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I swung through the steel-and-glass canyons of New York, the familiar thwip-thwip of my webs a comforting rhythm in the chaos. Below, a hijacked armored car was spilling loot like a piñata at a very aggressive birthday party. Rhino was, once again, making a mess of midtown traffic.

“Hey, horn-head!” I yelled, landing lightly on the roof of a taxi. “Didn’t your mom ever tell you it’s rude to take things that aren’t yours?”

He grunted, turning his massive, armored form toward me. “Spider-Man! I will pulp you into paste!”

“Pulp? That’s a little harsh. How about a nice purée?” I quipped, dodging a swipe of his fist that left a crater in the asphalt. The banter is as much for me as it is for them. It keeps the nerves—and the Parker Luck—at bay.

The fight didn’t last long. A well-placed web to the face, a trip-line at his ankles, and a swift, sticky cocoon to a streetlight later, and Rhino was trussed up like a holiday turkey, bellowing impotent threats.

“See ya at the next family reunion, Uncle Ben!” I saluted, swinging away as the police sirens wailed closer. Just another day in the life.

My mind was already home. It had been ever since that first day, back when I was a fifteen-year-old dork with glasses and a serious case of social anxiety, bitten by a radioactive spider on a class trip. The powers were awesome, sure. The responsibility? That took some getting used to. But the best thing that ever happened to me, the real miracle, came later.

Her name was Mary Jane Watson. A flame-haired goddess who lived next door. I’d had a crush on her from the moment I saw her, all confidence and sparkling laughter. Our first real date was a disaster—I was late, courtesy of a run-in with the Shocker—but she just smiled, her emerald eyes seeing right through my pathetic excuses.

“It’s okay, Tiger,” she’d said, using the nickname that still makes my heart skip a beat. “I know you had… responsibilities.”

Turned out, she’d known I was Spider-Man since she was fifteen, watching me swing past her window. She never said a word. She just… waited for me to be ready. She supported me through everything—the losses, the battles, the constant danger. And I supported her dream, watching her become a brilliant, sought-after actress, her name in lights on Broadway.

We got married in a small ceremony. Aunt May cried. Jameson probably had an aneurysm. It was perfect.And then came the kids. Ben, our serious little thinker with my brown hair and her curious eyes, and Mayday, our fearless firecracker, a tiny red-headed hurricane named after the best woman I’ve ever known.

I landed silently on the balcony of our Queens apartment, sliding the door open. The familiar scent of home—vanilla candles, baby powder, and MJ’s perfume—washed over me.

“Daddy!” Mayday shrieked, launching herself at my legs. I scooped her up, planting a kiss on her cheek.

“Hey, web-slinger junior. Was Mom a million times more fun than me today?”

“She did the voices!” Ben said, looking up from his intricate Lego spaceship. He was the engineer. Definitely takes after his old man.

“The best voices,” I agreed, catching MJ’s eye over their heads. She was leaning against the kitchen doorway, wearing my old MIT sweatshirt and a smile that could power the city grid. Her hair was down, a cascade of crimson waves, and even after two kids, she was still the most breathtaking woman on the planet.

“Rough night, Tiger?” she asked, her voice a warm melody.

“The Rhino tried to redecorate Fifth Avenue. I convinced him his talents were better suited for… stationary art.”

She laughed, and the sound was better than any applause from a packed theater. We got the kids through baths, stories, and the inevitable “one more glass of water” negotiations. Finally, silence descended upon the Parker household.

I found her on the couch, curled up with a script. I slid in behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and nuzzling into the sweet spot between her neck and shoulder. She sighed, melting back against me, her script forgotten.

“They finally conked out,” I murmured into her skin, breathing her in.

“Mmm, a miracle. You’re my hero,” she whispered, tilting her head to give me better access.

