Welcome to

I’ll never forget the day my life went from “awkward nerd with a side of wall-crawling” to “awkward nerd with a side of wall-crawling and a smoking-hot girlfriend.” It was sophomore year of high school when I, Peter Parker, finally got up the nerve to ask out Mary Jane Watson, the fiery-haired girl next door who’d been my friend since we were kids trading dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. She said yes, and the collective groan from Flash Thompson and Harry Osborn in the Midtown High cafeteria was sweeter than Aunt May’s wheatcakes.

We were a good fit. I had my "Stark Internship" cover for the Spider-Manning, and she had her drama club rehearsals and modeling gigs. I’d even done a few school plays with her—turns out, memorizing lines is a lot easier when you have a photographic memory and the proportional agility of a spider to nail the stage combat. MJ loved it. “Face it, Tiger,” she’d say, quoting our first real kiss after the homecoming dance, “you just hit the jackpot. A boyfriend who can act and catch you if you fall off the stage? It’s a win-win.”

Fast forward to freshman year at Empire State University. We’d managed to swing a shared dorm room—a minor miracle involving a lot of paperwork and a little web-fluid on the housing director’s office lock. Life was good. We were eighteen, in love, and navigating the bizarre world of college while I still juggled stopping bank robbers and occasionally photographing them for the Daily Bugle.

Which is why I came home one Tuesday evening smelling faintly of sewer and burnt rubber, having just webbed up the Shocker after he tried to rob a currency exchange. All I wanted was a microwave burrito and to collapse next to my girl.

I slid the window open and dropped silently onto the floor of our dorm. “MJ, I'm home. You will not believe the day I’ve had. Shocker tried to rob a bank with… get this… self-warming utensils. Turns out he’s branching out from nuclear reactors to… gourmet picnics? I webbed his arms to a food truck called ‘Frankly My Dear I Don’t Give a Ham.’ It was a whole thing.”

The room was quiet. Too quiet. Usually, she’d be at her desk, running lines for some indie play or sketching designs, laughing at my stupid stories.

“MJ? Are you there? Hello...” I said, my Spidey-sense humming softly, not with danger, but with… weirdness.

That’s when I saw her. Or… I saw someone.

Standing by our full-length mirror, the one with the crackin the corner from when I’d tripped over a stack of her fashion magazines, was a woman. A… stunningly beautiful woman. A woman who looked like if someone had taken my MJ and poured her into a life model of a goddess. Her hair was a fiercer, deeper red, cascading over her shoulders. She was taller, her curves dramatically accentuated by a form-fitting red minidress with a plunging neckline that showcased… wow. Just…M-cup wow. A white cape was draped over her shoulders, flowing down her back. Her hips flared, her legs seemed to go on forever, and she had this powerful, mature presence that filled our tiny dorm room.

I froze, my mask dangling from my hand. My brain short-circuited. Villain? Alternate universe imposter? Really dedicated cosplayer?

“Uh. Hi?” I squeaked, which is not the fearsome greeting of a seasoned superhero. “Can I… help you? This is a private dorm. With, like, ramen and textbooks. Not usually a hotspot for… whoever you are.”

The woman spun around, her eyes wide with panic. They were still MJ’s eyes, bright and green, but surrounded by the faintest laugh lines. She looked… older. My age, plus maybe fifteen really, really good years.

“Peter!” she said, and it was her voice, but richer, deeper, more resonant.

“Wait, how do you know my name?” I asked, instinctively falling into a slight crouch. “Are you with the Sinister Six? Because if this is a new recruiting tactic, it’s… confusing.”

“Peter, it’s me!” she insisted, her hands fluttering nervously. She gestured at herself, a sweeping motion that encompassed her new, jaw-dropping physique. “It’s Mary Jane!”

I stared. I blinked. I stared some more.

“MJ?” I said slowly, straightening up. “No. No way. My MJ doesn’t have… I mean, she’s perfect, but she doesn’t have… that.” I gestured vaguely in the direction of her chest, my face burning. “No offense. You’re very… that. But she’s eighteen. You look like you could be her… really, really hot mom.”

She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders slumping. “I knew it. You’re disgusted. I’m a monster.”

That broke the spell. That drama-queen despair was 100% pure Mary Jane Watson.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, stepping closer, my hands up placatingly. “Disgusted? MJ, are you kidding me? I’m just… massively confused. And, for the record, not disgusted. At all. The opposite of disgusted. What happened? Did you fall into a vat of experimental theatre makeup?”

She peeked through her fingers. “It was a wizard, Pete.”

I blinked. “A… wizard.”

