Welcome to

I still remember the day it all started—the bite, the powers, the responsibility. Bam! Just like that, skinny little Peter Parker became your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Yeah, I know, classic origin story. Radioactive spider, Uncle Ben’s wisdom, the whole deal. But honestly? The real plot twist in my life wasn’t the web-slinging. It was her.

Mary Jane Watson. Red hair like fire, eyes greener than the Hudson on a bad algae day, and a laugh that could melt the cold, cold heart of even the grumpiest New Yorker. I first saw her at Midtown High when we were just kids. She was all confidence and cool, and I was, well… not. But hey, I had my charms. Or at least, my web-shooters did.

Our first date was a disaster. I spilled soda on her shirt, tripped over my own feet trying to impress her, and almost webbed a waiter by accident when he brought the check. But she just laughed. Actually laughed. And then she leaned in, her perfume wrapping around me like a promise, and whispered, “I know, Pete.”

Turns out, MJ had known I was Spider-Man since I was fifteen. Saw me changing in an alley once after a scuffle with the Shocker. Didn’t scream. Didn’t freak out. Just smirked and thought, Yeah, that dork’s got something special.

We started dating for real after that. I supported her acting gigs—off-Broadway stuff, indie films, the works. She supported the whole “saving the city in spandex” thing. Even helped me stitch up the suit a few times. We got married on a rooftop. Judge, a few friends, Spider-Man mask half-off. It was us. Perfect.

Life was good. Until it wasn’t.

It happened after one of MJ’s exhibitions—this avant-garde art show in Chelsea. Some low-rent villain named The Aesthetic—yes, really—decided modern art needed more chaos and tried to turn the gallery into a death trap of swinging paint cans and exploding sculptures.

Spider-Man to the rescue, obviously. I web-swing in, catch a falling marble statue right before it crushes a critic—who still gave the show two stars, by the way—and scoop up MJ just as a wall of neon goop threatens to swallow her whole.

“Honey, I’m home,” I quipped, swinging us out of there as the place collapsed behind us.

She clung to me, laughing despite everything. “You always did know how to make an entrance, tiger.”

Back at our apartment, we collapsed onto the couch, breathless and giddy. I pulled off my mask and kissed her—deep and grateful, tasting the faint hint of champagne and danger on her lips.

“You okay?” I murmured against her mouth.

“Never better,” she sighed, nuzzling into my neck. “Though my heart’s still racing. That was… intense.”

We kissed again, slower this time. My hands slid up her back, feeling the soft warmth of her skin beneath that little black dress she loved. Hers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer.

Then she paused.

“Pete…” Her voice was soft, uncertain. “My face… it feels… odd.”

I pulled back. “What is it?”

She touched her cheek, her expression shifting from bliss to confusion. “It’s… tingly. Like it’s… melting?”

And then it happened.

Her skin—smooth, freckled, perfect—began to shift. Not bruise, not swell. Melt. Like clay left out in the rain. Her gasp turned into a choked cry as her form rippled, collapsing and reforming in grotesque, slow motion.“MJ!” I reached for her, but her body was changing, softening, expanding. Her famous red hair sank into her scalp like dye in water, replaced by a smooth, featureless surface the color of wet terra cotta. Her limbs thickened, her curves… amplified. Especially up top. Let’s just say if her chest was impressive before, it was monumental now—two great, shapable mounds of clay that somehow still managed to look… feminine. Voluptuous, even.

She stumbled off the couch, her steps heavy, shuddering. The floorboards groaned.

“Pete… what’s happening to me?” Her voice was the same—a tremor of fear wrapped in that familiar smoky tone—but it echoed now, like she was speaking from inside a jar.

She looked down at her hands—smooth, blunt-fingered, the texture of unfinished pottery—and screamed.

The neighbors called the cops. Of course they did.

When the NYPD showed up, led by a jumpy rookie who probably still believed in the tooth fairy, they took one look at the seven-foot-tall clay woman in our living room and opened fire.

“Monster!” one shouted.

MJ—my MJ—reacted on instinct. Her arm shot out, elongating, reshaping into a shield that absorbed the bullets with soft thumps. She didn’t hurt them. Just defended herself, then burst through the window, scattering clay droplets like tears as she fled.

I suited up in seconds. Spider-Man is back in action.

I found her on a construction site near the Queensboro Bridge, hunched behind a crane, her form glistening under the half-moon. She was sobbing—great, heaving sobs that made her whole body ripple.

