Peter Parker was just tryna mind his own damn business.
No tingling. No sixth sense whispering doom. Just him, Midtown High, and a hallway that smelled like B.O. and mopped-up despair.
Then, thud.
"Move it, dork."
Flash Thompson. All bulk, no brain, and clearly starving for attention. Like a golden retriever but meaner and louder.
Peter's back slammed into the locker so hard, it made it sing. His head followed, bounced off it like a soccer ball someone really hated. World spun. Doubled. Then... black.
And then?
Something... woke up.
Void. Static. That weird liminal nothingness between sleep and waking where your soul is like, nah fam, not my problem.
Peter's light out.
And another soul came barreling in like it got evicted from the afterlife on a clerical error.
"...ugh, what the hell?"
Eyes snapped open.
Not his.
Well, they were. Technically. But not his his.
Everything was blurs and hallway noise and teen chaos. A girl's voice broke through it. All soft and concerned like the intro to a fanfic that is about to get weird.
"Peter? Peter, oh my god, are you okay?"
Mary. Jane. Watson.
Red hair. Green eyes. Tank top. No bra. Absolutely unaware that gravity and fabric were currently conspiring against her.
He blinked. Hard. Like slapping himself from the inside. Recognition hit like a truck, and not just of her. Of everything. Memories flooded.
Marvel Universe. Midtown High. Spider destiny.
This was Peter Parker's body.
But not Peter Parker's soul.
Nope. That guy clocked out.
And then, beep.
[SYSTEM]: Booting... Ultimate Seduction Protocol v1.69. Welcome back, baby~
A voice like caramel sin purred through his head, all sultry static and smug confidence. HUD blinked into existence behind his eyelids, violet glow, stat bars, floating words like "Seduction Meter: 0% (ouch...)"
[SYSTEM]: Target locked: MJ Watson. Ohhh~ we are starting spicy. Don't screw it up, tiger.
'What the…' Peter muttered, still blinking like an idiot.
Flash was still standing there, looking like the final boss of JV football.
"You gonna cry, Parker?"
[SYSTEM]: Punch him. Or flirt with him. Either way, I am turned on.
Nope. Not swinging that way.
Peter just pushed himself up slow. Real slow. Looked Flash dead in the eye.
MJ was right there, kneeling beside him. "Peter, say something..."
He looked around. Yes. Hot Highschoolers.
This... was gonna be fun.
'System. God. I have a system now.'
'How cool is that?'
[SYSTEM]: Statistically, 98% of reincarnators die virgins. Let's fix that. Mm-kay?
Pause.
Intro time.
Cue sad Naruto flute music. You know the one. Trauma and loneliness with a side of inspirational depression.
Hi. I am Peter Parker.
Kinda.
I used to be some idiot back on Earth-Not-Marvel. Died tripping over laundry. Real talk. VR headset snapped my neck. It was tragic. And stupid. Didn't even finish glorious rubbing.
Now?
Now I have abs, spider DNA, and MJ freaking Watson breathing on me.
[SYSTEM]: Ohhh~ she is close. That is emotional tension, baby. Kiss her hand. I will moan if you do.
Focus.
Flash is still looming. Like a sentient linebacker with abandonment issues.
"Peter, say something." MJ's voice again. Soft. Ear-level.
I turned to her. Gave her the once-over. Not even subtle.
Tank top. Yep, most def no bra.
Either God is real, or the author is real horny.
"Yeah," I croaked. "I am good. I just... temporarily forgot how gravity works."
[SYSTEM]: Partial recovery complete. Rizz: Not enough. Horniness: Uncapped.
Flash snorted, already backing off like a gorilla with social anxiety.
"Whatever, Parker. Try not to cry next time someone breathes near you."
I stood. Not quick. Trying to be smooth. Failing, may be, but still trying damn it!
I brushed myself off. Smiled at Flash. Not the nerd smile. The kind of smirk that makes anime villains squint.
"Appreciate the wake-up, Flash," I said with a grin. "Almost forgot I am hotter, smarter, and probably gonna kiss your crush by Friday."
