Spider-Man & ClayMJ - Issue 1: Feat of Clay

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.”

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