Welcome to

Morning light streamed through our apartment windows, painting the room in gold. I stretched, still half wrapped in the lingering afterglow of the previous night—and rooftop. MJ stirred beside me, her body still sheathed in that impossible black suit. I couldn't help but run a hand along her arm, marveling at the strange, liquid-smooth texture. It was cool to the touch, but warmed almost instantly under my fingers.

“Morning, Tiger,” she murmured, her eyes fluttering open. They widened as she took in her own reflection in our dresser mirror. “Oh. Still… shiny.”

I grinned. “You wear it well.”

We got up, moving around our small bedroom with the easy familiarity of years together. I pulled on a pair of jeans, a simple button-down, and began tugging my red and blue suit on underneath. Some habits die hard—you never know when Doctor Doom might decide to crash brunch.

“You’ve got that photoshoot today, right?” I asked, buttoning my shirt over the spider emblem. “The one for that indie magazine?”

“Mhm,” MJ said, staring thoughtfully at her reflection. “Though I’m not sure ‘mysterious alien second skin’ is the look they’re going for.”

As if on cue, the suit shimmered. It flowed like liquid shadow, shifting and solidifying until it wasn't a suit at all. In its place was a stunning, knee-length black dress, elegant and sleek, with a neckline that was just daring enough. It even formed delicate lace patterns at the hem and sleeves.

I stared, my mouth slightly open. MJ’s eyes went wide with delight.

“Wow,” she breathed, turning to see the back in the mirror. “It’s… it’s perfect. It even did my hair!” Her red locks were now elegantly styled in a soft updo, a few artful strands framing her face.

“I… was not expecting that,” I admitted, adjusting my glasses. “This thing is full of surprises.”

She laughed, a light, happy sound. “You’re telling me. It’s like the world’s most talented—and clingy—personal stylist.” She winked. “And it’s very thorough. I don’t think I’m wearing anything underneath.”

My face heated. “Oh.”

“Don’t get any ideas, Parker. We’ve got work.” She smoothed the dress, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Though I wonder…”

The dress shifted again, the fabric melting and reforming into something far more daring—a slinky, backless number that left very, very little to the imagination.

“MJ,” I choked out, my spider-sense utterly useless against the weaponized power of my wife’s figure in what was essentially sentient spandex.

She burst out laughing. “Your face! Don’t worry, I’ll save this for a very special occasion.” With a thought, the suit returned to the tasteful black dress. “Much more me for a Tuesday.”

We shared a quick kiss at the door—lingering, sweet, filled with the promise of later—and went our separate ways.

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My day at the Daily Bugle was, as usual, a mix of humiliating errands for Jameson and trying to subtly take photos of myself for the front page. Standard stuff.

But I cut out early, a weird feeling in my gut. Not my spider-sense—just… anticipation. I wanted to see her.

When I got home, MJ was positively glowing. She was practicing lines in the living room, but the script was floating in the air, held by a slender tendril of black suit extending from her wrist.

“Pete!” she said, the script dissolving back into the dress. “You’re home early!”

“Couldn’t stay away,” I said, pulling her into a hug. “How was the shoot?”

“Pete, it was incredible,” she gushed, her eyes shining. “The director wanted a really difficult emotional transition—from heartbreak to joy in one take. And I… I just felt it. The suit… it amplified everything. It was like it was feeding on the emotion, helping me channel it. I’ve never performed like that in my life.”

She spun around, the dress swirling. “And the best part? No more wardrobe changes! No itchy fabrics, no weird fittings. It’s just… perfect.” A sly smile touched her lips. “It’s also a big fan of yours. Gets all… tingly when you’re near.”

I blinked. “It… what?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she laughed, kissing my cheek. “The point is, this thing… it’s not just a suit. It’s a partner.”

“I’m happy for you, Red. Really.” And I was. The joy radiating from her was contagious.

“But that’s not all it can do,” she said, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. “Watch this.”

She closed her eyes. The suit began to ripple, not just changing clothes, but changing her. Her posture shifted, her height subtly adjusted. Her fiery red hair softened to a gentle silver, pulled into a familiar neat bun. Fine lines appeared at the corners of her eyes and mouth. The dress reformed into a warm, floral-print sweater and a sensible skirt.