[SYSTEM]: HOLY, That was rude. YES. +3 XP. MJ just bit her lip. We are in.
MJ blinked. Her mouth parted a little. Confused. Curious. Possibly worried about brain damage. Possibly intrigued.
Spoiler alert: Both.
New Quest Appeared.
[Flirt Quest]: Make MJ blush in under 60 seconds.
Reward: +2 Seduction XP, soft giggle unlocked.
Let's go.
I looked at her again. Smiled.
Damn. Peter was an idiot.
Surely the words filling front of my mind weren't mine? This primal urge to say dumb, flirty things and somehow make it work? Nah, nah. That wouldn't work. But not like I was any better.
Like I did this ever before.
Like I didn't die to anime moans and laundry hazards.
"Hey," I said. "You got a map? Cuz I think I just got lost… in your eyes."
[SYSTEM]: Baby... what was that? I just got a secondhand cringe. -1 XP. Do better. Before my panties seal shut.
Abort.
Reboot.
"Wait, no, forget that," I said, clearing my throat. "Locker must knocked me into bad romcom mode."
She blinked. A breath puffed from her nose. Almost a laugh.
Not a win. But a crack.
Cracks mean entry points.
[SYSTEM]: Not bad... not wet yet, but not dry either.
Her eyes lingered. Not in worry anymore. Maybe a little bit of disbelief.
"When did you start talking like that?" she asked, brow cocked.
"Since the head trauma activated my flirt module," I replied, straight-faced. "Or maybe it is just confidence. I always mix those up."
[SYSTEM]: +2 XP. She is biting the inside of her cheek. Push gently, baby. Like foreplay, not drywall demolition.
I leaned in. Just a bit. Just enough to trigger gravity in my favor.
"But hey... if I start hallucinating unicorns in maid outfits, you are my emergency contact, right?"
She rolled her eyes. But her lips twitched.
"Only if they are not creepy."
"No promises. They saw things."
[SYSTEM]: MJ Smile Detected. Lip curve acquired. +1 XP. Keep going, Romeo.
Flash moved.
Swing coming.
Big. Sloppy. Predictable.
I didn't even look.
Caught it.
Clack.
Fist met palm. Held it. Stared at Flash like he was the tutorial boss.
MJ gasped. Flash stared like his hand just committed treason.
I didn't even blink.
"You done?" I asked.
[SYSTEM]: YESSS. Aggression kink unlocked. +3 XP. Flash peed. Probably.
Flash yanked his hand back. Actually stumbled, as he tried to take a step back.
I straightened my shirt. Like the whole thing bored me.
"Cool. Great chat. Let's not do this again."
MJ stared. Real blush now. Pink cheeks. Locked eyes.
Quest Complete.
[Flirt Quest]: MJ blushed in under 60 seconds.
+2 Seduction XP. Mental Giggle Archive updated.
I turned to her.
Grinned again.
"So... unicorns?"
She blinked. "Uh, what?"
I leaned a bit, just a bit, gave her space to back away and just the tiniest reason not to.
"How about we meet tonight on the roof," I said. "And talk about them? What do you say, neighbor?"
Her blink lasted longer this time. Like her brain had to process that I had asked her something real. Not a joke. Not a punchline. An invitation wrapped in velvet sarcasm.
The hallway buzzed. Locker doors slammed open and shut. Somewhere behind us, someone yelled about gym class and lost deodorant. But she did not move.
"You... want to hang out? Just... talk?" She was confused as if I was asking her to marry me, like she was not sure if she should be flattered or worried about brain swelling.
"Yeah," I said, shrugging, like I was not dying inside from how much of her collarbone was visible when she leaned forward. "Rooftop therapy. Sunset lighting. Deep discussions about unicorn politics. No pressure. Unless you want some."
[SYSTEM]: She flinched. Micro-lip twitch. +1 XP. My motherboard just sighed.
MJ tilted her head slightly, studying me like I was a new transfer from Hot Guy School who accidentally enrolled at Midtown and refused to leave.
