Welcome to

My name is Peter Parker. You might know me as your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Yeah, that Spider-Man. The guy who got bit by a radioactive spider in high school, started sticking to walls, and decided the best use of that power was to wear skin-tight red and blue spandex and crack jokes at guys named Rhino and Vulture. My life's been... well, complicated doesn't even begin to cover it.

But the one constant, the one perfect, beautiful, grounding wire in the chaotic mess of my existence, has always been her. Mary Jane Watson.

I remember the first time I saw her. I was fifteen, all elbows and nerves, and she was... wow. A cascade of fiery red hair, eyes that held galaxies of confidence, and a laugh that could short-circuit my brain better than any of Electro’s tantrums. Aunt May set it up, a "nice girl from next door" kind of thing. I’d been dodging it for weeks, inventing excuses about... well, spider-related stuff. But the moment she stepped into my life, all my spider-senses went off—and not in the "danger" way. In the "your life is about to get infinitely better" way.

Our first date was a disaster. I was late. Shocker had decided to try robbing a bank with, I swear, oversized vibro-foam fingers. By the time I webbed him to the side of the building and swung home, I was a sweaty, bruised mess. I opened my bedroom window to change, and there she was, sitting on my bed, holding my spare Spider-Man mask.

“Took you long enough, Tiger,” she’d said with that impossibly knowing smirk. “The show’s over. You missed the part where the green guy with the wings flew into the billboard.”

She knew. She’d known since she saw me scramble out my window the week prior. Instead of running for the hills, she’d spent the last few days researching super-heroics and decided I was “kinda cute, for a doofus in pajamas.” That was our first kiss. Me, half out of my suit, her, pulling me in by the mask. It tasted like cherry lip-gloss and secrets, and it was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

We built a life. I fought bad guys, took pictures of myself fighting bad guys to pay the rent, and came home to her. She pursued her acting career with a ferocity that made my battles with Doc Ock look like a friendly tussle. I was her biggest fan, her loudest applause in half-empty theaters, her shoulder to cry on after a bad audition. We got married in a small ceremony. JJJ somehow got a picture and ran the headline: “MENACE MARRIES! CITY MOURNS!” We framed it.

It was perfect.

Then the world, as it always does, had to go and screw with a good thing.

It was supposed to be a quick errand. Milk, eggs, maybe one of those double-fudge brownie mixes she loves. A simple, domestic trip. My spider-sense tingled the second she left, a low, persistent hum that set my teeth on edge. I suited up in a panic, following the fading signal until it led me to an abandoned Oscorp subsidiary building. The X-Men were already there, busting down the door. Wolverine’s claws were out, Cyclops was blasting, and Storm was summoning a localized thunderstorm inside the lobby. Classy.

“Parker,” Wolverine grunted, slicing through a reinforced door. “Heard the chatter. Weapon-X. They’re experimenting again.”

My blood went cold. Weapon-X. The folks who gave Logan his adamantium allergy and Deadpool… well, everything that makes Deadpool, Deadpool.

We found her in a sterile white room, strapped to a chair, surrounded by monitors and needles. But she wasn’t my MJ. Her skin flickered, shifting through a rainbow of colors. One second she was herself, the next she had Storm’s white hair, then Jean Grey’s fierce gaze. She was screaming, a cacophony of voices that weren’t hers.

“No! Get out of my head! Hey, is that Spidey? Nice suit, very form-fitting! Ooh, Logan, you’re looking gruff! Wait, who am I? WHERE ARE MY PRECIOUS METAL ALBUMS?!”

It was chaos. It was terrifying. And I’ll be honest, it was also… confusingly attractive? The procedures had… enhanced her. Dramatically. Her curves, always incredible, were now a definitive work of art. An O-cup masterpiece paired with a booty that deserved its own exhibit. The scientists, in their twisted logic, decided that if they were giving her a healing factor, they might as well “optimize the host form for psychological dominance.” Idiots.

We got her out. It was a blur of webbing, optic blasts, and a truly obscene amount of fourth-wall-breaking commentary from MJ, who at one point looked directly at me and said, “Wow, the artist is really emphasizing my new assets in this panel, huh, Petey?”

We got her home to our little Queens apartment. She was shaking, the different powers and personalities flickering like a busted neon sign. One moment she was my sweet, confident wife. The next, she was a southern belle with a power-absorbing touch. Then a blue-skinned shape-shifter. Then a foul-mouthed mercenary with a terrifyingly accurate Australian accent.

“It’s okay, MJ,” I whispered, pulling off my mask, my hands cradling her face. “It’s me. It’s Peter. You’re home.”

Her eyes focused on me. The flickering stopped. She was just my MJ again, but… more. Her gaze was intense, a little wild, and held a universe of new experiences.