When she opened her eyes, they twinkled with a kindly, knowing warmth that was utterly, completely…

“Aunt May?” I breathed, my face flushing a deep, embarrassed red.

“Hello, Peter dear,” she said, and it was her voice. Not an impression. It was May’s gentle, caring tone, every cadence perfect. “Have you been eating enough? You look a bit peaky.”

I was blushing furiously, a whirlwind of confusion, awe, and a bizarre, inconvenient thrill. “MJ, that’s… that’s…”

“Spectacular?” she—no, Aunt May—suggested with a sweet smile. “I know. It’s not just the appearance. I can… feel her. Her memories, her mannerisms… her love for you. It’s all right here.” She tapped her temple.

“Wow,” I managed, my voice hoarse. “That’s… yeah. Amazing.”

She stepped closer, still in the perfect likeness of my aunt. “You know,” she said in May’s gentle voice, a mischievous glint in her elderly eyes, “this could be very useful for our… funtime.”

I nearly swallowed my tongue. “MJ, you cannot be serious.”

She giggled—and it was her giggle, breaking through the illusion for a second. “Why not? The suit learns, Peter. It adapts. It wants to please us. Let’s… find out what it can do.”

The invitation in her eyes, even framed by Aunt May’s face, was undeniable. And terrifying. And incredibly hot.

She reached for me, and the floral sweater morphed into something silkier, something less Aunt May and more... not. The features of her face began to shift and blur again.

What followed was the most surreal, incredible experience of my life. As we fell onto the couch, she changed. One moment she was the sultry Black Cat, purring promises in my ear. The next, a fierce, beautiful, and powerful Carol Danvers a.k.a. Miss Marvel, her eyes glowing with cosmic energy. Then a regal Sue Storm, her form flickering with invisible force. Each transformation was seamless, a perfect mimicry not just in looks, but in presence, in aura. The symbiote was learning, adapting, pouring every stolen glimpse, every remembered detail into its performance.

And through it all, it was still her. Her laughter echoed between personas, her hands—whether cloaked in fantastic gloves or not—were the ones that knew my body best. The suit responded to our synergy, to our passion, making her more flexible, stronger, impossibly responsive.

When we climaxed, it was a shattering wave of sensation that felt amplified, shared between the three of us—me, her, and the alien consciousness wrapped around her. We collapsed together, breathless and laughing, the suit settling back into its basic black form on her skin.

“Whoa,” she panted, her own face and voice returned. “I felt that… everywhere. It’s like it… feeds on it. I feel more energized than ever.”

I was about to reply when a sudden, sharp jolt went through my skull.

Ting!

My spider-sense. A fraction of a second later, MJ flinched too, her hand flying to her head.

“You felt that?” I asked, already moving.

“Yeah. Big trouble. Uptown. Feels… loud.” Her expression was a mix of fear and exhilaration.

I was already pulling my street clothes off, the red and blue suit revealed underneath. “Stay here,” I said, my voice firm. “It’s too dangerous. I don’t know what’s out there, and I just got you like this. I can’t risk it.”

She stood, the suit already flowing over her head, forming the sleek black mask with its piercing white eyes. “Peter,” she said, her voice soft but steely. She walked over and put her hands on my chest. “I know you’re scared for me. I love you for it. But you don’t have to do this alone. Not anymore.”

She looked up at me, and in those white lenses, I could see the fierce determination of the woman I married. “Let me help. Please. We’re a team.”

I saw it then. It wasn’t just about the powers. It was about sharing the weight. The responsibility. The life.

I cupped her face, the black suit cool under my touch. “Okay,” I whispered. “Together.”

I kissed her, a quick, hard promise.

Then we turned toward the window. I in my red and blue, she in her living black.

“Ready, Spider-Woman?” I asked, kicking the window open.

She shot a web line to the opposite building, a perfect mirror of my own stance. “Born ready, Spider-Man.”

And with that, we swung out into the afternoon sun, a perfect duo, ready to face whatever came next.

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TO BE CONTINUED…