"Fine," she said, brushing a strand of red from her face. "But if you try anything creepy, I will throw you off the roof."
"You would not be the first girl to say that to me today," I lied, smiling like I earned it.
I felt a tug in my fist and turned.
"Oh. I forgot about you," I said, deadpan, at Thompson, who was now trying to yank his hand free like it was caught in a mousetrap with pride as the cheese.
His face was doing all kinds of dumb. Sweat glistened like his ego was melting under stage lights, lips pulled back in that cartoon snarl that only works when someone is not halfway to pissing themselves.
"Let go of me!" he barked. Or maybe squealed. It was a spectrum at that point.
So I let go.
He hit the linoleum with a wet-sounding thump, backpack slamming down just a second later for dramatic effect. Butt-first. Legs up. Dignity left somewhere in homeroom.
"Oops," I said, exaggerating the O. The kind that said I was enjoying this way too much. 'Wow. I am acting like Cool Tobey Maguire.'
I turned my back on him and walked away.
The second the hallway swallowed me, I ditched the class.
Skipped biology, skipped physics, skipped all of it.
Because I needed to think.
The school buzz melted into background radiation as I stepped out the side door and into the sunlight, warm on my face like it had not gotten the memo that I was very much having a full mental episode.
Pavement underfoot, cars droning by, a pigeon watching me like it knew something. 'Damn, government drones!' I kept walking. By the time I reached Aunt May's house, my heartbeat had slowed.
"Peter is that you?" a voice called. Then she appeared.
And DAMN.
The sun must have been playing favorites today, because it hit her like she was the scene, not the background. Aunt May. Not the sweet grandma baking cookies with hidden grief under her smile. No. This was the hot version. The one with legs that made you rethink eye contact, curves that had no business being allowed near a teenage protagonist, and a neckline that had God filing a complaint for emotional damage.
She stepped out from the kitchen, barefoot, holding a mug like it was a glass of wine in a perfume commercial. Tank top, damp and casual, like she didn't expect an audience. Her hair was still damp, probably from a post-shower walk of glory, and her face carried that unbothered glow women get when they have no idea how dangerous they look in their own home.
"Peter?" she said again, slower this time, eyes narrowing slightly as she stepped into view. "Why are you home so early? Did something happen?"
I could not help but light up.
I got the hot MILF Aunt May. Not the old, wrinkled one. No, sir. This was the mid-thirties fever dream. Legs for days. Eyes that probably made plumbers forget why they showed up. The universe did not just hand me powers. It handed me potential trauma with curves.
"Something happen at school?" she asked again, voice curious, like it was tired of being patient.
I blinked. Had to reboot. I was still seeing the tank top. And the way it clung like it had been tailored by lust itself. Her hair stuck to her collarbones in damp strands, and I could smell something faintly floral and sinful coming off her skin.
"Yeah," I said, "Gravity and Flash Thompson had a threesome with my skull."
May's eyebrows jumped. Just a little. Then settled back into a look of semi-maternal concern. She stepped closer. I could hear the soft slap of her bare feet against the tile. Her mug smelled like hazelnut and legal-age distractions.
"You alright?" she asked.
I nodded, then winced. Little late. That bump was going to keep humming for hours.
"I will live," I said. "Might have kissed a locker, though. Hard. Possibly tongue."
She gave a half-laugh. The kind adults do when they are not sure if they should be amused or calling a guidance counselor. I did not blame her.
Pulling me to the couch, she fussed over me. Dangerous move, considering she was leaning in, eyes full of worry and neckline full of distraction. Her fingers brushed my forehead like she was checking for fever, not realizing she was the one causing half of it.
"What happened to you? You talk strange," she said, peering up at me like I was an alien she accidentally raised for sixteen years.
Oops. Right. Old Peter was the quiet type. The "sorry for existing" brand of teenager. And I was... well. A guy whose last words on Earth were probably "Wait, this scene ain't skippable?"
She kept going, brushing my hair back, not even realizing how close her face was. "Did you get a concussion?"
I shook my head, then regretted it. Throbbing answered back like a drunk drummer.