“Peter…” she breathed, her voice a mix of her own and something else, something deeper, more primal. “They put a lot of voices in my head, Tiger. But yours… yours is the only one I ever want to listen to.”

And then she kissed me.

It wasn’t like our first kiss. That was sweet, tentative discovery. This was a claiming. It was hungry, desperate, and tasted like electricity and possibility. Her hands, now possessing the strength of a hundred super-soldiers, ripped my Spider-Man suit open from the neck down like it was tissue paper.

“Whoa! MJ! The dry cleaning bill on that is—mmph!”

She silenced me with another kiss, pushing me back onto our couch. Her body was a furnace against mine, the sheer presence of her overwhelming. “Talk later,” she murmured against my lips, her voice dropping into a low, mercenary growl. “Right now, the only thing that’s going to be breaking the fourth wall is this headboard.”

Before I could process the meta-commentary, the world dissolved into a swirl of black and purple smoke. BAMF. We weren’t on the couch anymore. We were in our bedroom. She’d teleported us. She was straddling me, her fiery hair falling around us like a curtain, her new, incredible breasts pressing against my chest.

“They gave me so many presents, Peter,” she purred, her form shimmering for a second. Suddenly, she was wearing my black symbiote suit, the white spider emblem stretching in… very interesting ways. “Healing factor means we can be as wild as we want.”Her hands were everywhere, and every touch felt like it was absorbing my very essence, amplifying my own senses until every nerve ending was on fire. I could feel her consciousness brushing against mine, a telepathic caress that showed me exactly what she wanted, what she felt.

“See, Tiger?” her voice echoed in my head and in the room simultaneously. “No more secrets. No more hiding. Just you, and me, and the multiverse of possibilities.”

Then she shifted again. For a thrilling, terrifying moment, she looked exactly like Black Cat, winking at me. “Bet you didn’t see this one coming, did ya, Spidey?”

“MJ, that’s… that’s really weird!” I stammered, even as my body reacted traitorously.

She laughed, her form melting back into her own—her spectacularly upgraded own. “Just keeping you on your toes, hero.”

What followed was… athletic. It was acrobatic. It was, frankly, a little bit impossible. We used every inch of the room, the walls, the ceiling. Her healing factor matched my stamina, and her newfound strength meant she could pin me down with one hand if she wanted to. And she did. At one point, she flipped us over, her strength easily overpowering mine.

“My turn to do the thrusting,” she announced with a grin that was all Mary Jane, but with a deadly new edge. And she did. With a vigor that would make a super-soldier blush.

It was a symphony of laughter, gasps, and the occasional BAMF as we’d teleport to a new position mid-act. It was the most terrifying, amazing, bizarre, and utterly perfect experience of my life.

We finally collapsed in a tangled, sweaty heap on the floor, having fallen off the bed what felt like an hour ago. The moon streamed through the window. She lay her head on my chest, her finger tracing the spider symbol that was now exposed on my tattered suit.

“So…” I said, catching my breath. “Weapon-X. Multiple personalities. Fourth-wall awareness. Giant… uh… tracts of land.”

She giggled, a sound that was pure, classic MJ. “Yeah. It’s a lot, huh? You still in, Tiger? For the long haul? It’s gonna get weird.”

I looked down at her, at my wife, my hero, my beautiful, unpredictable RedPool. I kissed her forehead.

“MJ, you literally just referenced classic Monty Python during post-coital cuddling. My life was already weird. This is just… upgraded weird.” I smiled. “And yeah. I’m in. Always.”

-----

The silence was comfortable, filled only with our synchronized breathing. Then MJ stirred, a mischievous glint in her eyes that I knew all too well, now amplified by a thousand. Her hand, which had been gently tracing circles on my chest, suddenly gripped my shoulder with unexpected, superhuman strength.

"Round two, Tiger?" she purred, but her voice hitched mid-sentence, the tone shifting from smoky to something crisper, more aristocratic. "Good heavens, the drapery in this room is simply dreadful. We must speak to an interior decorator immediately."

I blinked. "MJ?"

Her form shimmered like a heat haze. For a second, her hair was a perfect, elegant blonde bob, and she held herself with a regal posture. Emma Frost. She looked down at me, a cool, calculating smile on her lips. "Such a... quaint little spider. So full of passion. Let's see what happens when we apply a little... pressure."

Before I could reply, her body melted back into its familiar form, but the Emma-esque dominance remained. She rolled on top of me, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand. Her other hand cupped my face, her thumb stroking my cheek. Then, her eyes widened, and her voice became a breathy, southern drawl.