“Yes! A wizard! In a cloak and everything. Very dramatic, very ‘long-beard-energy.’ He appeared in a puff of smoke right in the middle of my monologue practice. I was working on Lady Macbeth. I think he was a fan.”

Only MJ could make an interdimensional magical encounter sound like a casting call.

“Okay,” I said, sitting on the edge of my bed, which groaned in protest. “A wizard. Go on.”

“He said he’d been watching me. He said he sensed a ‘noble heart’ and a ‘yearning for greatness’ or something like that. He said I had the potential to be a champion, a hero. He said he could grant me the power I’d always wanted.” Her voice was getting faster, more animated. “You know I’ve always wanted to be out there with you, Pete. Not just waiting, worrying. I wanted to help. So I said yes!”

“You said yes to a random magical stranger? MJ, we’ve talked about this! What about Stranger Danger? What about not accepting powers from ambiguous cosmic entities? That’s like, rule number two, right after ‘don’t wash your red suits with your whites!’”

“He had a nice beard!” she defended herself. “He looked wise! And he told me to say a word. The word would summon the lightning and transform me.”

“The lightning,” I repeated, feeling a headache coming on. “Of course. The lightning. And you just… said it?”

“I was excited!” she said, throwing her hands up. The movement was powerful, and I swear the air in the room shifted. “So I shouted it out! And then… BZZZZT! Big flash of light, tinglesall over, and then… this.” She looked down at her body, her expression a mix of awe and horror. “I’m a superhero, Pete. But I’m also… old. I’m a MILF superhero. I wanted to be ‘Spider-Woman,’ 'Supergirl', or even 'Ms. Marvel', not ‘Super-Mom’!”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. It was a loud, snorting, uncontrollable laugh that made me double over. “I’m sorry,” I wheezed. “I’m so sorry. It’s not funny. It’s just… the look on your face…”

She pouted, which looked incredibly strange and incredibly adorable on her new, mature features. “It’s not funny! What if I’m stuck like this? What if I have to go to my audition for ‘Romeo and Juliet’ tomorrow and explain to the director that I’m not playing Juliet, I’m playing her... exceptionally well-preserved grandmother?”

I finally got my laughter under control and stood up, walking over to her. I took her hands—they felt the same, just… more. I looked her right in those familiar green eyes.

“MJ,” I said, my voice soft. “You are… unbelievable. Literally. But listen to me. You are not a monster. You are gorgeous. You were gorgeous at sixteen, you’re gorgeous now, and you’ll probably be gorgeous when we’reninety and arguing over whose turn it is to refill the Metamucil. This?” I said, gesturing to all of her. “This is just… a very powerful, very unexpected new look. And I love you. Not your age. Not your… M-cups. You. The brilliant, crazy, amazing woman who said yes to a wizard because she wanted to fight bad guys alongside her dorky boyfriend.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “You mean it? You don’t think I look like your aunt?”

“Aunt May is a very attractive woman, but no,” I said, grinning. “You look like you. Just with… more oomph.” I leaned in and kissed her. It was different. Her lips were the same, but the feeling was new—a spark of raw, magical energy that tingled against my mouth. It was incredible. She melted into the kiss, her arms wrapping around my neck, and for a minute, our tiny, messy dorm room felt like the center of the universe.

When we broke apart, she was smiling, a real, relieved, joyful MJ smile. “Okay. Okay, you’re right. We can handle this. It’s just a new variant. We’ll call it… the ‘Mature Marvel’ edition.”

“That’s the spirit,” I said, brushing a strand of her magnificent red hair from her face. “So, what was the word? The magic word that did all this?”

She frowned, thinking hard. “Gosh, it was so dramatic, it just kind of blasted out of me. It was… SHAZAM! Yeah, that was it. I shouted ‘SHAZAM!’ and—“

*KA-BOOM!*

A bolt of lightning, silent and contained to our exact coordinates, slammed down from the ceiling, hitting MJ square in the chest. It didn’t burn or destroy anything; it was pure, white, blinding energy. I was thrown back onto my bed by the force of it.

When the light faded, I blinked the spots from my eyes.

Standing there, blinking in confusion, was MJ. My MJ. Eighteen-year-old MJ, wearing her usual ripped jeans and a Sonic Youth t-shirt. The red minidress and cape were gone. So were the… dramatic additions.

“Whoa,” she said, looking down at her own hands. “That was a trip.”

I stared, my jaw on the floor. “You’re back.”

She looked at me, a huge grin spreading across her face. “I’m back!” She did a little spin. “Thank god! I was not ready for the mom jeans and book club phase just yet.” Then her grin vanished, replaced by dawning horror. “Oh, no. Pete. The word.”

