himself. The hot water coming down on him, over his head and neck and into the drain. Contradictorily, his cock was coming up, ready like it'd been awakened after sleeping for ten thousand years and now it was finally free. His libido had gone to shit-all after MJ, only rising every once in a while when his balls were too full to accept his own disinterest, but now… now he was thinking of Mayday.

She wasn't her mother- he had no right to and every last wrong there was. And where MJ had been all long legs and supermodel beauty, her breasts large, so soft, and perfect to suffocate himself in while he pinned her to the wall and she tried to get him to let up, just a little, but he'd be too lost in her to pay attention… Mayday was shorter and slighter, her body toned but with enough tomboyish curve to compliment her. Her breasts as barely hand filling buds, her entire body tight with agility, taut with firm, feminine muscle, and quick and agile like a gymnast instead of a model.

She was all her own, didn't have her mother's body- not MJ's body. MJ wasn't her mother, and he wasn't her father, and Peter corrected himself as quickly as he could.

Then he thought that maybe he should start thinking the opposite. He knew where this was going, so maybe it'd stop him.

But apparently his reignited sex drive liked that, going along with that train of thought, picturing her taut, tight body in his mind's eye. He tried to think of any one thing, old things like how MJ had look with a sheen of sweat over her, her ass beaten pink from his hips alone, how she'd writhed like a stuck and fucked pig on his fat prick, giving him this pleading look from over her shoulder as she bit her lip because he was everywhere, his fingers groping her, his mouth claiming her, biting and sucking and leaving nothing untouched. Then everything took a hard left and went outfield.

It didn't turn into Mayday, thankfully, at least not outright, but it'd be a lie to say that his mind wasn't awash with thoughts of fucking a tight, young girl in a spider-suit into a sweaty mess, grinding against her pert little ass so hard she couldn't breathe, so rough he'd have to to carry her home, so long she couldn't walk, and so good she'd never want to leave.

Hair. He tried to think of something else, something non sexual, like hair. That didn't help either.

The next thing on his mind was how it'd feel between his fingers. MJ's had been long, luscious, perfect to use as like makeshift leash and snag her back when she bounced off his prick too hard, her creamy ass slapping back with every bit back, mewling screech she'd let out when he scooped her out good with the head of his cock. But short hair was different, couldn't hold onto it as well… but it'd be good to grip it and tug, not too hard, definitely not to soft, but just enough to know he was there, holding her. And when she looked at him with those eyes of hers… her toned legs bent at the knee, her pussy dripping in her little panties, her mouth stuffed like a turkey with his full, sagging balls, he'd run his fingers through her hair, and...

Before he knew it, his hands were around his cock. Long and fat, and harder than it'd been in the longest time, balls full and ready to churn a payload and make a moneyshot. He told himself to stop, but was repeatedly surprised for second after second that he was still stroking. He couldn't even think of anything else and the harder he tried, the worse he doubled down.

It was times like this he wished he still remembered Felicia's number, but he wasn't sure he wouldn't be wondering what her daughter looked like, standing in front of his stove, pert little bubble butt sticking out in a piece of barely-there boyshorts with big, coy eyes. Would they be blue, like her mothers? He wondered if she was a redhead by some miracle. Didn't wonder if he had a problem, because he knew damn well he did. Full balls, a young man's sex drive, a couple of decades of abstinence, and the luck to have the universe decide to drop… a very nice young woman in his lap in the midst of an awful tragedy.

He wasn't about to do this. Peter turned the water from hot to cold and took the shock to his system with a grimace until his prick went from a soda can thick bitch-breaker to a mostly wilted sleeping sausage. It took a while of him thinking not-so-happy thoughts to clear his mind - fighting, truths and failures, responsibilities, like the symbiote.

During, he got a new idea: find a nice young girl- a nice, mature woman, one closer to his own age, and let her help him disseminate years of sexual buildup inside her. Fuck her ragged until she had a thing for older men if she didn't already so she'd be begging to move in with him at the old folk's home and feed him tapioca.

