Its was like she was always gwen

Gwen finds herself waking back in her bed wearing pj as the room around them as change to fit their new life and personality as gwen as she only remembers being gwen and growing up as gwen parker

Gwen’s eyelids flutter open to the smell of vanilla body spray and the soft glow of string lights. Her fingers clutch at flannel pajama bottoms not the damp skirt from before as she blinks at the lavender walls of a bedroom that feels intimately familiar yet somehow new. Posters of indie bands she knows she’s loved for years peel slightly at the corners. A chipped mug of cold chamomile tea sits on the nightstand beside a stack of dog-eared astrophysics textbooks.

Her phone buzzes under the pillow. She fumbles for it, her thumb automatically unlocking it—of course the passcode is date of when she move in with her aunt and uncle.

She looks at the phone as it she gotten a text from mj says his gwen don't be late to practice after school i can't keep covering for you to the band

Gwen's thumb hovers over MJ's text, the blue light casting sharp shadows across her knuckles. A half-peeled sticker of Saturn clings to the phone case she remembers peeling at it during chemistry last week, the adhesive still stubborn under her fingernail. The scent of MJ's strawberry gum seems to seep through the screen as she types back, her fingers moving faster than conscious thought: "missed my alarm, be there in 20."

Downstairs, the microwave beeps three short, insistent bursts. The smell of burnt popcorn floods the hallway as Gwen's socked feet hit the carpet.

Gewn looks though her clothes to find the best outfit possible for band practice

Gwen's toes curl into the popcorn-scented carpet as she pivots toward her closet. The sliding door sticks halfway—she remembers kicking it last month when it jammed during a frantic search for her lucky drumsticks.

Her fingers brush through hangers with muscle memory: past the leather jacket Ned swore made her look like a "biker Tinkerbell," over the sweater May knitted with lopsided constellations, stopping at a cropped hoodie still speckled with flecks of blue paint from last year's homecoming float.

The mirror on the back of the door reflects her chewing her bottom lip a habit MJ teases her about during study sessions.

She puts on her outfit that she usually wears for band practice then she heads to practice rushing the way there

Gwen yanks the cropped hoodie over her head, the fabric catching briefly on the silver spider pendant she’s worn since sophomore year as she remembers the first time Aunt May’s give it to her as aunt may hands trembling as she clasped it around her neck, whispering "my brave girl." But she doesn't have time to waste as The cuffs of her drumming gloves peek from the hoodie pocket, frayed at the edges from years of aggressive hi-hat work. She shoves her feet into scuffed Vans, the left shoe’s insole curling up just enough to annoy her with every step.

The bedroom door creaks its familiar protest as she shoulders it open, the sound harmonizing with the groan of floorboards underfoot.

She running faster down the street than she ever had done before as she makes it to band practice in time thanks to her new spider powers

Gwen’s feet hit the pavement outside, the October air sharp against her cheeks. She barely registers the door slamming behind her—the sound swallowed by the sudden rush of wind in her ears as she breaks into a sprint. The sidewalk blurs beneath her, cracks and gum stains smearing into streaks of gray. Her lungs burn, but not from exertion—from the sheer impossibility of how fast she’s moving, how her legs piston with inhuman precision, how the world narrows to the rhythmic slap of rubber soles against concrete.

Gwen skids to a stop in front of MJ’s brownstone, her Vans leaving twin streaks of rubber on the pavement. The front porch light flicker just like it always does casting jagged shadows across the chipped green door. Through the window. She gets inside the house to see mj and the other band members look gwen as mj says your late but doesn't matter i confidence the other girls to give you one more chance but if your late one more time i going to have replace you

she sees MJ’s drumsticks tap impatiently against a music stand, the click-click-click muffled by glass but still sharp enough to make Gwen’s stomach twist.

She wrenches the door open, the hinges whining the same protest they always have, and the scent of incense and stale coffee hits her like a wall.

Alright let's get started gwen sound us off . Gwen starts playing with the band as if she been playing all her life which she has thanks to the doctor strange spell

Gwen’s fingers find the drumsticks before her brain catches up smooth wood worn familiar by years of basement rehearsals and battle-of-the-bands competitions she now remembers winning. The sticks strike the snare in a stuttering roll, her wrists moving with the **** precision of muscle memory rewritten. The hi-hat hisses under her left foot’s pressure, her right knee bouncing to a rhythm that thrums in her bones like a second heartbeat.

MJ’s voice cuts through the opening riff, sharp as ever: "Alright, let’s get started—Gwen, sound us off."

The words trigger something deep in Gwen’s rewritten synapses.

The band sounds amazing and gwen playing every note perfectly in time as memory's of her first time learning the drums fill her head and how aunt may was there for each and every performance that did

Gwen's sticks come down in perfect sync, the snare cracking like a gunshot as the opening beat of Blacktop Banshee tears through the practice space. Every fill, every ghost note—her hands move with the certainty of a thousand garage rehearsals, muscle memory unspooling in flawless loops. The sticks blur, her wrists loose yet precise, the grooves worn into the wood fitting her calluses like old friends.

MJ's bassline rumbles beneath her, anchoring the rhythm, while Ned's guitar screeches through the chorus, but Gwen doesn't need to think—her body knows this song better than her own pulse.

After the finish up practice gwen and mj says behind as the rest of the band leaves as mj says to gwen you know your my best friend right but you got be more on time ever since trip to the museum you be like a almost a different person not coming to practice missing school what been up with you lately gwen

Gwen’s drumsticks freeze mid-fill, the last reverberation of the crash cymbal hanging in the air like a held breath. The basement suddenly feels too small, the scent of incense cloying as MJ’s words slither between her ribs. The frayed edge of her left glove scratches against the stick’s lacquer when her grip tightens.

MJ leans her bass against an amp, the neck knocking over a half-empty can of soda. Brown liquid bleeds across a flyer for their next gig December 3rd, The Cave the date smearing as condensation drips onto the paper.

gwen says remembering that since the spider bite she got spider powers and has been fighting crime as spider-woman as the papers as been calling her as she been doing it for about a week as she hasn't got the handle of the superhero to normal balance right yet

Gwen’s drumsticks clatter against the snare as her hands go slack. The words stick in her throat—spider bite, police scanner chatter, stolen purses webbed to brick walls—memories that now feel as natural as the calluses on her palms.

"Gwen?" MJ’s drumstick prods her shin. "You’re doing that lip thing again."

She exhales through her nose, tasting burnt coffee and the metallic tang of adrenaline. Her left shoelace is untied she can see the individual fibers fraying at the end. Too sharp. Too clear.