I sat up. “The word is… ‘SHAZAM’.”

We looked at each other, the same realization hitting us both.

“So… I say SHAZAM,” she said slowly, “I turn into… that.” She pointed to the spot where her super-powered, super-curvy self had been.

“And then,” I continued, “if you say it again…”

“I turn back,” she finished. A slow, mischievous smile crept back onto her face. It was the smile she got right before she dragged me into one of herwild schemes. “So… it’s not a curse. It’s a switch.”

“A really, really big switch,” I added.

She walked over to me, her eyes sparkling. “Peter Parker, your girlfriend just became a magical superhero.”

I pulled her into a hug, laughing into her hair. “Well, Mary Jane Watson,” I said. “Things were just starting to get boring.”

From the hallway, we heard our neighbor, Harry Osborn, yell, “Hey, lovebirds! Keep the lightning strikes down! Some of us are trying to study organic chemistry and contemplate the existential dread of our future!”

MJ giggled against my chest. “We’re gonna have to be careful with that word.”

“Yeah,” I said, holding her tight, my mind already racing with the possibilities, the dangers, the utter absurdity of it all. “We really are.”

-----

The audition for the ESU production of Much Ado About Nothing went… well, it went. The director, a man with a beret and a tragically sincere goatee, seemed intrigued by my suggestion that Benedick should have a slight Queens accent. “It grounds him!” I’d argued. MJ, of course, was brilliant. She’d auditioned for Beatrice and had the entire room, including the jaded stage manager, hanging on her every word. She was a natural.

As we packed up our scripts and headed out of the student theatre, the last of the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by the buzzing, impossible reality of the afternoon. We were almost to the door when a voice called out.

“Watson! Parker! Over here!”

We turned to see Harry Osborn waving from a cluster of what the campus social hierarchy had deemed ‘the cool kids.’ Flash Thompson had an arm slung around Liz Allan, and they were flanked by a few other members of the ESU cheer squad. They were the kind of group that seemed to generate their own sunlight and soundtrack.

“Hey, Harry,” I said, giving a cautious nod.

“MJ, you were killer in there,” Flash said, his old high-school bravado softened only slightly by college. “Seriously. We’re all heading to The Bitter End for burgers and, you know, non-Shakespearean conversation. You should come. Bring the wallflower.” He jerked a thumb at me.

Liz smiled warmly. “Yeah, it’ll be fun! We hardly ever see you two outside of class.”

MJ smiled back, that perfect, disarming smile that could mean genuine warmth or a polite dismissal. She’d perfected it. “Aw, thanks, guys. That sounds really great, but… Pete and I actually have plans tonight.”

Flash’s face fell. “Plans? What, a science experiment? Building a bigger web-shooter?”

MJ looped her arm through mine, her grip firm and possessive. “Nope. Not a science experiment,” she said, her voice sweet but final. “It’s… an acting workshop. Private coaching. Pete’s my expert.”

The look on Flash’s face was priceless. It was a mixture of utter confusion and deep-seated jealousy. Peter Parker? The nerd? An acting expert? His brain visibly short-circuited.

Harry, to his credit, just chuckled and clapped me on the shoulder. “Right on, man. See? I told you he had hidden depths. Go get ‘em, tiger.” He gave me a genuine, supportive grin. He’d come a long way from the jealous rich kid.“Thanks, Harry,” I said.

We left them there, the cool kids momentarily stunned into silence. As we pushed through the theater’s heavy doors into the cool evening air, I heard Flash mutter, “I just don’t get it. How does he do it? It’s the redhead. It’s always the redhead.”

MJ squeezed my arm, laughing softly. “He’s not entirely wrong.”

“So,” I said as we walked across campus, the streetlights flickering to life. “An acting workshop, huh?”

“Well, we are going to workshop my new role,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “The role of ‘Ms. Mary Marvel.’ We need a private rehearsal space.”

Our “rehearsal space” turned out to be the abandoned city-owned quarry on the outskirts of Queens. It was isolated, destructible, and far from prying eyes. Perfect for a rookie superhero’s first day on the job.

“Okay,” MJ said, taking a deep breath. She struck a pose, hands on her hips. “Let’s do this. SHAZAM!”

The lightning wasn’t any less shocking the second time. It tore from a clear sky with a crack of thunder that shook the ground, engulfing her in blinding, incredible power. When it faded, she stood there once more—tall, powerful, and breathtaking in her red and white costume.

“Whoa,” she breathed, looking at her hands. “Okay. That still feels… wow.”

“Right?” I said, my voice a little hoarse. “So. First test: Flight. The big one. Think happy thoughts? I don’t know, I swing on webs, the rules are different.”

