Penny Parker: Spider Reborn

The suppression patch worked beautifully for months. Penny felt in control—pheromones leashed, heat a distant memory she could summon only if she chose. Patrols were clean. Dates with Gambit were playful, passionate, but never desperate. Life felt balanced.

Then the glitches started.

It began small: a faint warmth behind her eyes during a minor skirmish with street-level thugs. She ignored it. Next patrol, the warmth spread to her chest, nipples tightening under the suit without warning. By the third incident, during a warehouse raid against a low-tier arms dealer named Vortex—some wannabe with wind-manipulation tech—the patch failed spectacularly.

Vortex wasn’t strong, but when Penny webbed his goons and landed in front of him, the nanites misfired. A surge ripped through her—pheromones blasting outward uncontrolled, amplified by the suit’s emitters. Vortex froze mid-attack, eyes glazing over, a guttural groan escaping as his body reacted instantly—cock straining visibly against his tactical pants.

“Oh fuck,” Penny whispered, horror dawning.

She tried to backpedal, firing a web-line for retreat, but the feedback loop slammed into her like a truck. Heat roared back full-force—thighs slick, core throbbing, mind fogging with raw, insistent need. Vortex lunged, not with his wind powers, but pure animal lust—eyes wild, hands grabbing her before she could fully swing away.

He pinned her hard against the crates, body pressing in, one hand yanking her mask up just enough to expose her mouth. “You… smell… incredible,” he rasped, voice thick, pupils blown.

She fought—webs firing weakly, superhuman strength pushing back—but the heat betrayed her, limbs heavy, resistance crumbling as slick arousal soaked through her suit. He tore at the fabric between her legs, fingers rough and probing, then forced her down—knees hitting the concrete as he freed himself, shoving into her mouth with a desperate thrust.

She gagged, hands on his thighs trying to push, but the heat surged higher—body arching involuntarily, taking him deeper. He groaned, hips snapping in short, frantic bursts, lost to the pheromones.

It was over fast—he pulled out with a strangled cry, coming in hot ropes across her face, painting cheeks, lips, chin. Dripping. Marking.

The degradation hit like ice water through the haze. Shame crashed in—raw, overwhelming. This wasn’t her. Not again.

Clarity snapped back. She shoved him off with full strength, webbed him to the ceiling in a tight cocoon, and bolted—mask half-on, suit torn, cum dripping down her neck, tears blurring her vision.

She didn’t go to the mansion first.

She went to Logan.

He was in the garage, oil-stained hands working on his bike, when she crashed through the side door. She collapsed against the wall, sobbing, knees buckling.

“Logan…”

He was at her side in an instant, claws retracting as he took in her state—torn suit, tear-streaked face smeared with drying cum, trembling.

“Kid—what happened?”

“I’m so ashamed, Logan,” she choked out. “If Gambit sees me like this… my face… I almost gave myself completely to that piece of shit. The patch glitched. I couldn’t stop it. I let him—”

Logan didn’t flinch. He scooped her up gently, carrying her to the small bathroom attached to the garage. No words at first. Just action.

He turned on the shower—warm, not hot—then helped her peel off the ruined suit. Nothing sexual in his touch; clinical, protective, like a brother tending a wounded sibling. He stepped in fully clothed, guiding her under the spray, letting the water rinse away the evidence while he held her shoulders steady.

She cried harder, forehead against his chest.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, voice gravel. “You fought it. You got away. That’s what matters. The rest? That’s the tech fuckin’ up, not you.”

He washed her hair carefully, fingers gentle, then her face—thumb wiping under her eyes. When the water ran clear, he wrapped her in a clean towel, carried her to the cot in the corner, and sat beside her until the sobs eased.

“We’re goin’ to Stark. Right now.”

Tony’s lab was quiet when they arrived—late night, just emergency lights. Stark looked up from a holographic display, saw Penny’s red-rimmed eyes and Logan’s thunderous expression, and immediately knew.

“Glitch?” he asked quietly.

Logan growled. “Fix it. Properly.”

Tony ran diagnostics. The patch had overheated internally; the nanites’ restraints—safety limits he’d coded to prevent overload—had caused a cascade failure under stress. He removed them on the spot, recalibrating.

When he finished, he met Penny’s gaze.

“Here’s the truth, Penny. I can fine-tune this thing a dozen more times, but the integration—the mutant traces, the pheromones, the suit’s amplification—it’s too volatile. The tech will keep failing. This will happen again. Maybe worse.”