I turned her face to mine and kissed her. It started soft, a slow, familiar reconnection after a long day. But like it always did with us, it quickly deepened, sparked with a heat that never seemed to fade. My hands slid under the sweatshirt, tracing the familiar curves of her waist, her hips, the lush swell of her breasts.

“I love you, MJ,” I breathed between kisses, my voice husky.

“I love you, Peter,” she gasped back, her fingers tangling in my hair.

We made our way to our bedroom, a trail of discarded clothes marking our path. The world outside, with all its villains and problems, ceased to exist. There was only her skin under my hands, her soft moans in my ear, the way her body arched to meet mine. We moved together in a rhythm honed by years of love and passion, a perfect, exhilarating sync.

I was lost in her, in the feeling of our bodies joined, her name a prayer on my lips. Her eyes were locked on mine, full of love and fire.

And then it happened.

A golden light, subtle at first, began to emanate from her chest. I paused, my Spider-Sense tingling—but not with danger. With… wonder.

“MJ? What’s…”

Her eyes widened, not in fear, but in awe. The light intensified, flowing over her skin like liquid metal. It swirled and solidified, forming an intricate, symbiotic-looking armor that clung to her every curve like a second skin. It was beautiful and terrifying, all gleaming gold and organic silver, pulsing with a soft, internal light. It covered her from the neck down, leaving her gorgeous face and brilliant hair untouched.

“Peter…” she breathed, looking down at herself. “The Witchblade… it’s… awake.”

“The what? That ancient mystical artifact you got last month from that dig site? The one you said was just a weird bracelet?” I was stunned, my mind racing, but my body was still intimately connected to hers. The armor felt warm, alive, against my skin.

Before she could answer, the armor shifted again. It rippled, and she rippled with it. Her face began to change. The features softened, her jawline narrowed, her emerald eyes shifted to a deep, soulful brown. Her vibrant red hair darkened to a rich, chocolate brown, falling in sleek waves around her shoulders. She was still stunningly beautiful, but she was… someone else.

I froze, my thrusts stopping completely. “MJ?!”

The woman beneath me blinked, a flicker of confusion in her new brown eyes. Then she smiled, a smile that was familiar yet entirely different. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer, with a slight, unplaceable accent.

“Do not stop, my love,” she whispered, her hips grinding against mine. “It is I.”

My brain short-circuited. “It is you? Who is ‘I’? You’re not MJ!”

She reached up, tracing my jawline with a gauntleted hand. The touch was tender, loving. “I am… many. But I know you. My husband. My spider.” She pulled me down into a deep, passionate kiss. It tasted different, felt different, but the love behind it… the love was MJ’s. I was sure of it.

My body, ever the traitor, responded to her insistence. We began to move again, the rhythm returning, but now it was charged with a bizarre, surreal energy. I was making love to my wife, but I was staring into the face of a stranger who knew me intimately.

“Who are you?” I managed to groan, my hands gripping her new, slightly narrower hips.

She moaned, her head tossing back on the pillow. “Sara Pezzini… a previous host… a warrior… a lover…” Her voice was a mixture of her own and… others. “The Witchblade holds us all… but you… you are our constant. Our Peter.”

Her back arched as a powerful climax ripped through her, and the armor glowed fiercely. As she cried out, her form shimmered again. The brown hair lightened to a dazzling platinum blonde, her eyes becoming a piercing ice-blue. Her body shifted, becoming taller, more athletic.

“Oh my god,” I whispered, utterly mesmerized and completely terrified.

The blonde woman grinned, a fierce, predatory expression. “Well, hello there, web-head,” she purred, her voice now a low, confident rasp. “This is a new trick. I like it.”

I was making love to my wife, who was currently a shapeshifting, ancient mystical artifact, currently channeling what seemed like a sassy, super-powered blonde bombshell from the past.

Just another day in the life of Peter Parker.

“The kids are gonna need so much therapy,” I muttered, before she pulled me down for another kiss, and all coherent thought vanished.

TO BE CONTINUED