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It had been one of those days. Shocker decided to rob a bank dressed as a giant walking amp—don’t ask—and some low-rent thugs calling themselves the “Circuit Breakers” tried to overload the power grid. Just another Tuesday.

I webbed the last of them to a conveniently placed streetlight, leaving a note for the cops. “Handle with care! Batteries not included. – Spidey.” I shot a web-line and swung off, the city lights blurring beneath me. I had somewhere to be.

The little off-Broadway theater was packed. I slipped in through a skylight, clinging to the shadows of the rafters like the friendly neighborhood spider I am. Below, the stage was set with minimalist elegance. And there she was.

Mary Jane.

She was mid-monologue as a 19th-century queen, her voice ringing with regal authority, her posture impossibly straight. The audience was spellbound. I watched, my heart swelling with a pride so fierce it almost hurt.

Then came the first change. She stepped behind a simple Japanese-style screen for a mere second. There was no sound, no fuss. When she emerged, she was a gritty 1940s gumshoe, a trench coat draped over her shoulders, a fedora pulled low. She barked a line about a dame and a missing necklace. The crowd gasped, then burst into applause. They thought it was stage magic. The quickest costume change in history.

I knew better. I saw the subtle, almost imperceptible shimmer around the edges of the screen. I saw the way the very air seemed to flex for her.

She cycled through a dozen characters. A flamenco dancer whose heels clicked with fiery passion. A sci-fi android whose skin glinted metallic under the lights. A weeping opera singer whose tragic aria left not a single dry eye in the house.

Each transformation was flawless. Instantaneous. She didn’t just change clothes; she changed her essence. Her height, her build, the color of her eyes. She became each woman wholly, completely. And through it all, she never missed a beat, never flubbed a line. It was the performance of a lifetime, and only I knew the incredible truth behind the magic.

The final curtain call was a riot of applause. She took her bow—as herself, Mary Jane Watson, my wife—her human face flushed with exertion and triumph, beaming out at the adoring crowd. She’d done it. She’d used her impossible power to create pure art, and no one was the wiser.

I slipped out the way I came, my grin stretching ear to ear under the mask. I beat her home, ordering her favorite Thai food and changing into a pair of sweatpants.

The key turned in the lock, and she walked in, still buzzing with adrenaline. The second the door closed, she let out a long, weary, happy sigh. Her form relaxed, her shoulders slumped, and her body melted back into her familiar, comfortable clay figure—smooth, powerful, and beautifully thicc.

“I saw the whole thing,” I said, stepping out of the kitchen. “You were… MJ, there are no words.”

She turned, her featureless face conveying pure delight. “You made it! I was hoping you were up in the rafters, you creepy stalker.” She crossed the room, her heavy steps familiar and comforting, and wrapped her solid clay arms around me.

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” I murmured, leaning into her cool, smooth embrace. “They think you’re a genius. A master of disguise.”

“They have no idea,” she laughed, the sound echoing warmly in our small apartment. She leaned down—she was a good foot taller than me in this form—and pressed her malleable mouth to mine in a kiss that was soft, deep, and tasted of victory.

We stood there for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, the city’s noises a distant soundtrack to our quiet, perfect triumph. She’d faced the impossible, and she’d not only conquered it—she’d made it into something beautiful.

“The Thai food’s getting cold,” I finally said.

“Then what are we waiting for, tiger?” she replied, her voice full of love and a promise of more good things to come.

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We demolished the pad thai and panang curry, chopsticks clacking in happy syncopation. MJ, in her human form, told me every backstage detail—the director’s stunned face, the lead actor who kept trying to peek behind her changing screen, the way the stage lights felt like a warm embrace. I just listened, my heart so full I thought it might shoot right out of my chest.

After we’d cleared the containers, a different kind of hunger took over. I was still in my Spider-suit, the top half peeled down to my waist. She was still Mary Jane, all soft skin and fiery hair.

I pulled her onto my lap on the couch, kissing her with a slow, building intensity that spoke of pride and pure, unadulterated want. My hands slid under her shirt, mapping the familiar, precious terrain of her back.

“My amazing wife,” I breathed against her lips.

She smiled, her eyes glinting. “My hero.”

We made love like that first, with her as herself—the woman I fell for. It was sweet, familiar, a homecoming. But as our rhythm built, as my thrusts grew deeper and her moans louder, I felt the change begin. Her skin beneath my palms softened, losing its definite edge. Her form expanded around me, becoming heavier, more substantial. I opened my eyes to see her features smoothing out, her fiery hair receding, replaced by the smooth, terracotta-colored clay of her powerful base form.

She was ClayMJ again, her massive breasts swaying with our movement, her cool, malleable body embracing me completely. The sensation was incredible—a perfect, yielding pressure that molded itself to every part of me.

“Oh, Peter…” she moaned, her voice a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through my entire body.

We climaxed together, a shuddering, overwhelming wave of pleasure that left us both breathless and tangled together on the couch, a mess of red and blue spandex and cool, rippling clay.

We lay there for a while, just breathing, my head resting on the soft, broad plane of her chest. I traced idle patterns on her shoulder.

“You know,” she said after a long, comfortable silence, her voice thoughtful. “I want to show you something. Lay back.”

Intrigued, I did as she asked, settling against the cushions. She knelt over me, her smooth face regarding me with a playful tilt.

“I’ve been practicing more than just stage characters,” she murmured.

And then the show began.

Her form shimmered, and suddenly it wasn’t ClayMJ over me, but a woman in her late 40s, with laugh lines around her eyes and a knowing, earthy smile. A MILF, through and through. Her hips began to move against me with a confident, practiced rhythm. “A young man like you shouldn’t have all the fun,” she purred in a voice that was husky and mature.