She swallowed. “So… what do I do?”

“You deal with it yourself.” Tony’s voice was softer than usual. “The patch will delay the onset now—give you minutes, maybe an hour of warning before the heat hits full. Enough time to get clear, get home, get help. But you can’t rely on suppression forever. Use the power when you have to. And when the aftermath comes… run home to your man. Let him take care of you. Proper. That’s the best I can do.”

Logan nodded once. “He’s right, kid.”

Penny stared at the new patch in her hand—sleeker, no restraints. “Okay.”

Back at the mansion, Gambit was waiting in their room—lights low, worry etched on his face. He’d heard the basics from Storm.

When Penny walked in, still shaky but showered and changed, he didn’t ask questions. Just opened his arms.

She fell into them.

“Cher,” he whispered, kissing her forehead. “You’re home.”

The heat hadn’t hit yet—the new patch held—but she knew it would. Soon.

And when it did, there was no slow build, no gentle prelude. Gambit tore the suit from her body in frantic strips, fabric ripping under charged fingers until she stood naked before him, skin fever-hot and flushed. He lifted her effortlessly, laying her on her back amid the tangled sheets.

He pinned her wrists above her head with one strong hand, spreading her thighs wide with the other. His mouth descended without mercy—tongue plunging deep, lapping at her slick arousal, sucking her clit until she arched off the bed with a broken cry. Three fingers stretched her open while his thumb circled relentlessly, building her to the edge in seconds.

She shattered fast, gushing against his mouth, body shaking. But the heat only laughed at one release.

“More,” she begged, voice wrecked and desperate. “Please—Remy—all of it—”

He flipped her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up sharply. One hand fisted in her hair, arching her back as he guided his cock to her entrance and thrust in hard—deep, bottoming out in a single stroke. She screamed into the pillow, walls fluttering around him.

He didn’t hold back.

Every taboo shattered in the frenzy that followed. He took her pussy first with brutal, punishing strokes—skin slapping against skin, his balls heavy against her clit with every drive. She begged for more stretch, and he gave it—slicking himself before pressing into her ass, slow at first, then all the way. She sobbed from the pleasure-pain, pushing back greedily, taking every inch.

He rotated without pause—pussy, ass, mouth—never leaving her empty. At one point, he bound her wrists with his belt, securing them to the headboard so she was open and helpless. He took her from behind again, one hand around her throat in a firm but careful hold, the other rubbing tight circles on her clit.

She came again and again—shattering waves that left her squirting, the bedframe rattling with her tremors. He followed each time, spilling deep inside her, across her back, down her throat—marking every part of her until she glistened with him.

The heat finally crested and broke, leaving them collapsed in a sweat-slick tangle. He untied her wrists gently, pulled her into his chest, and wrapped his arms and legs around her like a shield, holding her close as their breathing slowed.

They woke hours later, tangled in ruined sheets, dawn light filtering through the curtains.

The silence felt heavy.

Tears came without warning—shaking sobs that wracked her body.

Gambit stirred instantly, stroking her hair. “Cher? Talk to me.”

“I can’t keep doing this to you,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Wrecking yourself just to save me every time. I feel so bad. You deserve better than being my… my relief valve.”

He cupped her face tenderly, thumbs wiping away the tears. “Don’t,” he said softly, but firm. “Don’t take this away from me, cher.”

She blinked up at him, confused.

“This—right here, us, you burnin’ up and me bein’ the one to put out the fire—this is exactly where I want to be. With you. In you. Takin’ every piece of you when you need it most.” His voice dropped lower, raw with emotion. “I need this too. Need to feel you lose control and trust me to catch you. Need to know when the world tries to break you, I’m the one who gets to hold all the pieces. That’s not a burden, Penny. That’s love. That’s us.”

She searched his eyes—red-on-black, steady, adoring. “You mean that?”

“Every damn word.” He kissed her forehead, then her lips—slow, tender, full of promise. “We’ll keep fightin’ the glitches. Keep pushin’ Stark. But until there’s a forever fix? I’m here. All in. Every taboo, every scream, every aftershock. I want it. I want you.”

She buried her face in his neck, tears falling softer now. “I love you.”

“Love you more, mon cœur.”

They lay there a long time, breathing together, bodies entwined.

The heat was gone—for now.

But whatever came next, they’d face it the same way: together, no holding back