Penny Parker: Spider Reborn

She woke on the couch at 2 p.m. after crashing hard post-escape. The tablet from Ock’s lab was still clutched against her chest like a security blanket. She hadn’t even taken the suit off; the fabric was stiff with dried sweat and… other things. The apartment smelled faintly of arousal and desperation.

First things first: she couldn’t keep wearing the same suit 24/7. It was starting to chafe in places that had never existed before, and the smell of her own constant low-grade heat was making her dizzy. Civilian clothes. Normal ones. Ones that didn’t scream “pornographic superhero reboot.”

Problem: her closet was useless, and buying women’s clothes in her current state felt like walking into a lion’s den wearing a steak suit.

She showered again—cold this time, punishing—then layered everything she owned that might pass: the oversized hoodie (now comically tenting over unbound breasts), an old pair of men’s cargo pants cinched with a belt at its smallest notch, baseball cap pulled low. Socks stuffed in the bra cups for flattening. From a distance she might pass for a very curvy tomboy. Up close… not a chance.

Target on Steinway Street. Mid-afternoon weekday. Should be quiet.

Famous last words.

She kept her head down the whole walk, hood up, hands jammed in pockets. But New York noticed anyway.

A delivery guy on a bike nearly crashed staring. Two construction workers went silent mid-sentence. An older woman at the crosswalk reached out and patted her arm. “You okay, honey? You look flushed.”

“I’m fine,” she croaked, voice cracking higher than intended.

Inside the fluorescent lights felt like spotlights. She beelined for the women’s section, grabbed the first things that looked vaguely her size—stretchy black leggings, plain V-neck tees, a sports bra promising “medium support,” plain cotton bikini briefs. No lace. No frills.

At the fitting room, a bored attendant waved her through.

The mirror was merciless.

She stripped to skin.

Breasts: full, pale, nipples already peaked from air-conditioning and nerves. Waist: dramatically narrow. Hips: wide enough to make “childbearing” feel literal. Ass: round, perky. Between her legs: soft, slick, swollen even now.

She touched herself—just once, lightly, testing. The gasp echoed too loud. She yanked her hand away like it burned.

The sports bra was a nightmare; hooks in the back, arms not bending that way easily. After three tries she gave up, left it hanging around her neck like a sad trophy, and tried the leggings instead.

They fit. Too well. The seam pressed right against her clit with every shift. She bit her lip hard.

The V-neck tee clung.

She bought the lot—plus cotton thongs (briefs felt wrong), a smaller hoodie, and (after a long internal debate) a small bottle of lube because the constant wet ache was starting to chafe.

At checkout the cashier stared openly at her chest, flushed crimson, mumbled “Have a nice day.”

She practically ran.

On the street eyes were everywhere. High-school boys catcalled from across the road. An older man in a suit matched her pace for half a block until she webbed a discreet line to a fire escape and vanished upward.

She changed in an alley behind a bodega, swapping cargo pants for leggings, giant hoodie for fitted one. The new clothes made her look intentional. Feminine. Hot.

She hated how much she didn’t hate it.

Back home she locked the door, drew the blinds, stood in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door.

Black leggings. Charcoal hoodie unzipped just enough to show cleavage she couldn’t hide. Hair loose. Lips parted, cheeks flushed.

The heat flared bright and sudden.

She sank onto the bed, legs spread, hand slipping under the waistband before she could talk herself out of it.

Fingers found slick heat instantly. Two slid inside with embarrassing ease; thumb circled her clit in tight, frantic loops. Against her will she pictured Logan’s rough hands instead of hers. Then Johnny’s cocky grin and warm skin. Then—God help her—the way Ock’s tentacle had traced her hip like he owned it.

She came fast and hard, back arching, choked cry muffled into her own arm. Stars burst behind her eyelids.

It still wasn’t enough.

The tablet sat on the nightstand. She grabbed it, forced focus.

Encrypted files. Partial formulas. One recurring note in Ock’s jagged handwriting:

“Pheromone amplification irreversible without counter-agent X-17. Source: Stark Industries proprietary compound. Theft required.”

Of course.

Stark.

She dropped her head back against the pillow and laughed—a broken, breathless sound.

Tomorrow she was going to have to walk into Avengers Tower, tits out, pheromones screaming, and ask Tony Stark for help.

She was so, so fucked.