Penny Parker: Spider Reborn

The next morning arrived cruelly bright. Sunlight sliced through the half-closed blinds of Peter’s tiny Queens apartment, painting golden stripes across the unfamiliar body sprawled on the bed.

She still wasn’t used to the weight distribution. Rolling onto her side sent breasts shifting heavily, nipples brushing cotton sheets and sending tiny, traitorous sparks straight downward. She groaned, pressing her thighs together instinctively. The ache between her legs hadn’t disappeared overnight; if anything, it had settled in deeper, like a low-grade fever that refused to break.

First problem: clothes.

Peter’s entire wardrobe was built for a five-foot-ten, lean-muscled man. Jeans hung loose and wrong on newly rounded hips. T-shirts stretched obscenely across her chest or gaped at the collarbones. The only things that somewhat worked were an old hoodie three sizes too big (thank you, college-era growth spurt that never quite happened for anyone else) and a pair of stretchy yoga pants she’d bought ironically for MJ years ago and never returned.

She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Dark hair fell in messy waves past her shoulders. Face still recognizably Peter—same hazel eyes, same scattering of freckles—but softer, fuller lips, higher cheekbones, and an undeniable feminine beauty that made her own reflection feel like a stranger wearing her skin.

“Great,” she muttered, voice still startlingly melodic. “I look like the reboot nobody asked for.”

Second problem: she needed money. The Bugle still paid per photo, and J. Jonah Jameson didn’t care what gender the photographer was—as long as the shots were good.

She pulled the suit on. The red-and-blue fabric hugged every exaggerated curve now: ass rounded and high, waist dramatically cinched, breasts pushed up and together in a way that made breathing feel indecent. The mask at least still covered most of her face.

Swinging through Midtown felt different. Wind rushed over new contours in ways that made every flip pull fabric taut across sensitive places. And the city noticed her back.

She landed lightly on the Daily Bugle rooftop, already hearing the commotion inside.

“Parker!” Robbie Robertson’s voice boomed before she even made it through the access door. “Where the hell have you— whoa.”

The entire photo bullpen went quiet.

She froze in the doorway, one hand still holding the mask half-pulled up, exposing mouth and chin. Every eye tracked the same path: long legs, dramatic hourglass, breasts that defied gravity even under compression fabric.

Betty Brant’s coffee cup paused halfway to her lips.

Ben Urich coughed into his fist.

Jameson stormed out of his office, cigar already lit.

“PARKER! Why are you dressed like some— some cosplay harlot version of my nemesis?!”

She yanked the mask back down. “It’s still me, Mr. Jameson. Long story. Lab accident. Gender-swap gas. You know how it is.”

His face went an interesting shade of purple. “I most certainly do NOT know how it is! You expect me to pay a—a—a female impersonator Spider-Man pictures?!”

“I’m not impersonating anyone,” she said through gritted teeth. “I am Spider-Man. Was. Am. Whatever. The camera still works the same.”

Robbie stepped forward, ever the peacemaker. “Jonah, the kid’s obviously telling the truth. Look at the eyes. That’s Parker.” He glanced down, then quickly back up, cheeks darkening. “Uh… we’ll get you an advance on the next batch if you can still shoot. Suit… situation notwithstanding.”

She exhaled. “Deal.”

She spent the afternoon perched on ledges, snapping shots of a minor bank robbery, a fire escape rescue, the usual. But every time she landed near civilians—or worse, other heroes—the air changed.

She was webbing away from the bank when a low growl sounded behind her.

“Nice ass, web-head.”

Wolverine.

Of course.

He stepped out from an alley, cigar between his teeth, leather jacket straining over muscle. His nostrils flared as he caught her scent.

“Logan,” she said tightly, already backing up. “Not today.”

“Smells different.” He took a slow step forward, pupils blown wide. “Real different. What the hell happened to ya, kid?”

“Doc Ock experiment. Long story. Really not in the mood for the growly lumberjack routine right now.”

He inhaled again, visibly shuddering. “Christ. You’re puttin’ out pheromones like a damn omega in heat. You even aware of that?”

Heat flooded her face—and lower. The words hit like gasoline on the smoldering fire inside her. She clenched her thighs together so hard the suit creaked.

“I’m handling it,” she lied.

Logan’s claws slid out an inch, then retracted. “You’re not handlin’ shit. You smell like sin and sugar. Half the block’s probably followin’ you with their tongues hangin’ out.”

“I webbed three guys to lampposts this morning for trying to cop a feel. I’m fine.”

He barked a laugh, but it sounded strained. “Yeah? How long till you can’t say no to the next one?” Another step. Close enough she could smell leather, smoke, metal. “Or… maybe you don’t wanna say no.”

The suggestion landed low in her belly like a punch. For one horrifying second she imagined it—letting him close the distance, letting those rough hands map her new body, letting the heat finally crest instead of simmer.

She shot a web at his chest and yanked herself backward onto a fire escape.

“Back off, Logan. I mean it.”

He didn’t chase. Just watched her go, eyes dark. “When you can’t stand it anymore, kid… you know where to find me.”

She swung away so fast the wind stung her eyes.

By evening she was back in the apartment, suit peeled off, standing under the shower spray with forehead pressed to cool tile. Water ran in rivulets over breasts, down the slope of her stomach, between thighs that trembled.

She tried to ignore it.

Failed.

One hand slid down almost against her will. Fingers brushed slick heat—and the first touch ripped a broken moan from her throat.

She shouldn’t.

She did.

Two fingers slipped inside; her knees nearly buckled. The stretch was strange and perfect and too much and not enough. Her thumb found her clit and circled once, twice—

A sob tore free.

She came hard, suddenly, vision whiting out, thighs shaking, free hand slapping the tile for balance. It wasn’t enough. The heat receded for maybe thirty seconds, then came creeping back, hungrier.

She slid down the wall until she was sitting under the cooling spray, hugging her knees, tears mixing with water.

This body wanted.

Badly.

And the city was full of people who suddenly wanted her right back.

She had to find Ock. Had to reverse this. Had to—

—had to figure out what she was going to do tomorrow when Tony Stark inevitably showed up asking why “Spider-Man” was trending on every gossip site with headlines like “Web-Slinger’s Sexy Makeover?”

She laughed once, bitterly, and pressed her forehead to wet knees.

Tomorrow was going to be hell.