“Stay back!” she cried as I landed nearby. “Please, Peter… don’t look at me.”

“MJ,” I said softly, stepping closer. “It’s me.”

She turned. Her face was smooth, no nose, no lips, but I could feel her anguish. “I’m a monster. I’m not her anymore. I’m… clay.”

“You’re Mary Jane Watson,” I said, pulling off my mask. “My wife. The woman who laugh-cried during Titanic. Who burns popcorn every single time. Who knows I’m Spider-Man and still kisses me with morning breath.”

She shuddered. “But look at me, Peter! I’m disgusting!”

I closed the distance between us. “You’re gorgeous.”

And I kissed her.

Her mouth wasn’t lips anymore, but it was warm. Malleable. She gasped against me, a sound of shock and yearning, and I felt her form soften under my touch. My hands slid over the curve of her hip—smooth, cool, yet yielding. Alive.

“Peter…” she moaned, her voice trembling with need. “You can’t… you don’t…”

“I love you,” I whispered, pressing my forehead against where hers should be. “No matter what form you take. You think a little mud is gonna scare me off? I fight guys in rhino costumes.”

She let out something between a sob and a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

I kissed her again, deeper this time. My hands explored her new body—the broad slope of her back, the incredible swell of her chest. She moaned, a low, resonant sound, and her arms wrapped around me, strong and solid and gentle all at once.

We sank to the ground, surrounded by steel beams and moonlight. I made love to her there—slowly, tenderly, like she was still made of flesh and bone. But she wasn’t. And it was… different. Amazing. Her body molded to mine, embracing me completely. Every movement was shared, every sensation magnified. She cried out as she climaxed, her form shuddering against me, and I followed, pouring myself into her with a groan that felt ripped from my soul.

Afterward, we lay together in a tangle of limbs and cooling clay. I traced patterns on her shoulder.

“You… you really don’t mind?” she asked, her voice soft, hopeful.

“MJ,” I said, nuzzling into the crook of her neck—smooth and warm. “I love you. Not your face. Not your body. You. The stubborn, brilliant, incredible woman who puts up with my puns and my patrolling schedule. If you’re clay, then you’re the most gorgeous sculpture in the world.”

She made a sound like a happy hum. “That’s so sweet, tiger.” Her big clay hand—gentle, so gentle—came up to cradle my head. “No one’s ever… no one would ever…”

“I’m not no one,” I whispered. “I’m your husband.”

---

Life, as it turns out, doesn’t stop just because your wife turns into a sentient clay sculpture. The next few days were a blur of panic, phone calls, and explaining to our landlord why the living room window was now a giant hole covered by a tarp and a hopeful prayer.

But we weren’t alone. Reed Richards from the Fantastic Four showed up with a portable lab and a sympathetic nod. "Polymorphic metamorphosis," he'd muttered, scanning MJ with a device that beeped erratically. "Fascinating. Unstable, but fascinating." Sue Storm gave MJ a hug—a real one, even though her hands sank slightly into MJ's shoulder—and promised their full support. It meant the world.

Then the Bat-Family got involved. Don’t ask me how Batman heard about it—he probably has a signal for 'superhero spouse crisis.' Oracle, Barbara Gordon, set up a secure channel, her voice calm and steady through the comms. "We've got your back, MJ. Any intel, any resources, you name it." Nightwing even swung by with a casserole. It was... surprisingly good.

Through it all, MJ tried to stay positive. But I saw the way she looked at the framed posters of her old movies, the headshots from her acting days. Her smooth, featureless face would tilt, and I could feel the sadness radiating from her.

"Maybe I could do voice work," she said one evening, her voice echoing softly in our quiet apartment. She was tracing a photo of herself as a fiery-haired ingenue. "I can still talk. I could be a monster in a movie. Typecast, but... it's something."

I took her heavy, clay hand. "We'll figure it out, MJ. I promise."

She gave me a look—or what passed for a look—a slight tilt of her head that I’d learned meant she was smiling on the inside. "You're too good to me, tiger."

As she stared at the picture, something incredible happened. I gasped. "MJ... your face!"

She looked up, confused. "What about it?"

"Look in the mirror!"

She turned toward the hallway mirror. And there, staring back, was her reflection—her reflection. Freckles, emerald eyes, that defiant smile. She was back. Fully Mary Jane.

