Welcome to

I landed on our fire escape with a soft thud, the city’s nightlights painting streaks of gold across my mask. The suit hummed with leftover energy from stopping a runaway construction vehicle—a simple night, for once. I slipped through the window, the familiar scent of home washing over me: jasmine candles, takeout, and MJ.

She was already in bed, propped up on pillows, bathed in the soft glow of her tablet. She wore a simple black chemise, but I knew it was just the symbiote in its most relaxed state. She looked up, her smile immediate and warm.

“Hey, hero. Save the city again?”

“Just a few tons of out-of-control rebar,” I said, peeling off my mask. I left the rest of the suit on for now, its fabric a comfortable second skin. I walked over and kissed her, tasting her minty toothpaste and the unique, electric hum of the symbiote. “Miss me?”

“Always,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the spider emblem on my chest. Her eyes held a familiar, mischievous glint. “I was thinking… while you were out…”

“Dangerous pastime,” I quipped, sitting on the edge of the bed.

She grinned. “Let’s try something… different. A little roleplay.”

Before I could ask what she meant, the change began. It wasn't a shift to power or masculine allure. This was subtler. Her posture softened, shoulders rounding slightly. The smooth skin of her face and hands gained a delicate lattice of lines and gentle wrinkles. Her vibrant red hair faded to a soft, fluffy white, styled in a neat, grandmotherly bob. The chemise dissolved and reformed into a modest, floral-print nightgown.

She looked like someone’s sweet, kindly grandmother. She blinked, and her eyes held a moment of genuine, sweet confusion.

“Oh my,” she said, her voice a soft, trembling whisper. “Spider-Man? Is that you? I… I was just making tea. How did I get here?” She looked down at her hands, touched her face. “My goodness.”

The performance was flawless. The suit wasn't just mimicking appearance; it was channeling an entire persona—vulnerable, grateful, innocent.

“It’s okay, ma’am,” I said, playing along, my voice gentle. “You’re safe. You’re home.”

Her eyes welled with tears of relief. “You saved me from those awful men down on 52nd street, didn’t you? I knew I recognized you. You’re a good boy. Such a good boy.”

The dissonance was dizzying. Here was this elderly woman, looking at me with pure, grandmotherly affection, while my heart hammered with a confusing mix of protectiveness and a dark, thrilling arousal. It was MJ, my fierce, powerful wife, hidden inside this fragile vessel.

“Just doing my job,” I said softly, my hand resting on her covered knee.

Her gaze dropped, and her eyes went wide with a different kind of surprise. The symbiote had, of its own accord, parted the front of my suit, releasing my already-stiffening length.

“Oh!” she gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. “My… my word…”

But the shock in her eyes quickly melted into a curious, dazed fascination. The MJ within was steering the ship. This sweet old woman leaned forward, her movements hesitant at first, then with growing assurance.

“A hero… deserves a proper… thank you,” she whispered, her voice shaking not with fear, but with nascent desire.

Her touch was feather-light at first, then her lips, thin and soft, followed. She took me into her mouth, and the sensation was unbelievable. The contrast of the innocent, elderly appearance with the skilled, eager act was utterly intoxicating. I groaned, my head falling back, my fingers tangling in the soft white hair that wasn’t really there.

As her efforts intensified, another shift occurred. Her skin darkened to a rich, deep mahogany. The wrinkles remained, but her features refined into those of a stunning, elegant black woman with silver streaks in her hair and wise, knowing eyes. The oral attention didn’t cease; if anything, it became more confident, more rhythmic.

The new visual, this gorgeous, mature woman on her knees, sent me over the edge completely. I came with a choked cry, my hands gently cradling her head.

She swallowed, a soft, satisfied sound escaping her lips. Then she looked up at me, her transformed eyes gleaming with MJ’s playful spirit. Without a word, she turned around, presenting herself to me. The floral nightgown melted away.

I needed no further invitation. I entered her from behind, a low, grateful sigh escaping us both. I moved slowly at first, reveling in the feel of her, in the impossible reality of the moment.

As our rhythm built, her body began to change again. The soft, mature curves tightened and hardened. The swell of her hips streamlined, her back broadening. The silver-streaked hair receded, replaced by the familiar fiery red buzz cut. Her skin lightened back to its usual tone, but the form was now powerfully, undeniably masculine.

I was thrusting into the jacked, male-presenting form of my wife. Her low, rumbling moans vibrated through both of us.

“Peter…” she growled, the sound utterly male and completely MJ.

The sensation was overwhelming—the visual, the physical proof of her strength, the deep timbre of her voice. I held onto her muscular hips, driving into her, our pace becoming frantic, desperate.

We peaked together, a shared, shuddering explosion of release that left us both gasping and collapsing forward onto the bed.

I lay behind her, still joined, my face pressed against the powerful muscles of her back. We breathed in sync for long minutes.

Finally, she shifted, the masculine form dissolving like smoke until it was just my MJ again, curled up against me, soft and spent.

“Theoretical curiosity,” she mumbled sleepily into the pillow, “successfully explored.”

I kissed her shoulder, laughing softly. “You’re going to be the death of me, Watson.”

“But what a way to go,” she sighed, and drifted off to sleep in my arms.

TO BE CONTINUED…