"Nah. I mean, maybe. A little. But honestly? I gave up pretending to be decent today."
Her brows twitched. She sat back a little, trying to read me. But the concern never left her mouth. That soft, parted look like she was waiting for a real explanation. Not jokes.
So I gave her one.
"Before, I was just trying to get through the day. Keep my head down. Take the hits. Pretend the locker slams and Flash's gorilla chest bumps didn't matter. But they do. And today..."
I paused. Let it sit. Felt the weight of it gather in my chest.
"Today was a wake-up call."
She stilled, mug hovering near her lap, the steam curling around her fingers.
"You can call it Post Bullying Stress Syndrome, or whatever you want. But my shell got shocked clean. And I am done playing the silent kid."
May blinked. Her mouth opened, then closed. She was not used to this version of me. The one who looked her in the eyes and did not shrink back like he was two inches tall and apologizing for breathing. I felt her searching my face. Maybe for the boy she raised. Maybe for cracks in this new one.
But I held her gaze.
She reached out again. Not to fuss. Just to place a palm against my cheek. It was warm. Soft. Familiar in a way that made my chest ache for a second.
"You sound... more mature," she said. Quiet, almost whispering. "Not just hurt. Changed."
"Good," I said. "Because I am tired of being a footnote."
She nodded, more to herself than to me. Like she was trying to catch up to a reality that had sprinted past her morning coffee. Then she shifted, tucking her leg up on the couch beside me, her tank top riding a little higher than any maternal instinct should allow.
"You want to talk about it?" she asked.
I smiled. Not the cocky kind. Not the smug one I wore like a hoodie at school. Just a tired one. The kind that said, thanks, but talking is not the therapy I need right now.
"No. Not really. Just wanted to come home. Be around someone who doesn't throw me at lockers for sport."
Her face softened. The tension in her shoulders dropped just a little.
"Well," she said, "next time, if anyone tries to hurt you again, tell me. I will handle it."
Now that was tempting.
"You gonna beat up Flash Thompson for me?" I asked, smiling more now.
"If I have to," she said, raising a brow. "I might not look it, but I was mean in high school."
"No way."
"Oh yes." She sipped her coffee like it was proof. "Girl who messed with me in freshman year? Left school with hair extensions in her salad."
That made me snort. I rubbed my forehead again.
"Thank you, Aunty," I said, "but as I said, it is a different Peter now. I am no longer the silent nerd. I am now the nerd who fights back."
She laughed. Tried not to, but failed. It was that kind of laugh where she pressed her lips together and exhaled through her nose, shoulders bouncing like she was holding in an entire sitcom's worth of amusement.
"Still nerd?" she asked.
I shrugged. "Cannot do a full 180 in a day, can I now?"
Her head tilted slightly, gaze softening. That playful judgment faded into something gentler, something a little more curious. "No, I suppose not," she said, stirring the mug absently in her hand. "But I like this version of you. Feisty."
I shifted on the couch, tried to find a comfortable way to lean.
"So," she said, fingers tapping the ceramic, "what exactly changed? Just… got sick of being pushed around?"
I hesitated. Not because I was unsure of the answer, but because the real one came with too many caveats. Souls. Deaths. A sultry System whispering dirty encouragement in my ear.
"Yeah," I lied gently, "something like that. I guess you can only take so many headbutts from a locker before something in you snaps. Or wakes up."
She gave a nod. Like that explanation made more sense than it should have. Like maybe she had been there once herself. Different decade. Different drama. Same hallway politics.
"Whatever it is," she said, pointing her mug at me like a wand, "keep that spark. You were never weak, Peter. You just forgot you were allowed to stand tall."
I got up and leaned over to plant a kiss on her head, the gesture automatic, affectionate in a way that surprised even me. "Thank you, Aunty. I will take a shower and change."
She hmmed, that low, distracted note mothers make when they are only half-listening, the other half calculating laundry loads or remembering they left the stove on. As I turned away, I caught her smiling just a little, the corners of her mouth tugged up as if I had said something sweet and she did not want me to see how much it meant.