"Sugar, I've never felt power like this," she whispered, her eyes glowing with a faint green light. It was Rogue's persona, surfacing. "Ah just want to drink you all up. Don't you worry none, Ah'll be gentle." She leaned down, her lips hovering just above mine, and I could feel a faint, pulling sensation, a hint of her absorption power trying to activate before she pulled back with a gasp.

The southern accent vanished, replaced by a guttural, chaotic laugh. "OOOH! TINGLY! Let's see if web-head here is ticklish!" It was pure Deadpool. Her face momentarily morphed, not into Wade's scarred visage, but a cartoonish, chibi-fied version of my own mask, complete with giant, wobbling eyes. She started poking my sides mercilessly.

"Hey! Cut it out! That's not—hahaha—that's not fair!" I squirmed, my own laughter breaking through the absurdity.

Just as quickly, the poking stopped. The Deadpool persona melted away, and she was just MJ again, her expression a mixture of lust and loving amusement. "Sorry, sorry," she breathed, leaning in to kiss me deeply. "The chorus in my head is a little rowdy tonight."

As our kiss intensified, I let my hands roam, finally giving in to the overwhelming curiosity. I cupped her breasts, which were, to put it scientifically, magnificent. They were heavy and full in my hands, soft yet impossibly resilient thanks to her healing factor. I squeezed gently, and she moaned into my mouth, her back arching.

"You like those, don't you, Peter?" she whispered, her voice her own, but layered with a new, raw confidence. "Weapon-X's one decent contribution to interior design."

Suddenly, her skin turned a vibrant, beautiful blue, and her hair shortened into a sleek red bob. Mystique. "Perhaps you'd prefer a different form?" she asked, her voice a perfect mimicry of the shape-shifter. Her body shifted slightly under my hands, her proportions subtly altering, becoming more lithe and athletic.

"MJ, no, stop," I said, my voice firm but gentle. I held her face, my thumbs stroking her blue cheeks. "I want you. Just you. The you that I married. The one with all this new... firmware... but still you."

Her blue form dissolved, and she was back—my redheaded, impossibly curvy wife. Her eyes welled up with tears, but she was smiling. "Oh, Peter..."

BAMF.

In a puff of smoke, we were suddenly on the ceiling, stuck fast, looking down at our bed. She giggled, the teleportation seemingly a spontaneous expression of joy. "Whoops! Got a little carried away."

"MJ, the gravity..." I started, but she silenced me with another kiss, this one slow and deeply passionate. We hung there, defying physics, wrapped in each other. The thrusting started again, a slow, powerful rhythm made even more intense by our inverted position. The world was upside down, but for the first time since she'd been taken, everything felt right.

She groaned, and her voice slipped into a low, grizzled mutter. "Bub, this is the strangest fight I've ever been in." Wolverine. I could almost smell cigar smoke.

I couldn't help but laugh against her lips. "You're telling me."

The persona broke as she cried out, her body shuddering against mine. We clung to each other as the climax washed over us, a wave of pure, unadulterated connection that momentarily silenced all the other voices in her head.

We drifted down from the ceiling, landing softly on the bed in a heap. She curled into my side, her head on my chest again. The flickering had stopped. She was just MJ, spent and happy.

"They're quiet now," she murmured. "When I'm with you, really with you, they just... listen."

I held her tighter, my hand resting on the small of her back. "Good. Let them listen. Let them hear how much I love you. No matter how many people are in there, you'll always be my girl." I kissed her hair. "Even if you do have a direct line to the comic book artists."

She chuckled, a warm, earthy sound. "I'll put in a request for better lighting in the bedroom for the next issue."

We lay there, two messed-up heroes in a messed-up world, tangled together in the aftermath of a love that was now, officially, stranger than fiction. And for now, that was perfectly enough.

-----

The peaceful silence didn't last. MJ’s body tensed against mine. A low groan escaped her lips, not of pleasure this time, but of frustration.

“They won’t… shut up,” she gritted out, her fingers digging into my arm. “It’s like a bad telepathic talk show in here. Everyone’s got an opinion on our performance. Logan says we lack finesse. Wade won’t stop making chimichanga jokes. Rogue’s blushing so hard I can feel it.”

Before I could respond, her form flickered. Her skin tone deepened, her hips seemed to widen, and her features softened into those of a warm, voluptuous woman in her late forties, her red hair now streaked with dignified grey. A sensible, yet somehow incredibly sexy, cardigan materialized over her shoulders.

“Now, Peter, honey,” she began in a soothing, maternal tone, patting my chest. “Are you sure you’re getting enough protein? A growing superhero needs his strength. I’ve got a lovely meatloaf recipe that would put hair on your… well, you’ve already got the whole suit thing, but you know what I mean.”

I stared, utterly bewildered. “Uh… MJ? Carol?”