He stayed in there until he started to sneeze, barely believing what he'd almost done. The water bill was going to be high this month.

When he was sure his cock was finally down for the count – neither one of them were happy about it, but he wasn't so lonely that he was about to do that – not while thinking of Mayday – he wrapped himself up in a towel, too tired and lazy to climb into something else. He his teeth, shaved a bit, and went to bed with blue balls, just like any other night.

His night would have ended there if he was as old as he thought sometimes. But he wasn't, and the first thing he noticed was that Mayday was in his room, cuddled up on his bed. The rest after that came easy.

His costume was in her hands, so soaked through that the room was heavy with his musk. She had her legs to her chest as she sat on his bed, clad in those little nothing panties and one of his shirts, the barest part of her short red hair lit up by some flickering streetlight outside his apartment that made her smooth, soft legs look golden.

Her thighs tensed and she shook violently, a quivering breath into the crotch of his suit that made it click to his stuck still brain what she was doing. Peter chose to ignore it and say she was just holding the costume, and that her legs happened to clenched tight together, making her look small, innocent, and oh-so cagey. She'd been dealt a shit hand and he needed to keep her safe.

He cleared his throat and she jerked. The wet smck! of her fingers in someplace he couldn't see causing her to shiver. Her eyes went up and out came a quivering breath. Realization and resignation came to him in equal measure as he forced himself to look her in the eye, but hers, bright and green and just plain pretty, fell from his on down to the crotch of the towel where the slightest movement had his bits dangling. Never before had he been so hyper aware of how going commando felt.

There was a pause.

Then Mayday swallowed, shifted, and he saw her fingers move from between her legs, her legs moving to show it. Peter's cock twitched and he tightened his jaw. He was never going to live this down…

His first instinct was to make a joke, like the old days. He'd been the guy to stare up at Galactus, or the Hulk, or Thor, and make a joke. But now the funniest joke he could think of was his luck, and that Mayday had come to his neighborhood, to him, and in more ways than just the one.

"…Did you want me to read you a bedtime story?" he said, clearing his voice, and was attacked on all sides by just how bad that was to say. But that was alright, he was used to hairy situations.

Mayday stuttered, her voice shaking from what she'd been doing. She looked away, but not for long. He thought that playing it off would work, so he did. Like a fight or flight response gone haywire, a deer in the headlights, and he was used to fighting again, so he adjusted his towel as it started to sag as stared down the barrel of one hell of an awkward night.

"I… I'm… sorry," she finally said. Her voice broke, eyes clenched. She swallowed thickly and shook her head. "I shouldn't have come here, should have left, it's just… You remind me of him so much."

Peter supposed that was supposed to be a good thing that he wasn't as bad a father as he thought he was. Then again, real hard to lose to a dead guy. All he could think about was what she'd been doing with her fingers with her nose pressed into the crotch of his suit, and how her hand was still between her legs.

"And I just… miss him. I wish I could have done something, but I look at you and I see him and- I'm happy. I'm sad, and I-" she looked down, where her knees were knocked and quivering. "I am one fucked up kid, Daddy…" She said, and his heart stopped for a second.

He'd watched old recordings of himself, of way back when. In the middle of a firefight it looked like he moved with a plan, like a professional, a vector through a maze when the reality was he'd been lost and damn near aimless since he was fifteen. It looked like he had a plan, but he never did. Now it was just like the good old days, except he wasn't a kid anymore. He was a crotchety, lonely, bitter old man with a no-fucks-given card ready and waiting to be used like it was his ace in the hole. And so he laid it bare.

"Yeah, well… join the club," he said, not meaning to sound insensitive, but it came across like that. There weren't that many ways to verbally respond to being physically half aroused to your technical daughter-not-daughter. His cock was coming back with a vengeance as his eyes would glued themselves to her thighs, and he tore his gaze away, tried to will the heat pooling in his core away, hoping she hadn't seen him staring, but knowing he was so far in the rabbit hole the outcome wouldn't change if she did or didn't, and if he wasn't so stubborn.