She closed her eyes, concentrating. Slowly, hesitantly, her boots lifted an inch off the gravel. Then two inches. A wobbly, unsteady foot. She was hovering, a look of intense focus on her face.

“I’m doing it!” she yelled, and promptly wobbled sideways, slamming into a rock face with a grunt. “Ow. Okay. Flight: Check. But we’re putting a pin in ‘control.’ Let’s call it… ‘unstable hovering with a propensity for concussions.’”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Noted. Alright, strength next. See that boulder over there? The one the size of a Volkswagen?”

She nodded, cracked her knuckles (a gesture that was impossibly cute and terrifyingly powerful at the same time), and walked over to it. She wrapped her arms around it, grunted, and with a sound of grinding stone, lifted it clean over her head. She held it there effortlessly, a massive grin on her face.

“It’s so light!” she exclaimed. “I feel like… like Supergirl!”

“You look like Power Girl,” I blurted out without thinking, my teenage brain momentarily overriding my common sense.

Her grin vanished. She dropped the boulder (it landed with a ground-shaking THUD) and put her hands on her hips. “Power Girl? As in, the blonde with the… window in her costume? The one you had a poster of in your locker sophomore year?”

I froze. “I… it was a gift! From Harry! It was ironic!”

“Peter Parker, you pop that thought bubble right now,” she said, striding over to me. Despite her new intimidating form, her pout was all MJ. “I’m right here. I’m your super-powered redhead. You don’t need to daydream about some Kryptonian with a cleavage portal.”

“Popped! Bubble popped!” I said, holding my hands up in surrender. “It’s gone. You’re the only super-woman in my head. I swear.”

She leaned down and kissed me, a quick, powerful peck that still managed to buzz with energy. “Good. Now, super speed!”

She took off. One second she was there, the next she was a red-and-white blur zipping around the quarry, kicking up a miniature tornado of dust and pebbles. She skidded to a halt in front of me, her hair perfectly frazzled.

“That was amazing!” she gasped. “I gotta be careful, though. Don’t wanna end up like that creepy Ezra Miller version. I have standards.”

“Stamina seems good,” I noted, trying to be scientific despite the giddy excitement. “You’re not even winded.”

“Nope! Feels like I could run to California and back.” She held up a finger, and a tiny arc of electricity danced between her fingertips. “And check it out. The special effects department is included.”

She pointed her finger at my phone, which was sitting on a rock at 2% battery. A tiny, precise bolt of lightning zapped it. The screen lit up: 100%.

“We’re never paying a Con Edison bill again,” I said, awestruck.

“And finally,” she said, a new, different kind of smile spreading across her face. A smoldering, confident one. “Intelligence. The wizard said it was the wisdom of Solomon. Seems to come with… other kinds of knowledge, too.”

She sauntered over to me, the power in her movements entirely new and incredibly alluring. “The knowledge of… make love.”

My throat went dry. “Oh.”

“We should test that one,” she whispered, her voice a low, thrilling hum. “For science. And acting.”

We didn’t make it back to the dorm. The quarry, under a blanket of stars, became our stage. Her new strength was careful, controlled, her new stamina… legendary. The wisdom of Solomon apparently included knowing exactly what to do and drove me utterly, completely wild. It was passionate, powerful, and hilariously earth-shaking—at one point, she gripped a rock wall for support and accidentally crumbled a chunk of it in her hand.

When the climax hit us both, it was like lightning striking twice, a simultaneous, shattering release that left us breathless and tangled together in a crater of our own making, laughing and gasping under the moon.

She lay her head on my chest, her powerful body curled against mine. “So,” she panted. “Stamina: Check. Intelligence: Check. Knowledge of make love: Double check.”

I kissed her hair, which smelled of ozone and her familiar strawberry shampoo. “The audition,” I mumbled, completely spent and happier than I’d ever been, “was a smashing success.”

-----

A week of clandestine quarry sessions had done wonders. MJ wasn't just a recipient of power; she was a natural. Her flying was now less "wobbly firework" and more "soaring eagle." She could control the lightning bolts, dialing them from a phone-charging trickle to a "melt-a-car-door" blast. She’d even started making her own quips. They were, admittedly, a bit heavy on theatre references, but the effort was there.

We were lying on the roof of our dorm, watching the lights of the city blink on, a shared chocolate bar between us.

"You know," I said, stretching like a cat. "I think you're ready."

She propped herself up on an elbow, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Ready for what? A more challenging monologue? Because I've been workshopping a Hamlet soliloquy that—"

"Ready for the final exam," I interrupted, grinning beneath my mask, which was pulled up to my nose. "Field test. The streets are calling, Ms. Marvel. Crime awaits."