"Oh my god," she whispered, raising a hand to touch her cheek. It was flesh and blood. "Peter... how?"

"I don't know! You were looking at the photo, and you just... morphed!"

A determined glint sparked in her newly restored eyes. "Okay. Okay, focus, Watson." She closed her eyes, her brow furrowing in concentration. The air around her shimmered. For a second, her form wavered, clay and flesh fighting for dominance. Then, with a soft shlup, she solidified. Fully human. She opened her eyes.

"I did it," she breathed, a real, proper laugh bubbling out of her. "I can control it!"

I swept her up in a hug, spinning her around. "I knew it! I knew you were still in there! See? Everything’s gonna be okay!"

We were laughing, crying, kissing. It was a perfect, triumphant moment. Our lips met, soft and familiar. I was so happy, so relieved.

But then, mid-kiss, I felt her lips soften and spread. I opened my eyes. She was changing again. Smooth clay flowed back over her features, her body expanding back into the powerful, thicc clay form I'd first held on the construction site.

She started to pull away. "Oh, no, not again—"

But I didn't let her. I pulled her closer, deepening the kiss. "I don't care," I murmured against her malleable mouth. My hands slid up her sides, groping the massive, wonderfully soft curves of her chest. She moaned, a low, resonant sound, and melted into my touch. Her uncertainty vanished, replaced by raw desire. I lifted her easily, her weight nothing to me, and laid her back on the couch.

As I thrust into her, her form shifted again. This time, it wasn't random. The clay rippled, colors and textures flowing. For a moment, she was a handsome Black woman in her late forties, with kind eyes and a practical demeanor. "Goodness gracious, child," she said in a warm, unfamiliar accent, before blinking in confusion. "Where am I? I was just putting the twins down for a nap..."

Then, just as quickly, the form dissolved and reshaped. Now, she was an incredibly buxom Asian woman, with a shy smile and a cascade of dark hair—a dead ringer for the adult film star Hitomi Tanaka. "Konnichiwa, handsome," she purred, her voice higher, sweeter, before leaning in to kiss me passionately.

We came together in a shuddering, overwhelming climax, a tangle of limbs and shifting clay.

Afterward, we lay panting on the floor. MJ’s form settled back into her primary clay state. She was quiet for a long time.

"Peter," she finally said, her voice trembling. "When I change... it's not just my body. For a second... I was that nanny. I was worried about her kids. And then I was that other woman... I felt her confidence, her... thoughts. I forgot I was Mary Jane. It was like I was someone else entirely."

I stroked her arm, my heart aching for her. "That sounds scary."

"It is," she admitted. "But... I came back. You brought me back. You just kept loving me, no matter what I looked like, no matter who I thought I was for a second." She turned her smooth face toward me. "I am so unbelievably lucky to have a husband who loves me even when I'm an ugly monster."

I cupped where her cheek would be. "Stop that. You are not a monster. You're my wife. You're beautiful. Clay, human, or a surprising fusion of the two. You're Mary Jane. And you're the strongest person I know."

She made that happy humming sound again and curled her big, clay body around mine. "My hero," she whispered. "Always."

-----

The Baxter Building’s lab was like a cathedral of chrome and holograms. MJ stood in the center of it, a breathtakingly strange sculpture of living earth, while Reed Richards circled her, his elastic neck stretched to examine her from every angle. Batman stood in the corner, a stoic obsidian statue amidst the gleaming science, his cape pooling around his boots. Sue Storm hovered nearby, a protective, almost maternal energy radiating from her.

“Incredible,” Reed murmured, a scanner whirring in his hand. “The cellular structure is entirely recombinant. It doesn’t just mimic appearance. It mimics… essence.”

“The Mud Pack—the original Clayfaces—could replicate form and some superficial mannerisms,” Batman’s low, gravelly voice cut through the hum of machinery. “But this is different. Deeper.”

“Hypothesis,” Reed said, tapping a screen that displayed a shimmering DNA helix that looked more like a flowing river. “Mary Jane’s unique polymorphenic matrix doesn’t just copy the physical. It’s a perfect psionic impression. It downloads the target’s psyche, their memories, their neural patterns. For all intents and purposes, when she shifts, she becomes that person.”

Sue placed a gentle hand on MJ’s clay arm. “So when she turned into that nanny…”

“She didn’t just look like her,” Reed confirmed. “She was her. She cared for those children, knew their routines. She accessed a complete psychological profile.”