Apparently she didn't inherit his stubbornness, because she was crotch gazing him like a motherfucker. Or more accurately…

A lightbulb went off in his head then, and he decided to give her a foolproof out. That was the plan, and it was flawless. "I'm… sorry I walked in on you," Peter said gently, with more calmness than he felt. "I'm tired, was out on patrol, and needed a shower." "Thanks… picking up the suit to put it in the wash, I appreciate it… uh, kiddo."

It took a few seconds for that to sink in for her, and in those few seconds he marched forward, careless of his cock swinging like a pendulum. He moved to take the suit away and was close enough that he could see parts of it were pressed between her soft looking thighs, like the mask, then tore his eyes up, up and away to her face, flushed and wet with sweat of her own.

Peter had made enough snap decisions in his time to know when someone else made theirs. Mayday frowned, not resignation, but determination flashing in her eyes, and he was afraid of what she'd decided to do. She shirked away, possessively keeping the suit to her and he almost wished she decided to hop off to the next universe where he wasn't as hard up and screwed in the head as this one.

"I wasn't taking it to the wash," she said defiantly as she looked up at him, wiping her eyes with her dainty, delicate hands. "I was... masturbating with it."

Peter made an about-face, wondering how long he'd have to wait until he became senile enough to forget this conversation. At forty-five going on sixty-nine, hopefully only a couple of years. "Alright, well- you didn't need to do that for my sake," he said, doubling down on willful ignorance. "I'll take the couch. You sleep here tonight."

Mayday leaned forward, completely determined save for the bob of saliva in her throat. Her mouth opened and it was wet like the rest of her, her small tongue glimmering in the flickering, golden light from the street as she licked her pouty lips. "I did it because I wanted to," she said. "Because I felt like it. Because it felt good and made me feel… good."

"I'll do the laundry from now on. There's leftovers in the fridge," Peter said, and turned and started to walk out of the room, but in one quick motion she'd stopped him. Her delicate hand around his veiny wrist held him tight and tugged him back louder than he could hope to ignore.

"Wait," she said, and for some reason he did. Her hand gingerly floated back to her… and then she was climbing out of her panties. One leg, then another, the muscle and fat of her thighs compressing into thick, tantalizing meat that simmered from the heat coming off of her, and glazed in her sweat. "I was fingering myself in these… While I smelled you. They should… go in too."

She held them out to him. Peter looked at them like they were the barrel of a loaded shotgun and knew he was too jaded for this shit. "You just did the laundry. They're probably fine."

Her legs ground against one another. "I was fingering myself pretty hard, Dad."

He made a choking sound, or maybe it was a mini-stroke, seizure, or aneurism. "Well you're at that age," Peter said, feeling the cogs in his brain screeching to a halt. He didn't need to look down to see the state of his cock because it was obvious from the periphery. The towel was tented and enormous, the full breadth of his prick sticking out like a white flag. And like he was waving a white flag, Mayday dropped her panties into his hand, licking her lips. Feeling less defeated than anticipatory, eager for another bout like the stubborn prick he was and wanting to continue... he turned and walked out of the room.

"…Daddy?" Mayday called after him, her voice small and quiet. He didn't answer, and then she called, "Peter?" and then he stopped. "We should spend some more time together. I should… help with the laundry next time."

Peter shut the door on his way out and beat a quick retreat.

The apartment was too small and too closed in to pace, but he did anyway. With a hard, fat dick and wet panties clutched in one hand. This, this was Parker Luck. Almost made him wish for a brawl but the feeling in his balls, tickling and churning and waiting to just shoot out of his 'Happy-Peter' made thinking of anything else… hard. So instead, he laid down on the couch and tried to go to sleep.

A:/N: Boy, it sure is a good thing I'm not asian because I've shamed my famury.