Penny Parker: Spider Reborn

Nights brought nightmares—Dominion’s eyes turning hungry, her own voice begging, the line between strategy and surrender blurring until she woke gasping.

The X-Men rallied around her like a living shield.

Storm brought herbal teas that eased the tremors, sitting for hours in quiet talks about surviving losses, reclaiming power. “You turned his strength against him,” she said softly one afternoon, wind stirring gently through the open window. “That is not defeat. That is mastery.”

Gambit lightened the heavy air—card tricks that sparked harmless kinetic rainbows, Cajun cooking lessons in the kitchen where his hands guided hers over spices, laughter bubbling up unexpected when flour exploded across the counter. He never pushed, just filled the silence with easy presence.

Jean offered telepathic therapy—gentle sessions untangling guilt and shame, weaving shields against the intrusive memories. “You saved us,” Jean murmured during one, fingers brushing her temple. “That choice was heroic. The cost… we share it.”

Logan was the constant shadow—growling at anyone who lingered too long in the halls, sleeping on a cot beside her bed the first few nights. His touch was careful: changing bandages without lingering, bringing meals she barely ate, sitting in silence when words failed. “Ya didn’t have to do that alone,” he said roughly one evening, claws retracted as he held her hand.

Recovery stretched weeks. Physically, the mutant traces in her system—Logan’s healing factor chief among them—sped the mending: bones knitting faster, bruises fading to yellow ghosts. Mentally, she rebuilt brick by brick: meditation with Jean to quiet the echoes, sparring with Storm to reclaim her body’s strength without fear flashing every impact.

One afternoon, alone in her room after a light training session, she stood before the full-length mirror. New clothes hugged her curves—simple leggings and tee, nothing flashy. Tentatively, she traced a breast, the slope of her hip, the sensitivity that lingered. No revulsion this time. Curiosity. A spark of ownership. Power, not prey.

The heat flared sporadically—a cruel echo—but the team handled it with care. Release when needed, always consensual, always loving: Logan’s rough grounding, Storm’s gentle exploration, Gambit’s playful energy, Jean’s intimate psi-link weaving pleasure with reassurance. It made her feel cherished, not used.

Slowly, the shards knit back together. Penny Parker emerged—not unbroken, but stronger in the cracks.

The suppression tech arrived in a sleek black case delivered by drone two weeks after the nightmares began to fade. Tony’s handwritten note was cocky as ever: “Dialed it down to manageable. Not gone, but you won’t be climbing walls for relief every Tuesday. You’re welcome. —T.S.”

Penny tested the injector patch in the training room—a small device applied to the base of her neck. Cool nanites flooded in. The constant low simmer of heat—the one that made her thighs clench at random scents or touches—faded to a background hum. Not erased, but leashed. She could feel desire rise when she wanted it to, not when her body decided. Control. Real control.

For the first time since the gas hit, she breathed easy.

Life settled into something resembling normal—hero patrols with the X-Men, photo gigs for the Bugle under her new alias (“Penny Parker, freelance”), quiet evenings in the common room trading stories. The team treated her no differently: still family, still one of them. The occasional flare-up happened—stress, adrenaline, a bad memory—but when it did, the X-Men were there without question. Gentle. Loving. No pressure.

Logan noticed the shift first.

She started spending more time with Gambit.

It began innocently enough: late-night kitchen raids where he’d teach her proper gumbo, his hands guiding hers over the knife, Cajun drawl low and teasing. Then sparring sessions where his kinetic-charged cards danced around her webs, laughter echoing when she flipped him onto the mat. Movie nights turned into her curled against his side, head on his shoulder, his arm draped casually around her waist.

He never pushed—always waited for her signal—but when she gave it, he was playful, attentive, filthy in the best way. He made her feel desired without making her feel like prey.

Logan watched from the doorway one night, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

The confrontation came a week later.

Penny was in the garage, tinkering with her suit’s emitters—trying to fine-tune the pheromone controls so she could use them defensively without the feedback loop. Gambit had just left after a quick kiss that left her smiling stupidly at the workbench.

Logan stepped in, boots heavy on concrete.

“Got a minute, kid?”

She straightened, wiping grease from her hands. “Always.”

He leaned against the bike, eyes on her—not angry, but… tired. “You and the Cajun. It’s gettin’ serious.”

Penny’s stomach dropped. Guilt hit fast. “Logan, I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop.” He held up a hand. “Don’t apologize. Listen to me.” He stepped closer, voice rough but steady. “This is good. You hear me? This is good.”

She blinked, confused.

“We both know I’m not what you need,” he continued. “Never was, not really. I was the one who pulled you out of the fire when you first showed up here—growlin’, protectin’, keepin’ the wolves away. But that’s what a father figure does. Or a big brother. That’s what I want to be for you now. The guy who has your back, no strings, no expectations.”

Penny’s eyes stung. “You were never just that to me.”

“I know.” He gave a small, crooked smile. “And that’s why it works better this way. Gambit’s a weird son of a bitch—cards, charm, all that flair—but he’s good for you. Makes you laugh. Makes you feel wanted without makin’ you feel small. And you’re good for him. Grounds him. Keeps that wild spark from burnin’ him out.”

She swallowed hard. “You really okay with this?”

Logan reached out, ruffled her hair like she was still the scrawny kid photographer he’d first met. “More than okay. Proud of you, Penny. Now go be happy. And if he ever screws it up, I’ll gut him. Deal?”

She laughed through tears, hugging him tight. “Deal.”

Life moved forward.

A month later, Penny and Gambit took the train to Queens.

Aunt May had returned from her world cruise weeks earlier. She’d known—Penny had left long, tearful voicemails and followed up with video calls. May had cried, raged at the universe, then hugged her screen and said, “You’re still my family. Nothing changes that.”

Still, seeing her in person was different.

They arrived at the old apartment door. May opened it before they knocked—small, silver-haired, eyes bright with worry and love.

“Peter—Penny,” she corrected herself quickly, pulling her into a fierce hug. “Oh, honey.”

Gambit hung back politely, hat in hand, until May turned to him.

“And you must be the one she’s been smiling about on calls.” She studied him—tall, trench coat, red-on-black eyes, that easy grin. “Remy LeBeau, yes?”

“Oui, ma’am.” He bowed slightly, charming as ever. “Pleasure.”

May ushered them inside. The apartment smelled like fresh cookies and home. They sat around the kitchen table, talking for hours.

May asked everything: the pain, the changes, the new powers, the suppression patch. Penny answered honestly, voice steady. Gambit filled in gaps when she faltered, hand resting lightly on her knee under the table—supportive, not possessive.

May watched them. The way Penny leaned into him when she spoke about the Dominion fight. The way Gambit’s thumb traced soothing circles on her wrist. The easy laughter when he teased her about her terrible gumbo attempt last week.

By the time the sun dipped low, May’s eyes were soft.

“You’re happy,” she said quietly.

Penny nodded. “I am. Really.”

May reached across, taking both their hands. “Then I give you my blessing. Both of you.” She looked at Gambit. “Take care of her, young man. She’s been through enough.”

Gambit met her gaze seriously. “With my life, Tante May.”

May smiled—genuine, warm. “Good. Now eat these cookies before they get cold. And stay the night. Both of you. I’ve got the guest room ready.”

Later, in the small bedroom that used to be Peter’s, Penny curled against Gambit under the quilt. He kissed her temple.

“See? Even de aunt approves.”

She laughed softly. “Yeah. Life’s… good.”

And for the first time in a long time, she believed it.