Before I could even process it, she shifted again. Now she was older, a graceful GILF with silver hair piled high, her eyes twinkling with wicked wisdom. “Let me show you how it’s really done, dear boy,” she whispered, her thrusts becoming slower, more deliberate, infused with decades of experience.

The form dissolved and reshaped. A beautiful Black woman with deep umber skin and braids that cascaded over her shoulders now rode me, her movement a powerful, hypnotic roll. “That’s it, sugar,” she cooed, her voice a melodic balm. “Just let go.”

Then, an Asian mom, her features delicate but her gaze intensely passionate. She leaned down, her silky black hair brushing my chest. “My husband is so lucky,” she whispered in a sweet, accented voice before capturing my mouth in a searing kiss.

She cycled through a dozen more—a bold redhead with freckles, a sophisticated woman with a Parisian accent, a cheerful blonde who laughed as she moved. Each woman was different in age, race, and demeanor. Each had her own unique rhythm, her own way of touching me, her own sounds of pleasure. But every single one looked at me with a deep, abiding love and knew me as her husband.

It was the most mind-bending, exhilarating experience of my life. I wasn’t just making love to my wife; I was making love to a universe of women, all of whom were, at their core, her.

Finally, she collapsed back into her clay form, panting and rippling with the aftershocks of her own performance and our shared climax.

“See?” she hummed, nuzzling against my neck. “I can be anyone. But I always come back to you.”

I held her tight, this miraculous, impossible woman. “And I’ll always be here,” I promised, kissing the top of her smooth head. “No matter who you are tonight.”

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The next morning, sunlight streamed into our apartment, catching dust motes dancing in the air. I was patching up a tear in my spare suit when MJ emerged from the bedroom, stretching her clay form with a soft, creaking sound. The morning light glinted off her smooth surface.

“You’re up early,” I said, setting my needle and thread aside.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she hummed, her voice still thick with sleep. “My mind was… buzzing. With all the possibilities.”

She padded over to the open space in our living room, where we’d pushed the coffee table against the wall. She stood there for a moment, silent and focused, like a dancer at the barre.

“Okay, Watson,” she whispered to herself. “Let’s see what you can really do.”

I leaned back in my chair, watching, utterly captivated. This was a rehearsal far more private than any stage performance.

It started small. Her left hand shimmered, the clay losing its uniform color. For a split second, it was a perfect replica of my own hand—the calluses from web-slinging, the slight scar on the knuckle from a tussle with the Vulture. Then it shifted again, becoming Sue Storm’s elegant, slender fingers, before melting back into smooth clay.

“Focusing on the details,” she explained, not looking at me. “Muscle memory. The way someone holds a pen, the tilt of a head.”

She closed her eyes. Her entire form began to ripple. She shrank, becoming petite and lithe, with a mischievous glint in now-blue eyes. It was a perfect imitation of Kitty Pryde.

“Can’t catch me, Shellhead!” she squeaked in a spot-on impersonation, phasing one arm through the sofa. She giggled, a light, bubbly sound utterly unlike her own voice. Then she solidified, shaking her head. “Her spatial awareness is… wow. It’s like seeing the world in grids.”

Next, she grew taller, her shoulders broadening, her clay forming into the distinct red and blue armor of Captain Marvel. A corona of energy flickered around her fists—a purely aesthetic effect, but a stunning one. She hovered an inch off the ground, a look of fierce determination on Carol Danvers’s face. “Higher,” she muttered in Carol’s confident alto. “Further. Faster.” She landed softly, the energy fading. “The confidence is intoxicating. She really believes she can punch through a sun.”

The transformations came faster, a whirlwind of studied imitation. She was Black Widow, executing a flawless, silent roll across the floor, her movements economical and deadly. She was Jean Grey, a hand raised to her temple as if probing telepathically, a serene yet powerful expression on her face. She was She-Hulk, striking a powerful pose and giving a wry, fourth-wall-breaking wink directly at me.

But it wasn’t just superheroes. She practiced being ordinary people she’d observed. An elderly Italian grandmother, hands on her hips as she scolded an imaginary child, her voice a cascade of affectionate Italian. A harried businesswoman, talking rapidly into a phantom Bluetooth headset while checking a nonexistent watch. A shy, bookish librarian, pushing up glasses that weren’t there and shying away from an offered compliment.

Each character was perfect. Not just in appearance, but in posture, vocal cadence, the subtle flicker of emotion in the eyes she created. She was downloading and embodying lifetimes of experience.

Finally, she let all the forms melt away, returning to her base ClayMJ state. She was breathing heavily, not from exertion, but from concentration.

“It’s like… there’s a library in my head,” she said, turning to me. “And I can check out any book I want. Live their story for a minute.”

“It’s incredible, MJ,” I said, my voice full of awe. “You’re not just mimicking. You’re understanding.”

She walked over to me, her smooth face earnest. “That’s what I’m practicing for. Not just for the stage. If I can become anyone, understand anyone… think of the good we could do, Pete. Undercover work. Negotiations. Helping people in ways Spider-Man never could.”

I took her clay hands in mine. They were cool and solid. “We’re a team. Always have been. This just gives us a whole new playbook.”

She leaned forward, and I met her halfway, kissing her malleable lips. It was a kiss of partnership, of excitement for the future, of a love that could withstand any transformation.

“Now,” she said, a playful note returning to her voice. “I think I’ve earned a breakfast break. How about I practice being a world-class chef?”

I grinned. “As long as you don’t turn into Gordon Ramsay and yell at the eggs.”

Her laughter echoed through the apartment, a sound that was uniquely, wonderfully, Mary Jane.

TO BE CONTINUED