“Who’s Carol, sweetie? It’s Brenda. Brenda from the PTA. Now, about your stance during the… vigorous activity… you’re putting a lot of strain on your lower back. Posture is key!”

Then, in a burst of staticky energy, “Brenda” vanished. MJ’s form snapped into a new one: a younger woman with dark, clever eyes, her hair in intricate braids adorned with golden beads. She snapped her fingers. “Ay, don’t you be listenin’ to that lady, P. You ain’t need no meatloaf. What you need is a damn shield, the way this one be climbin’ all over the ceiling. Ghetto-fabulous, but ain’t nobody got time for a broken neck.” She laughed, a loud, infectious sound.

“Okay, seriously, who—“

Poof. Another shift. Her skin warmed to a rich olive tone, her hair becoming a cascade of dark curls. A floral apron appeared over nothing. “¡Ay, Dios mío! This place is a mess! Mira, Peter, after the amor, we are cleaning, ¿entiendes? No more cosas raras on the ceiling until I Swiffer!” She wagged a finger at me, her expression fiercely loving and slightly exasperated.

I was starting to feel motion sick. “MJ, mi amor, can you hear me in there?”

The Latina mom persona softened, her eyes glistening. “Sí, cariño, I hear you. But so does—oh, for crying out loud.” Her form compacted, her eyes narrowing into a shrewd, elegant gaze. Her hair turned jet black and straightened into a severe cut. Emma Frost, again, but colder. “Parker. Your mental defenses are pathetic. A child could break through. It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long. Although,” she added, her eyes raking over me with clinical interest, “your physical resilience is… notable.”

She reached out a hand, her fingers cool against my temple. I felt a faint, invasive pressure. My spider-sense hummed a warning.

“Don’t,” I said, gently but firmly, grabbing her wrist. “That’s not your power to use. That’s hers.”

The White Queen’s haughtiness vanished, replaced by a punk-rock sneer. MJ’s hair became a spiked, neon-green mohawk, and a silver ring appeared through her eyebrow. “Whatever, poser. Your whole ‘hero’ gig is totally sold out. You’re like the boyband of vigilantes.” She tried to sound tough, but her voice cracked, revealing the scared woman beneath the persona.

Then, the most startling transformation yet. Her hair receded completely, leaving a smooth, bald scalp. Her features became androgynous, severe, and powerful. Her voice was a low, resonant monotone. “The chaos is inefficient. The emotional expenditure is illogical. We should be calibrating our new abilities, not engaging in reproductive preliminaries.”

“Professor X?” I guessed, utterly lost.

“Designation: The Captain,” she stated blankly.

That was it. The parade of personalities, the violation of her mind—it was too much. This wasn't funny anymore. This was my wife being torn apart from the inside.

I didn’t try to reason with “The Captain.” Instead, I moved. I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her bald, rigid form against my chest. I ignored the clinical analysis I knew was running in her head and pressed my lips to her smooth scalp, kissing her gently.

“I’ve got you, MJ,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “It’s okay. I’m here. Just breathe with me.”

I felt her tense, then a shudder ran through her. The bald form dissolved like smoke. She shifted again—a blonde soccer mom, a scowling biker chick, a geeky girl with glasses—a frantic, terrified slideshow of identities.

I just held on. I kept whispering her name. I kissed each new forehead, each new cheek, each new pair of lips that appeared, not with passion, but with a steady, unwavering love.

“Peter…” a small voice finally whispered. It was hers. Her real one.

The flickering stopped. She was MJ again, curled in my lap, her own glorious red hair back, her body her own. She was crying, silent tears tracking down her cheeks.

“They’re so loud,” she sobbed, burying her face in my neck. “I can’t make them stop.”

“I know,” I murmured, rocking her gently. “I know. But you’re the strongest person I know. You’re Mary Jane Watson. You faced down a guy made of sand and called him a ‘walking beach hazard.’ You can handle a few squatters in your cerebellum.”

She let out a wet laugh against my skin. “He was.”

“See? You’re already putting them in their place.” I tilted her chin up and kissed her, slow and deep, pouring every ounce of my love and reassurance into it. I felt her relax, the tension finally draining from her shoulders. The voices were still there, I could see it in the flicker behind her eyes, but they were quieted, soothed by the one thing that was truly, uniquely ours.

She broke the kiss, resting her forehead against mine. “Don’t let go, okay?”

“Never,” I promised, holding her tighter. “We’ll figure this out. Together. You, me, and the weirdest support group ever assembled.”

She smiled, a real, genuine MJ smile. “Okay, Tiger. But the next one who criticizes my thrusting technique gets teleported into the Hudson River.”

“Deal.”

To be continued