Batman stepped forward, his expression grim but not unkind. “A power like that is dangerous. In the wrong hands…”

“But they’re my hands, Bats,” MJ said, her voice echoing softly. “And I’m learning to control them. It’s like… method acting turned up to eleven. I just have to focus on who I want to be.”

“And you can return to your base state?” Batman asked.

“Yes. Peter is my anchor. Thinking of him… us… it always brings me back.”

Two days later, MJ was back on stage. It was an off-Broadway experimental piece, and she was playing seven different characters. The director had been skeptical, but desperate. He hadn’t expected a miracle.

From the wings, I watched, my heart pounding with a mixture of pride and anxiety. MJ’s first character was a stern Victorian governess. She walked on stage, her form solid and human, her posture ramrod straight. She delivered her lines flawlessly.

For her next character, a flapper from the 1920s, she exited stage left. There was a soft, almost inaudible shlorp sound from behind the curtain. Two seconds later, she emerged, now a vivacious woman with a bobbed haircut and a sequined dress, swinging a feathered fan. The audience gasped. They thought it was the quickest, most convincing costume change in theatrical history.

She cycled through her roles—a gritty 70s detective, a ethereal space princess, a modern-day CEO. Each transformation was seamless, instantaneous. She was a marvel. A star.

After the final curtain call, the applause was thunderous. She took her bows, beaming with a human face, then hurried back to our apartment, her energy buzzing.

The second our door clicked shut, she let out a relieved sigh and her form slackened, melting back into her powerful, comfortable clay body. “I did it, Pete,” she hummed, her smooth face radiating pride. “I held it. For three whole hours.”

“You were amazing,” I said, pulling her into my arms. My hands found the soft, cool curves of her hips, then slid up to gently grope her massive, yielding breasts. “A total star.”

She leaned into my touch, a low moan vibrating through her. “It felt good. Really good. To be back.”

I kissed her, feeling her malleable lips form against mine. “Let’s celebrate.”

A wicked, playful idea seemed to spark in her mind. “Let’s really celebrate,” she murmured. “I’ve been practicing my… character work.”

And then she began to change.

First, she was Harley Quinn, pigtails and a mischievous, cracked smile. “Well hey there, handsome!” she cackled, her voice a perfect replica of the clown princess of crime. She leapt onto me, wrapping her legs around my waist. “Let’s cause a little trouble, huh?”

She kissed me, all frantic energy and glee, and for a moment, she was every bit the chaotic villainess. But her eyes, even as Harley’s, held a deep, familiar love for me.

Then she shifted again. Now she was the sleek, powerful form of Cheetah, fur brushing against my skin, a low growl rumbling in her throat. “The spider finally caught in my web,” she purred, her voice husky and wild.

“Your web?” I laughed, playing along. “I think you’ve got that backwards, gorgeous.”

She nipped playfully at my neck before her form dissolved and reshaped. Now it was Spider-Woman’s black and red costume stretched over her curves. “How about now, webhead?” she teased, her voice a confident smirk.

The transformations came faster, a whirlwind of the women I’d fought alongside and against. Batwoman, all grim determination that melted into passion. Wonder Woman, regal and powerful, her love as fierce as her strength. Storm, her touch crackling with static electricity. Fire and Ice, a study in contrasting sensations that left me breathless.

Finally, she settled into the form of Power Girl, the iconic ‘S’ shield stretched across an impressive chest. “You know,” she said in a voice that was both powerful and unexpectedly sweet, “for a guy who hangs out with the World’s Finest, you’re pretty fine yourself.” She kissed me, and it felt like coming home, even as she wore the face of a stranger.

We fell onto the bed, a tangle of shifting forms and shared ecstasy. With each new heroine she embodied, her personality shifted—Harley’s manic joy, Diana’s passionate intensity, Power Girl’s bold confidence—but the core, the thread that connected every incarnation, was her unwavering love for me. She knew me. She wanted me. In every form, I was her husband.

After we climaxed, she settled back into her base clay form, panting and rippling with contentment. “See?” she whispered, her voice echoing with a dozen different accents and inflections before softening into her own. “I told you I was practicing. And every single one of those women… they all absolutely adore you.”

I held her close, my amazing, adaptable, spectacular wife. “The feeling,” I said, kissing the smooth space between her clay breasts, “is entirely mutual.”

TO BE CONTINUED