Her smile could have powered the entire borough. "Really? You mean it? Not just stopping a bike thief. A real one?"

"I heard a police scanner alert. Armed robbery in progress at the First Bank of Manhattan branch downtown. Seems like a good place for a debut." I stood up, pulling my mask down all the way. "Suit up. Or... you know, say the word."

She jumped to her feet, striking her signature pose. "SHAZAM!"

The thunderclap was becoming a familiar, comforting sound to me. The light faded, and there she was, my mighty Marvel, her white cape flapping dramatically in the evening breeze.

"Alright, web-head," she said, her voice humming with power. "Let's web-sling our way over—"

"Actually," I said, a mischievous idea forming. "New plan. Final test, part one: Passenger handling."

I expected her to just carry me on her back. I did not expect her to sweep me off my feet—literally—into a full bridal carry. One of her powerful arms was under my knees, the other supporting my back. I was cradled against her chest, my head nestled against the soft, impossibly strong curve of her… well, you know.

"WHA—MJ?!" I yelped, my voice an octave higher than usual.

"Relax, Tiger," she purred, looking down at me with amusement. "You always do all the carrying. My turn. Hold on tight!"

And with that, she shot into the sky. The ground fell away in a dizzying rush. The wind roared in my ears, and I instinctively wrapped my arms around her neck, clinging for dear life. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. And the view was… spectacular.

"We're wasting your web-shooters!" she yelled over the wind, laughing.

We touched down on a ledge overlooking the bank with the gentle grace of a falling leaf. Four masked goons were hustling out the doors, bags of cash in hand, headed for a waiting van.

"Showtime," I whispered.

We dropped down in front of them, landing with a thud that cracked the pavement. The lead thug, a big guy with a shotgun, skidded to a halt.

"Well, well," he snarled. "Spider-Man brought a friend. A tall drink of water, ain'tcha?"

"Eyes up here, pal," I quipped, but he’d already raised the shotgun.

He didn't aim at me. He aimed at MJ's center mass. Boom!

The sound was deafening. I flinched, my spider-sense screaming. But MJ didn't even stumble. The slug hit her right in the chest, right between the 'M' cup curves of her bust, and pinged off with a sound like a dime hitting the floor. It left not a scratch, not a scuff on her red minidress. The impact made her… assets… jiggle impressively for a second before settling.There was a moment of stunned silence from the criminals.

MJ looked down at her chest, then back at the thug. She patted the spot where the bullet hit. "Huh. That tickled."

I burst out laughing. I couldn't help it. It was the most absurd, incredible thing I'd ever seen. "Tickled? He shot you point-blank and it tickled?"

She started giggling too, a rich, powerful sound. "It did! It was like a really aggressive mosquito!"

The head thug stared, his jaw hanging open, his shotgun now dangling uselessly at his side. His buddies were backing away slowly.

Our laughter died down. As one, MJ and I turned our heads back toward them. The playful energy vanished, replaced by something far more dangerous.

"You're dead," we said in perfect, chilling unison.

What happened next was a blur of red and white and blue. She moved with the speed of the Flash and the power of, well, herself. One guy went down to a lightning-fast tap that probably felt like being hit by a truck. Another found himself disarmed and webbed to a lamppost by me. The leader made a run for it, only for MJ to land in front of him, grab the van's bumper, and effortlessly flip the entire vehicle onto its side, blocking his escape.

It was over in thirty seconds. The four of them were webbed into a neat, groaning bundle on the sidewalk.

A crowd had gathered, phones held high, their fear replaced by cheers and applause. A news van screeched to a halt, and a reporter with perfectly quaffed hair rushed over, shoving a microphone in our faces.

"Spider-Man! An incredible display! And who is your new, incredibly powerful companion?"

MJ looked at me, a question in her eyes. I gave a tiny nod. This was her moment.

She stepped forward, striking a heroic pose that made the crowd cheer louder. "You can call me Ms. Mary Marvel," she announced, her voice ringing with confidence. "And this amazing web-slinger right here," she said, pulling me close, "is my partner."

And then, in front of the cameras, the crowds, and the captured criminals, she kissed me. It wasn't just a peck. It was a full-on, passionate, superhero-scale kiss that probably broke the internet.

When we broke apart, the crowd went wild. She grinned, winked at the camera, then swept me back up into that same bridal carry.

"Time to fly, partner," she said.

And as we shot up into the New York skyline, swung past by a very confused pigeon, I had to admit it: being carried by your super-strong, bulletproof, gorgeous superhero girlfriend was a pretty great way to travel. And hey, my web-shooters were still full.

TO BE CONTINUED